Chapter 12 - The Hand That Signed the Eviction Notice
Before I went to Pasadena, there was one final score of cowardice that needed to be settled.
At 3:00 PM, my black Escalade pulled up to the curb outside an old, poorly maintained apartment building in East Hollywood. The paint was peeling from the stucco walls, the iron security grates on the lower windows were rusted, and the courtyard was strewn with discarded mail and broken children’s toys.
This was where Rosa and Camila had lived for the past three years.
This was where Rosa had walked home every night with swollen, bleeding feet after eighteen hours of cleaning my mansion, only to sit in a dark kitchen wondering if she could afford bread for the next morning.
I stepped out of the vehicle, followed by Marcus and two plainclothes security officers.
Sitting in the ground-floor manager’s office, behind a glass window stained with grease, was Mr. Collins. He was a bloated, balding man in his late fifties, wearing a stained undershirt and smoking a cheap cigar beneath a NO SMOKING sign.
When the heavy glass door of his office swung open, Collins didn't even look up from his sports betting magazine.
"If you're here about the two-bedroom on the second floor, rent is twenty-two hundred, cash up front, first and last," Collins grunted.
"I'm not here to rent an apartment, Mr. Collins," I said.
The tone of my voice made him look up. His small, beady eyes swept over my tailored suit, my gold watch, and the two broad-shouldered men flanking me. He slowly set his cigar down in a dirty glass ashtray.
"Who are you? City inspectors? I already paid the fire compliance fine—"
"My name is Julian Vance," I said.
Collins blinked, the name clearly registering from the morning news broadcasts that had been blasting across every TV station in Southern California. "Julian Vance? The... the billionaire?"
"On Sunday afternoon," I said, stepping up to his counter, "you called Rosa Martinez. You put your phone on speaker, and you threatened to throw her belongings onto the sidewalk and change the locks on her nine-year-old daughter because she was three months behind on her rent."
Collins’s face went entirely white. He began to stammer, his hands trembling as he shoved his magazine aside. "Mr. Vance... look, I run a business here! Tenancy law in this city is impossible! Tenants lie to me every single day! She told me she was working for some rich family in Beverly Hills, but she didn't have a nickel! How was I supposed to know she was telling the truth?"
"She was telling the truth," I said. "And you didn't care whether she was working or starving. You preyed on a vulnerable mother because you thought she had nobody in the world to protect her."
Collins swallowed hard, beads of sweat breaking out across his forehead. "Look, she paid me! Her driver... a guy named Marcus... he brought cash Sunday night! All twelve thousand! The account is settled! She doesn't owe me a dime!"
"She doesn't owe you anything," I agreed. "In fact, she has already moved out."
Collins let out a nervous, relieved sigh. "Well, then... there’s no problem, right? No harm, no foul—"
"There is a problem," Marcus Sterling interjected, sliding a thick legal document across the stained counter.
"What is this?" Collins whispered.
"That is a deed of acquisition," Marcus said smoothly. "At twelve noon today, Vance Residential Real Estate acquired the mortgage and master deed to this entire building, as well as the four adjacent properties you own in this district."
Collins stared at the document as if it were a venomous snake. "You bought my buildings? Why?"
"Because thirty minutes after acquiring the master deeds," I said, leaning in until my face was six inches from his, "our municipal inspection team discovered forty-eight major structural code violations across your properties: black mold in the ventilation shafts, ungrounded wiring, broken fire escapes, and illegal utility surcharges levied against low-income tenants."
Collins began to shake violently. "You can't do this! I have rights as an owner!"
"You had rights as an owner," Marcus corrected him. "As of two o'clock, the City Attorney’s office, prompted by our legal filing, has issued a stop-rent order and initiated formal criminal proceedings for slumlord exploitation. Furthermore, Mr. Collins, you are officially fired as property manager. You have twenty-four hours to pack your personal belongings and vacate this office."
May you like
I looked down at the desk, at the dirty ashtray, and then back at Collins’s terrified face.
"If you leave even one item behind tomorrow afternoon," I told him, "the new management team will throw it into the dumpster on the street. Exactly the way you promised to throw Rosa’s life away. Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Collins."
