Chapter 3 - The Trap Snaps Shut
For the next thirty-six hours, Selina and Julian operated like ravenous wolves circling what they believed was an easy kill.
My phone blew up with over sixty missed calls and dozens of groveling, affectionate voice memos:
“Damian, sweetheart, Mama made your favorite cinnamon rolls! Come home, let’s sit down like civilized people! We’ve converted the master suite for Phedra! We bought organic fruit from the market!”
“Bro, I talked to my commercial broker down at the harbor. If we pool your settlement into a joint holding company under my LLC, we can avoid the state capital gains tax! I have the corporate incorporation papers ready for your signature at the notary’s office on Main Street!”
I didn't answer a single text.
At 2:00 PM on the second day, while Phedra slept soundly under the care of two private nurses, Uncle Marcus and I walked into the executive conference room of First Pacific Trust in downtown Spokane.
Sitting at the head of the twenty-foot mahogany conference table was Thomas Sterling, the premier estate and fiduciary attorney in eastern Washington. Beside him sat two forensic accountants and an undercover detective from the county prosecutor’s elder and vulnerable adult protection unit.
“Everything is logged and verified, Damian,” Attorney Sterling said, sliding a thick, red-labeled portfolio across the polished wood. “Over the past forty-eight months, you wired exactly ninety-eight thousand four hundred dollars from the Bank of Nova Scotia to your mother’s checking account. Every transfer receipt contains a clear, specific memo line: ‘For Phedra’s medical care, housing maintenance, and personal living allowance.’”
Sterling tapped the financial ledger with a gold pen.
“Under Washington State Revised Code 9A.56.030, diverting funds explicitly entrusted for the care and support of a dependent or incapacitated adult constitutes Theft by Embezzlement in the First Degree—a Class B felony carrying up to ten years in state prison per count. Furthermore, because Phedra was suffering from diagnosed lymphoma and was systematically deprived of medical intervention, food, and shelter, the prosecutor has authorized charges of Criminal Mistreatment in the First Degree and Reckless Endangerment.”
“What about the property?” I asked, leaning forward.
“The house was deeded in your father’s name, passing to Selina with a mandatory testamentary survivorship clause requiring that you and Julian receive equal thirty-three percent shares upon your thirty-fifth birthday,” Marcus explained, a grim, satisfied smirk lighting up his weathered face. “Julian used a forged power of attorney—purporting to carry your signature, supposedly signed while you were in Calgary—to encumber the parcel with a four-hundred-thousand-dollar commercial mortgage to fund his auto shop.”
I looked at the forged signature on the closing deed. It was a clumsy, pathetic imitation of my handwriting, witnessed by an unaccredited notary who worked out of Julian’s garage.
“They just texted me again, Uncle Marcus,” I said, checking my phone. “They’re waiting at the branch office of Cascade Title on Division Street. Julian told the title officer that I am arriving at three o'clock to sign the settlement collateral release and transfer the Canadian funds into his corporate account.”
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Marcus stood up, adjusting his dark overcoat, his silver badge gleaming on his belt.
“Then let’s not keep them waiting, nephew. Let’s go give your family the settlement they deserve.”
