Chapter 7: The Notary Speaks
Gerald Fitch called David on Tuesday morning.
David called me from the parking lot of his office and put me on speaker so his paralegal could take notes.
His voice had the careful, measured quality it got when something was going in the right direction.
"He wants to cooperate," David said.
"He retained his own attorney overnight, and the advice he received was to get ahead of this."
"What did he say?"
"He confirmed that Diane Calloway contacted him six weeks ago.
She told him the property owner — your mother — had given verbal consent and that the signature had been obtained remotely due to mobility issues.
He said he had worked with the Calloway family before on estate documents and had no reason to doubt her."
"But he notarized a forged signature."
"He did.
He's not disputing that.
His attorney is arguing diminished culpability based on deliberate misdirection by Diane.
Whether that holds is a separate question.
What matters for you right now is that he's prepared to provide a written statement confirming Diane commissioned the document and provided the forged signature page to him directly."
I sat down on the edge of the bed.
"She had the signature page made separately."
"That's what he's saying.
Someone produced a page bearing Margaret's signature — not the full document, just the signature page — and Diane presented it to him as legitimately obtained.
He attached it to the transfer document and notarized it."
"Who produced the signature page?"
A pause.
"He doesn't know.
Or says he doesn't.
That's the part we're still working on."
I thought about Ryan.
About the way he had looked at Diane in the kitchen when I'd asked him to explain the money.
The way she had answered for him.
"David," I said.
"Is it possible Ryan didn't know about the forgery specifically?
That he knew about the plan but Diane handled the mechanics without telling him exactly how?"
"It's possible.
It's also possible he's hoping that distinction protects him." David's voice was careful.
"It doesn't protect him from the financial fraud.
The transfers from your account — those went through his direct action.
He initiated those.
That's not something he can attribute to his mother."
"How much did he send her?"
"Based on the statements you photographed — just over forty-one thousand dollars across fourteen months."
Forty-one thousand dollars.
I had a savings account I checked every few months.
I trusted him with the household finances because he'd asked to manage them and I'd had no reason to say no.
"He had access to my account because I added him four years ago," I said.
"I know."
"I need to know if that money can be recovered."
"Civil action, yes.
It won't be fast.
But given the paper trail you already have, and Fitch's cooperation, the foundation is strong." He paused.
"There's something else."
"Tell me."
"The second phone.
I had a contact run the number.
The account is registered to a business — a holding company.
The company's registered agent is Diane Calloway.
But the address on file is your apartment."
I didn't say anything for a moment.
"She registered a business to my address," I said.
"Three months ago.
Around the same time Ryan brought you the refinancing paperwork."
I thought about what that meant.
A holding company at my address.
My forged signature on a transfer document.
Diane's name on the company.
If the transfer had gone through cleanly, the apartment would have passed to a company Diane controlled, with Carla as the named occupant — and I would have had no idea until it was too late to untangle.
"This wasn't just Ryan protecting a relationship," I said.
"This was an asset grab."
"That's how I'd characterize it," David said.
"Diane was building a structure.
Ryan was the access point.
Carla may genuinely have been a secondary consideration."
I thought about Carla in my father's apartment, moving his chair, clearing his books.
I thought about her face when I'd told her Ryan had said he loved me four nights ago.
She had been used too.
Not the same way I had.
But used.
"What do I need to do next?" I asked.
"Come to my office tomorrow.
Bring everything you have.
We're filing a formal complaint with the county DA's office this week."
I said I would be there.
After I hung up, I sat for a long time without moving.
Then I called my mother.
"It's moving forward," I told her.
"Good," she said.
Her voice was calm and warm, the same voice she'd used my whole life when things were hard and she needed me to know she wasn't afraid.
"Come for dinner tonight.
May you like
I made the soup you like."
I said yes.
