Chapter 7 - The Counter-Strike
My attorney, Eleanor Vance—who also happened to be my former sister-in-law and one of the most ruthless probate litigators in the state—slapped the manila folder onto her mahogany desk with a thud that echoed off the high ceiling.
“This isn't a lawsuit, Sara,” Eleanor said, her lips curling into a predatory grin. “This is a suicide note written by an amateur.”
We were sitting in her downtown Columbus office on the morning of January 3rd. Outside, the city was shrouded in winter fog, but inside, Eleanor’s office was warm, smelled of expensive espresso, and was armed to the teeth with legal precedent.
“Tell me,” I said, sipping my tea.
“Jessica’s lawyer is a strip-mall personal injury hack who clearly hasn't read the Ohio Trust Code since 1998,” Eleanor explained, pulling out a highlighted document. “Your grandfather’s trust was structured as an irrevocable spendthrift trust under Delaware jurisdiction, specifically designed to be immune to claims of un-joined beneficiaries after a statutory seven-year window.”
She tapped the thumb drive Dad had given me.
“Furthermore,” Eleanor continued, “your father’s records prove that your mother and Jessica have been actively commingling funds. If Jessica pushes this to a preliminary hearing, not only will her case be dismissed with prejudice, but the judge will be legally obligated to refer Jessica to the district attorney for tax evasion regarding the undeclared ‘gifts’ your father has been funneling to her.”
“And what about Dad?” I asked. “As the executor, does he face liability?”
Eleanor looked at me over her reading glasses. “He would have. If he hadn't formally resigned his executorship forty-eight hours ago and transferred full, sole administrative authority to you.”
I froze. “What?”
Eleanor smiled softly. “Your father came to my office the afternoon after he met you at the diner, Sara. He signed over the entire master estate to you. He gave up every shred of legal control. He knew Jessica was going to do this, and he cut the ground out from under her feet before she even filed the paperwork.”
A strange, complex emotion tightened my throat. Robert Martinez had lived as a coward for thirty years, but in the final hour, he had fallen on his own sword to protect his granddaughter.
“So what do we do?” I asked.
“We don't wait for the hearing,” Eleanor said, her eyes flashing with battle-hardened relish. “We file a counter-motion for sanctions for frivolous litigation, demand full recovery of legal fees, and serve Jessica with an audit demand for every single cent she has received from your parents’ accounts over the past seven years under the doctrine of fraudulent conveyance.”
“What does that mean in plain English?”
“It means,” Eleanor said, leaning forward, “if Jessica doesn't drop this lawsuit within twenty-four hours, she will be legally forced to pay back every single dime your father gave her to pay off her credit cards, or face bankruptcy and criminal fraud charges.”
“Do it,” I said without a second of hesitation.
“With pleasure,” Eleanor replied.
While Eleanor unleashed the legal wolves, I walked out of the high-rise and got into my car.
I pulled out my personal phone. I had kept one specific task on hold until I knew Emma’s future was legally bulletproof.
I dialed an international number.
“*Bonjour, Concierge Privé Paris,*” a polished French voice answered.
“Hello,” I said smoothly. “I would like to book a private suite at the Disneyland Hotel in Paris for the first week of April. Grand Imagineer Suite. Two guests. Myself and my daughter.”
“Certainly, Madame Martinez. And shall we arrange the private VIP tour guides and the private breakfast inside the Cinderella Castle?”
“Yes,” I said, feeling a warmth spread through my chest that no Ohio winter could touch. “Everything. Add the private tour of the Louvre, the ballet at Palais Garnier, and first-class flights out of New York.”
“A magnificent holiday for a young lady,” the concierge murmured. “The total will be twenty-six thousand dollars.”
“Charge it to the card on file,” I said.
I hung up.
The Mediterranean cruise would have cost forty-two thousand dollars to watch my mother complain about the wine, watch Jessica demand upgrades, and watch Emma sit quietly in the corner, praying not to be an inconvenience.
May you like
Instead, Emma and I were going to Paris. Just the two of us. Where she would be treated like the only princess in the world.
***