I Just Finished Chemo And Found My Locks Changed. My Daughter Handed Me A Trash Bag Of My Clothes And Said I Was No Longer Her Problem. Now, I Own Every Cent Of Debt She And Her Husband Have. Who Is The Dead Weight Now?
The Lawyer
The office of Jenkins and Associates was located on the 42nd floor of a glass tower on Wacker Drive overlooking the river. It was a world away from the grime of the Motel 6 and the grease of the diner. Here, the air smelled of expensive mahogany polish and fresh espresso.
I walked past the receptionist who looked ready to call security on the disheveled old man standing in her lobby until Sarah Jenkins herself burst out of the conference room.
Sarah is the daughter of my best friend from the army, a man who took a bullet meant for me in 1971. I paid for her law school tuition anonymously, though I suspect she always knew. She is 32 years old, sharp as a tack, and has a tolerance for nonsense that is lower than mine.
When she saw me standing there in my wrinkled coat with dark circles under my eyes, she did not say a word. She just grabbed my arm and pulled me into her corner office, slamming the door shut and blinding the windows with a touch of a button.
“Sit,” she commanded, pointing to the leather chair opposite her desk. She poured a glass of water from a crystal carafe and shoved it into my hand. “You look like hell, Uncle Jerry. I thought you were recovering at home. Why are you here looking like a homeless person?”
I drank the water in one gulp. “I am homeless, Sarah,” I said, placing the glass down on her pristine desk. “Madison kicked me out. She changed the locks. She drained the accounts. And she is selling the house.”
Sarah stopped moving. She stood perfectly still behind her desk, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. She did not ask if I was joking. She knows Madison. She knows Brandon. She knows that sharks do not change their nature just because they are related to you.
She sat down slowly and opened her laptop. “Tell me everything,” she said. “And do not leave out a single detail.”
I told her. I told her about the freezing porch, the trash bag, the night at the motel, and the meeting at the diner. I told her about the power of attorney I signed when I was scared of the surgery. I told her about the Rolex and the text message from the Turk.
When I finished, Sarah was silent for a long moment. Then she started typing. Her fingers flew across the keyboard with a violence that matched the anger radiating off her.
“Give me a minute,” she muttered. “I am pulling up the Cook County Recorder of Deeds database. If they are selling the house, there has to be a paper trail. You cannot just sell a property overnight without filing something, especially if the owner is not the one signing the listing agreement.”
I watched her face as she scrolled through the records. The blue light from the screen illuminated her features, which were usually calm and composed but were now twisted in disbelief.
“Found it,” she whispered. Her voice was ice cold. “Oh, that little witch. She actually did it.”
“What did you find?” I asked, leaning forward, though the pain in my back protested the movement.
She turned the monitor around so I could see it. Was a digital copy of a document filed just 4 days ago. The header read: Quit claim deed.
“She did not just list the house for sale, Jerry.” Sarah explained, pointing at the screen with a manicured nail. “She transferred it. She used the general power of attorney to sign a quit claim deed transferring the property from Gerald Sullivan to Madison Sullivan Dunn for the sum of $10. She put the house in her name last Tuesday while you were getting your first round of chemo.”
I stared at the screen. There it was. My name signed by her as agent. She had stolen my home right out from under me before she even kicked me out. She wanted to make sure that when she sold it, the check would have her name.
“Mine. This is fraud,” Sarah said, standing up and pacing the room. “This is clear self-dealing. A power of attorney has a fiduciary duty to act in the principal’s best interest. Transferring a nearly $2 million asset to yourself for $10 while the principal is vulnerable is the definition of a breach of duty. We can nail her for this. I can file an emergency injunction right now. We can stop the sale.”
She reached for her desk phone, ready to call the courthouse.
“Sit down, Sarah,” I said, my voice low and steady.
She looked at me confused. “Jerry, did you hear me? We can stop this. We can get a judge to freeze everything by this afternoon.”
