Chapter 11: Friday's Filing
Marcus and Gordon filed jointly at two in the afternoon on Friday.
Daniel was at the cottage when Marcus called to confirm it.
"It's in," Marcus said.
"Criminal complaint filed with the appropriate body, copied to the county court judge ahead of Monday's hearing, along with Gordon's statement on the will, my report on the notary, Neil Carver's written declaration, and Arthur Pembridge's witness statement."
Daniel was standing at the kitchen window.
His father was in the garden, moving slowly along the rose bed with a pair of gloves on, tidying the last of the autumn growth from the canes.
The rose bed that his mother had planted.
"What happens now?" Daniel asked.
"The judge will review the packet before Monday.
When Vivienne's barrister sees what's been filed, his response will tell us a lot." A pause.
"I got a call from him about an hour ago, actually."
"And?"
"He asked me, off the record, whether there was any willingness to discuss a resolution that didn't involve Monday's hearing."
"He's looking for an exit."
"He is looking very firmly for an exit, yes." Marcus's voice was almost dry.
"He didn't know about Pembridge.
He didn't know about Carver.
He definitely didn't know about the notary's disciplinary history." A pause.
"Daniel, her legal representation is about to become a problem for her in itself.
No barrister wants to be attached to a fraud allegation."
"She offered me two hundred and fifty thousand to make it go away."
A silence.
"When?" Marcus asked.
"Wednesday evening."
"Did you record it?"
"Yes."
Another silence.
Longer.
"Send that to me today," Marcus said, quietly and very precisely.
"That is an attempt to settle a matter she knows to be fraudulently constructed.
That recording goes to the court on Monday with everything else." He paused.
"Daniel, you need to understand what you've built here.
You have a void document, an invalid notary, a pattern of behaviour across two victims, an inside witness, a testifying witness, and now a recorded settlement offer from the originator of the fraud.
That's not a property dispute.
That's a case."
Daniel looked out through the window.
His father had stopped at the far end of the rose bed and was standing looking at it.
Just standing.
Not working.
Just looking.
"Will she face charges?" Daniel asked.
"That will depend on the relevant authorities and how far they take it.
That's outside our direct control.
But the complaint is filed and the evidence is substantial." Marcus paused.
"I think, Daniel, that she will not come back from Monday in a good position."
"Good," Daniel said.
He ended the call and went outside.
The garden air was cold and smelled of damp soil and the faint sharpness of cut stems.
He walked down the path to where his father stood by the rose bed and stopped beside him.
Walter didn't look up for a moment.
"You know what your mother used to say about these?" Walter said finally, looking at the canes.
"Tell me."
"She said they looked like nothing in winter.
All thorns and bare wood.
Like they were finished." He reached out and touched one of the canes lightly.
"And then March would come."
Daniel stood beside him in the cold.
"It's filed," he said.
Walter nodded once.
"And Monday?"
"We go to court.
And we let what we built speak for itself."
His father looked at the rose bed for a moment longer.
Then he pulled off one glove and held out his hand.
May you like
Daniel took it.
They stood there for a moment in the grey November garden — father and son, the cottage behind them, his mother's roses bare and thorned and dormant and entirely, completely alive.
