Chapter 7 - The Master Forensic
I opened the leather portfolio, pulling out three high-gloss, full-color forensic photographic prints.
Behind me, Marcus Stone signaled the audio-visual technician, who had set up a large outdoor projection screen near the reception tent for our childhood slideshow.
The screen flickered to life.
Instead of pictures of me and Tyler at the beach, the screen projected the photograph I had taken from the dark hallway at dawn.
There, twenty feet wide for every guest, colleague, and family friend to see, was Tyler kissing Brooke by the kitchen island, with the aerial development map of Hartwell Orchard clearly visible beneath their champagne glasses.
Brooke dropped the bouquet of calla lilies onto the dirt, bursting into loud, hysterical sobs as she covered her face with both hands.
"Oh, God... oh, God..." Brooke whimpered, stumbling backward into the rows of trees.
"That’s a private photograph taken without consent!" Diane shrieked, storming toward the aisle with her hands shaking in fury. "You have no right to display private family moments!"
"It isn't a family moment, Diane," I said into the microphone, advancing the slide on the master console.
The next image appeared: the four-page irrevocable power of attorney bearing my forged signature, displayed side-by-side with an eight-hundred-percent magnification of the forensic handwriting analysis.
"This document was drafted to strip the generational deed of Hartwell Orchard out from under me upon the completion of our marriage vows," I announced to the silent, horrified crowd. "It features a fraudulent, backdated notary stamp, and an amateur traced signature executed by Tyler Carter."
My uncle Gerald jumped up from his chair, his face turning an ugly shade of gray, backing away toward the parking gravel.
"Gerald," I called out over the speakers, turning my gaze onto my father's brother. "Don't run just yet. Your name is on the next slide."
The screen shifted, showing the incorporation papers for Pacific Crest Holdings LLC, listing Gerald Hartwell as the thirty-percent equity recipient for facilitating the commercial acquisition.
Gerald froze in his tracks, looking around at the disgusted faces of his lifelong neighbors, his hands trembling as he stared at the ground.
"You called me a charity case at our engagement dinner, Diane," I said, looking down at the woman in emerald silk. "You thought that because I was quiet, because I was grieving, that I was blind."
May you like
I closed the portfolio with a sharp, final snap.
"I am an eighty-thousand-dollar-a-year senior forensic document examiner for the state of California," I said softly, my words carrying through the orchard like a winter wind. "I make my living proving that people like you are liars."