“I know,” I said. “But I do not want to stop it. Not yet.”
The Trap
I reached into my inner coat pocket and pulled out a worn leather notebook. I opened it to the back page where I kept the most important details of my life written down. I tore out a page and slid it across the desk to her.
“Look at this,” I said.
Sarah picked up the paper. It was a summary of the estate planning I had done 5 years ago right after Patricia died. I had never shown it to Madison because I wanted her to make her own way in the world without waiting for a handout.
Sarah read the notes, and her eyes went wide. She looked from the paper to the screen and back again. A slow smile began to spread across her face—a smile that was not nice at all.
“The Patricia Living Trust,” she read aloud.
“The house is not owned by Gerald Sullivan,” I said, leaning back in the chair, feeling the first spark of genuine satisfaction I had felt in days.
“Exactly,” I said. “The deed to the house was transferred into the Patricia Living Trust 5 years ago. I am the sole trustee. Madison is a beneficiary, but only upon my death.”
Sarah laughed, a short, sharp sound of triumph. She looked back at the screen.
“That means the quit claim deed she filed is worthless. She signed as agent for Gerald Sullivan the individual, but Gerald Sullivan the individual does not own the house. The trust does. She cannot transfer what you do not technically own in your personal capacity. The title company will flag this the moment they run a full search for closing.”
“They might,” I said. “Or they might not. Madison is using that sketchy title company Brandon’s friend runs. They cut corners. They might rush it through, especially if it is a cash deal and they are pushing for a quick close.”
“But even if they do close,” Sarah said, sitting back down, “the sale will be invalid. The buyers will not get a clean title. And Madison…”
“Madison will have committed a crime,” I finished for her.
Sarah nodded, her lawyer brain catching up to my strategy. “If we stop her now, it is a civil dispute. It is a messy family fight about fiduciary duty. She can claim she was confused. She can claim she thought she was doing what you wanted. A judge might just slap her wrist and void the transfer. But…”
“But if she goes through with the sale,” I continued, “if she stands in that closing room, if she signs the final documents claiming she is the owner, and most importantly, if she takes that check…”
“Grand larceny,” Sarah whispered. “Wire fraud. Title fraud. Elder financial abuse. If the value is over $100,000, which it definitely is, she is looking at a class one felony. Mandatory prison time.”
I looked out the window at the gray Chicago skyline. I built this life brick by brick. Sarah saw the pain behind my eyes. She knew that destroying my own child was going to break my heart, but she also knew it was the only way to survive.
“I loved that girl more than anything, but she is not my daughter anymore. She is a predator. And you do not negotiate with predators. You trap them.”
Sarah looked at me with a mixture of admiration and sadness. “So what is the play?” she asked, intertwining her fingers on the desk.
“Let them proceed,” I said. “Let them think they have gotten away with it. They are meeting the buyers tomorrow morning. I need you to find out where. I need you to contact the police, but tell them to wait. Tell them we are bringing them a case wrapped in a bow.”
I leaned forward, staring intensely at the young woman I considered more of a daughter than my own blood.
“Madison needs the money to pay off a loan shark by Friday. If she does not get that money, Brandon is a dead man walking. If she does get that money, she goes to prison. Either way, she loses. But I want to look her in the eye when the handcuffs go on. I want her to know that it was not bad luck that caught her. It was me.”
Sarah nodded slowly. She picked up her phone, but this time instead of calling the civil clerk, she dialed a number from her private contact list.
“Detective Miller,” she said into the receiver, her eyes locked on mine. “This is Sarah Jenkins. I have a case for you. It involves major fraud against a senior citizen, and you are going to want to be there for the takedown.”
She listened for a moment, then covered the mouthpiece. “He wants to know if the victim is willing to testify.”
I stood up, buttoning my coat. The fatigue was still there, but it was distant now, drowned out by the adrenaline of the hunt.
“Tell him the victim is dead,” I said, walking toward the door. “Tell him he is speaking to the witness for the prosecution.”
