Chapter 6: Gertrude Makes Her Move
My attorney's name was Patricia Weld.
She had been recommended by a colleague at work eight months ago, when I first started suspecting something was wrong.
I had called her then just to ask general questions.
She had listened carefully, asked three precise questions in return, and said: *If you're right about this, call me the moment you have enough to move.*
I called her at seven-thirty in the morning from the hotel room while Skylar was still asleep.
"How much do you have?" Patricia asked.
"Bank records showing unauthorized transfers.
A property permit filed without my knowledge or consent.
A loan agreement bearing what I believe is a forged signature.
A referral agreement showing my husband was financially incentivized to originate the loan.
The name and company registration of the fraudulent contractor.
A recorded statement from a witness who participated in the scheme and is willing to cooperate.
And a loan officer at the lending institution who flagged the application internally and is prepared to speak to investigators."
A pause.
"Charlotte, where are you right now?"
"A hotel.
With my daughter."
"Good.
Do not go back to that house today.
I'm going to make some calls.
Can you be in my office by ten?"
"Yes."
"Bring everything on that USB drive.
Bring the recording.
And bring your daughter's birth certificate if you have it with you — we may need to establish her residency separately from the property address depending on how this moves."
I had the birth certificate.
I had packed it the night before without quite knowing why.
We were in Patricia's office by nine fifty-five.
While Skylar sat in the waiting area with a book the receptionist had found for her, I sat across from Patricia and watched her read through the documents I had printed at the hotel business center.
She read without expression, making small notes in the margin of a legal pad.
When she finished, she set the pen down.
"This is mortgage fraud," she said.
"Potentially also identity fraud, given the forged signature.
The referral arrangement adds a wire fraud dimension.
This isn't just a civil matter."
"I know."
"The loan officer — Dennis Farrow — is he willing to provide a formal statement?"
"He said he would.
He has seventy-two hours before his manager notices the hold."
Patricia picked up her phone.
"I'm going to contact the California Department of Financial Protection and Innovation and the FBI field office.
Mortgage fraud at this level falls under federal jurisdiction." She looked at me over the phone.
"Once I make these calls, this moves fast.
Are you prepared for that?"
"I've been prepared for six months," I said.
She nodded and dialed.
I stepped into the hallway.
Through the glass partition, I could see Skylar in the waiting area.
She had set the book aside and was drawing again — this time on a notepad the receptionist had given her.
My phone rang.
Brandon.
I answered.
"Charlotte, you need to come home right now." His voice was tight.
Controlled in the way that meant someone was listening.
"Mom has called a family meeting.
There are things we need to discuss as a couple before this gets out of hand."
"What things?"
"The house.
The renovation.
There's been a misunderstanding and we need to clear it up together.
As a family."
"Brandon, is Ray Cutler in that house right now?"
Silence.
"Who told you that name?"
"Is he there?"
A longer silence.
Then, lower: "Charlotte, please.
Just come home.
If you don't, Mom is going to—"
"Going to what?"
The line went quiet for a moment.
Then Gertrude's voice came on — Brandon had put it on speaker, or she had taken the phone.
"Charlotte." Her voice was perfectly composed.
"I think it's time we had an honest conversation.
I have a letter here, signed by you, authorizing the renovation and the associated financing.
I also have a text message in which you agreed to the contractor arrangement.
If you continue down this path, I will be forced to share these documents with the bank and with a lawyer of my own."
My grip on the phone didn't change.
"Read me the date on that letter, Gertrude."
A pause.
"The fourteenth."
"Of which month?"
Another pause.
Shorter, but there.
"March."
"I was in Chicago on a work trip from the eleventh to the seventeenth of March," I said.
"I have flight records, hotel receipts, and my employer's conference registration with my name on it.
I was not in San Bernardino on the fourteenth."
The line was very quiet.
"Whatever you're holding," I said, "is not my signature."
I heard Gertrude exhale.
May you like
Just once.
Then the line went d*ad.
