Chapter 10 - The Courthouse Steps
Wednesday morning, November 12th.
The temperature had dropped to twenty-six degrees. A bitter wind whipped off Grand Traverse Bay, carrying flakes of dry, stinging snow across the granite steps of the Antrim County Courthouse in Bellaire.
A crowd had gathered.
In a normal county foreclosure sale, there were maybe three people: the deputy reading the legal notice, a representative from the bank holding a clipboard, and an investor looking for cheap residential flips.
Today, there were seventy people standing in the cold.
Stash was there, wearing his heavy wool hunting coat and an orange knit cap. Ed was there with two other township officials. Frank and twelve men from the carpenters' union stood in a tight, silent line along the handrails, their work boots coated in mud.
At the bottom of the steps stood Garrett Vance.
He looked every bit the high-end developer: tailored charcoal overcoat, leather gloves, Italian leather boots that had never touched a construction site, and an arrogant, relaxed smirk.
Standing right beside him, wrapped in a plush cream-colored shearling coat, was Marissa.
She had her chin lifted high, looking at the assembled locals with thinly veiled disgust. She didn't look like a woman whose family was on the brink of financial destruction; she looked like a woman arriving at a premiere.
Then my truck pulled up to the curb.
I stepped out wearing my standard work uniform: dark jeans, Red Wing boots, a flannel shirt under my heavy Carhartt jacket.
Behind me, another car door opened.
Dad stepped out of the passenger side.
He had his cane, but today he wasn't leaning on it like an invalid. He wore his old navy pea coat—the one he had worn to every diner anniversary since 1984.
The murmur in the crowd died instantly.
Marissa’s smirk vanished. Her eyes widened as she saw Dad walking slowly, steadily up the steps, his gaze fixed straight ahead.
“Daddy?” she blurted out, her voice cutting through the wind. “What are you doing here? You shouldn't be out in this cold.”
Dad didn't stop. He walked right past her as if she were a lamppost. He reached the landing where Deputy Sheriff Mark Harris stood beside the county clerk with a legal binder.
“Morning, Arthur,” Deputy Harris said respectfully.
“Morning, Mark,” Dad said, his voice clear. “Go ahead and read the docket.”
Garrett Vance stepped forward, pulling off one leather glove to shake Deputy Harris’s hand. Harris ignored the hand, keeping his fingers firmly on the open file.
Vance cleared his throat, unbothered. He looked down at me with an amused smile. “Benny Miller, right? The line cook from the highway joint. Look, son, I know there’s a lot of sentiment here. But this is business. You’re out of your depth. Why don't you take your dad home before he has to watch this property get knocked down?”
I didn't answer him. I just stood on the second step, my hands in my pockets, watching Deputy Harris.
Harris raised his voice, reading the formal legal description: *“Parcel 402, Commercial Real Estate, commonly known as 1104 Mill Street, Myron’s Family Restaurant. Judgments totaling four hundred and eighty-four thousand dollars. First position lien held by Great Lakes Credit Union in the amount of two hundred and forty thousand dollars. Bidding will commence at the lien floor.”*
Harris looked up at the crowd.
“Do I have an opening bid of two hundred and forty thousand?”
“Two hundred and forty thousand,” Vance said immediately, not even looking around.
“Two hundred and forty thousand to Mr. Vance,” Harris called out. “Do I have two-fifty?”
“Two hundred and sixty,” I said.
The crowd stirred. Marissa leaned toward Vance, whispering urgently in his ear. Vance gave her an irritated wave of his hand, signaling her to back off.
“Two hundred and seventy,” Vance bid, his voice casual.
“Two hundred and eighty,” I answered without missing a beat.
Vance turned his head, finally looking at me with genuine focus. “Three hundred thousand.”
That was my limit. That was the ceiling of the line Henderson had approved.
Sarah Jenkins was standing four feet behind me, clutching her briefcase against her chest. I could hear her sharp intake of breath.
Marissa let out a sharp, triumphant laugh from the bottom of the steps. “Go on, Benny! Bid your diner! Bid your stupid little drive-in! You don't have it!”
Deputy Harris looked at me. “Three hundred thousand to Mr. Vance. Bid is with Vance. Do I hear three-ten?”
I opened my mouth, but before the words could leave my throat, a voice boomed from the back of the crowd.
“Three hundred and twenty-five thousand!”
May you like
Every head swung around.
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