Chapter 13 - THE DEBT COLLECTORS KNOCK
While Gwen and Chloe were hunting for cab fare, the reality of the freeze order was cascading through the Mercer family’s extended network like a string of falling dominoes.
For five years, Gwen had lived on credit, backed by the implicit guarantee of Sienna’s bottomless corporate income. Gwen had opened high-limit revolving store accounts at Saks Fifth Avenue, Neiman Marcus, Cartier, and Tiffany & Co. She had taken out a two-hundred-thousand-dollar personal line of credit from a private Scottsdale boutique lender, listing Sienna’s Paradise Valley estate as her secondary asset backing.
Now, with Sienna’s formal legal notice declaring all accounts revoked and Christian under federal indictment, the banks wasted no time.
At 4:00 PM, two process servers and three private asset-recovery agents arrived at the Glendale ranch house.
Gwen’s sister answered the door, screaming as the men pushed past her with clipboard inventories.
"Gwen Mercer doesn't live here! Get out of my house!" the sister shrieked.
"Ma'am, Mrs. Mercer listed this address as her secondary legal domicile on her Scottsdale Private Credit application," the lead recovery agent said, holding up a certified writ of attachment. "We are here to seize any and all luxury personal goods, jewelry, and luxury apparel registered under her name to satisfy a four-hundred-and-twenty-thousand-dollar default judgment."
Gwen, who had just stepped out of the bedroom wearing her last remaining designer jacket, froze in terror.
"My jacket!" Gwen screamed as an agent stepped forward with a sterile plastic evidence bag. "This is Chanel! It cost seven thousand dollars!"
"Take it off, ma'am," the agent said without a shred of emotion. "Or the deputy waiting outside will assist you."
Weeping, choking on her own bile, Gwen was forced to strip off her designer jacket, her diamond earrings, her gold wedding band from her late husband, and even her imported leather shoes.
She stood on the stained linoleum in her stocking feet and a cheap undershirt, stripped of every single external symbol of wealth she had spent thirty years cultivating.
"What am I supposed to wear?!" Gwen sobbed, covering her face with her hands.
The agent reached into a cardboard box he had brought from his van and tossed a six-dollar pack of gray cotton sweatpants and an oversized plain t-shirt onto the floor.
May you like
"These are compliments of the county holding annex," the agent said. "Have a nice day, Mrs. Mercer."
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