My Parents Sold My $2.8m House Behind My Back To Pay For My Sister’s Wedding. They Didn’t Know It Was A Federal Safe House Sheltering A Mob Witness. Now They’re Facing Years In Prison. Am I The Jerk?
The Midnight Betrayal
The text came through at 2:00 a.m. while I was on assignment in Seattle.
“Mom finally did something about that house of yours. You’re welcome.”
I stared at the message on my phone lying in the darkness of my hotel room. The house. My house in Alexandria.
The three-bedroom colonial I’d bought two years ago. The property I’d carefully selected because it was 15 minutes from the federal courthouse and 20 minutes from my office at the U.S. Marshal Service headquarters.
“What do you mean? Did something about it?”
“Mom sold it. You were never there anyway. Always traveling for that job of yours. The money will help your sister with her wedding.”
I sat up so fast I nearly dropped my phone.
“You sold my house?”
“Mom, don’t be dramatic. We have your power of attorney from when you were overseas. We used it. The house was just sitting empty. $850,000 cash. Your father and I split it with Rachel for her wedding expenses. You can thank us at the reunion next week.”
My hands were shaking. Power of attorney from when I was deployed to Afghanistan six years ago, before I joined the Marshal Service. A document I’d forgotten to revoke when I returned stateside.
“Mom, you need to stop the sale immediately.”
“Mom, it’s done. Closed yesterday. Stop being selfish. Family helps family.”
A Breach of Federal Security
I immediately called my supervisor, Deputy Chief Marshal James Crawford. He answered on the third ring, his voice rough with sleep.
“Mitchell, this is the middle of the night.”
“Sir, we have a problem. My family just sold my house in Alexandria.”
There was a pause.
“Your house?”
“The safe house?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jesus Christ. The one we’ve been using for witness protection?”
“Sir, for the Castellano case.”
There was another pause, longer this time.
“How long ago?”
“They closed yesterday. I just found out.”
“Who’s in the house now?”
“According to the protection details’ last report, Angela Moretti and her two children. They’re scheduled to be there for another three weeks before relocation.”
“And your family sold a federal safe house to who?”
“I don’t know yet, sir.”
“Mitchell, get back to D.C. immediately. I’m activating the emergency response team. We need to relocate the Morettis and figure out what the hell just happened.”
The Race to Save a Witness
I caught the first flight out of Seattle. By the time I landed at Reagan National, it was 10:00 a.m., and my phone had 17 new messages from my mother.
All variations of, “Why are you being so dramatic?” and “You’re ruining Rachel’s wedding.” I ignored them all and drove straight to my office at the U.S. Marshal Service headquarters in Arlington.
Deputy Chief Crawford was waiting in the secure conference room with three other senior marshals and our legal counsel.
“Mitchell.”
Crawford gestured to a chair.
“Sit. Tell us everything.”
I explained the power of attorney, my parents’ access to it, and the sale of the house without my knowledge or consent. As I spoke, I watched their expressions shift from concerned to furious.
Legal counsel Patricia Williams said slowly.
“Let me make sure I understand. Your parents sold a property that’s been registered as a federal safe house for the past 18 months, a property currently housing a protected witness and her family in the Castellano organized crime case. A property with an active protection detail. And they did this without notifying anyone?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Who bought the house?”
“I don’t know yet. My mother mentioned $850,000 cash, which is significantly below market value for that property.”
Crawford’s jaw tightened.
“An $850,000 cash sale for a house worth at least $2.8 million. That’s either incompetence or something worse.”
Williams pulled up something on her laptop.
“I’m looking at the property records now. The sale went through a company called Riverside Holdings LLC. Does that mean anything to you?”
“No, ma’am.”
She typed rapidly.
“Riverside Holdings is a shell company registered in Delaware. Owners concealed through multiple layers. Mitchell, this wasn’t a normal real estate transaction.”
The room went cold.
“You’re saying someone targeted that specific property?”
I said quietly.
“I’m saying someone paid cash below market value for a house that happens to be sheltering a witness against the Castellano crime family. That’s not a coincidence.”
Evacuation Under Pressure
Crawford stood abruptly.
“We need to move the Morettis immediately. Mitchell, you’re coming with me. Williams, start the investigation into Riverside Holdings. I want to know who owns it and how they knew about that house.”
We arrived at the Alexandria house with a full tactical team. The protection detail, Marshals Rodriguez and Chin, met us at the door, both looking confused.
“Sir, what’s going on? We weren’t notified of any schedule changes.”
Rodriguez asked.
“The house was sold, without authorization. We’re evacuating the witnesses now.”
Crawford said flatly.
Rodriguez’s hand moved to his weapon.
“Sold? How?”
“Family issues.”
I said quietly.
“Is Mrs. Moretti inside with both kids?”
“They’re having lunch.”
We entered quickly. Angela Moretti looked up from the kitchen table where she sat with her 8-year-old daughter and six-year-old son.
Her face went pale when she saw the number of Marshals.
“What happened? Did they find us?”
“No, ma’am,”
Crawford said.
“But we’re moving you as a precaution. You have 10 minutes to pack essentials. Marshal Rodriguez will help you.”
Angela stood shakily.
“But you said we’d be safe here. You said…”
“I know what we said, Mrs. Moretti, and I apologize. There’s been a complication with the property. We’re taking you somewhere more secure.”
As Rodriguez helped Angela gather their belongings, Crawford turned to me.
“Your parents, where are they now?”
“Family reunion. My uncle’s farm in Pennsylvania. They’re expecting me there tomorrow.”
“Change of plans. We’re going today. Bring a recorder. We need to document everything they say.”
Confronting the Family Reunion
We drove to Pennsylvania in a convoy of three unmarked vehicles. Crawford, myself, Marshal Williams from our legal team, and four tactical support agents.
My uncle’s farm sat on 50 acres of rolling hills outside Harrisburg. By the time we arrived, it was late afternoon and the reunion was in full swing.
Cars lined the long driveway and children played in the yard. The smell of barbecue drifted from the back patio.
My mother stood near the grill, holding court with my aunts, laughing at something. She spotted me and waved enthusiastically.
Then she saw the people with me, all in suits, all wearing badges, and her smile faltered.
“Sarah, what’s going on?”
I walked across the lawn with Crawford beside me. My father emerged from the house, beer in hand.
My sister Rachel appeared from around the corner, her fiancé trailing behind her.
“Mom, Dad, we need to talk about the house.”
