Chapter 12 - Standing Between Storms
Silver Lake Properties.
It was one of Margaret’s private real estate shell companies. She hadn't just filed for custody; she was actively manufacturing the grounds for it.
By condemning the building and having Claire’s possessions thrown onto the street, Margaret was creating physical proof of "homelessness and extreme instability" to present to Judge Miller at two o'clock.
"Thomas," I said, my voice dropping so low the driver looked up in the rearview mirror with wide eyes. "Turn around. Go to Bridgeport. Break every traffic law in this city."
The Maybach surged forward, its twin-turbo engine roaring as Thomas cut across three lanes of traffic, sirens from trailing police cruisers fading behind us as our corporate escort vehicles intercepted them.
Ten minutes later, we screeched to a halt on 31st Street.
The scene was a nightmare.
Two Cook County Sheriff's squad cars were parked diagonally across the street, their blue and red lights flashing against the gray afternoon sky. Four men in orange vests were carrying cardboard boxes and cheap wooden furniture out of the front entrance of the brownstone, dumping them haphazardly onto the wet sidewalk.
A light freezing sleet had started to fall again, soaking into the handmade quilt that had been draped over Claire’s sofa.
Toby’s small drawings of dinosaurs and spaceships, taped to pieces of cardboard, were fluttering across the wet asphalt like trash.
Claire threw open the car door before the vehicle had even completely stopped.
"Stop! Stop it!" she screamed, running into the sleet, dropping to her knees to grab a soggy cardboard box filled with children's winter clothes. "What are you doing? That’s my home! Those are my children’s things!"
A tall man in a tailored camel-hair coat stood on the sidewalk, holding a clipboard and a legal folder.
Arthur Sterling. Margaret’s personal pit-bull attorney for the past twenty-five years.
"Ms. Morgan," Sterling said smoothly, adjusting his leather gloves. "This property has been deemed structurally unsound by the Department of Buildings. It is a hazard to human life. As you currently lack a legal domicile, the Cook County Department of Child and Family Services has been notified to receive your children upon dismissal from school."
"You bastard!" Claire shrieked, lunging at him, but two sheriff's deputies stepped forward, their hands resting on their utility belts.
"Ma'am, step back," one of the deputies warned. "We are executing a lawful court order."
I stepped out of the Maybach.
I didn't run. I walked across the wet street, my expensive Italian leather shoes stepping through puddles of icy slush. I took off my dark sunglasses and stared directly at Arthur Sterling.
The two deputies recognized me instantly. Their postures stiffened. The man reaching for Claire’s arm pulled his hand back as if he had touched a live wire.
"Mr. Whitmore," Sterling said, his arrogant smile faltering slightly. "I was not aware you were involved in this matter. Your mother requested—"
I didn't say a word.
I walked straight up to Sterling, took the clipboard from his hands, and snapped the heavy acrylic board clean in half over my knee. The papers scattered into the freezing slush.
"Hey! That’s an official court—" Sterling began.
"Arthur," I said, leaning in until my face was three inches from his. "If you open your mouth again, I will personally guarantee that you spend the rest of your natural life defending yourself against federal disbarment hearings."
I turned to the two sheriff's deputies.
"Who is the commanding officer on scene?" I demanded.
"Uh... Sergeant Miller, sir," one of the young deputies stammered, looking at my car, then at my face, realizing the catastrophic political crossfire he had just walked into.
"Call the Sheriff. Call Thomas Dart directly," I commanded, pulling out my personal phone and holding it out. "Tell him Ethan Whitmore is on 31st Street. Tell him that Silver Lake Properties has engaged in fraudulent eviction using falsified municipal inspection documents. And tell him that if every single box belonging to this woman is not immediately carried back into a heated, secure vehicle within ten minutes, I will withhold the Whitmore Foundation's ten-million-dollar annual grant to the Cook County Sheriff's Youth Athletic League."
The deputy didn't hesitate. He pulled out his radio and began shouting into it.
I turned back to the workers dumping Claire's belongings.
"Put it all back," I roared. "Pack every single item into the enclosed vans behind my car. If a single drawing is torn, if a single toy is damaged, you will answer to me!"
The workers scrambled, terrified, dropping their clipboards and rushing to gather the wet boxes.
Claire was still on her knees on the sidewalk, weeping, clutching Toby's drawing of a rocket ship against her chest, the wet paper disintegrating in her fingers.
I knelt down in the mud beside her.
I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her against my chest, shielding her from the rain and the stares of the neighborhood.
May you like
"I've got you," I whispered against her wet hair. "It's over, Claire. They will never touch our home again."
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