My Nephew Cornered Me At My Brother’s Funeral And Demanded I Hand Over Our $8 Million Family Business. He Showed Me A Forged Document Giving Him Control And Gave Me 72 Hours To Sign Everything Away Or Go To Jail. He Thinks I’m A Defenseless Old Man, But I Just Found The One Piece Of Evidence That Changes Everything.
The Counter-Attack
He walked out. I heard his BMW start in the parking lot, heard the expensive engine purr as he drove away. I sat alone in the office surrounded by photographs of Michael and me through the decades: opening day 1992, our parents cutting the ribbon, Michael grinning with tomato sauce on his apron, us with our arms around each other’s shoulders, brothers who’d built something real together.
I waited until the building was completely silent. Then I opened the bottom drawer of the desk, the one I kept locked, and pulled out a business card I’d been saving for three months. A former customer, a woman who’d eaten at our restaurant every Friday night for five years, had left it for me after her last visit.
Catherine O’Brien, Attorney at Law. Corporate Litigation and Fraud Investigation.
I picked up my phone and dialed. Her secretary answered on the second ring.
“O’Brien and Associates.”
“This is Thomas Brennan. Catherine told me to call if I ever needed help. I need help.”
The secretary’s voice warmed immediately.
“Mr. Brennan, Miss O’Brien has been expecting your call. She asked me to tell you that she’s cleared her schedule. Can you come to her office tomorrow morning at 8?”
At 8:00 the next morning, I was sitting in Catherine O’Brien’s corner office overlooking Boston Harbor. She was a woman in her 50s, sharp eyes behind designer glasses, the kind of lawyer who made opposing counsel nervous just by walking into a courtroom. We’d talked many times over her Friday night dinners, always about food, about family, about Boston’s changing restaurant scene. I’d never asked what kind of law she practiced. Now I knew.
She poured coffee from a French press, the real stuff, dark and strong.
“Tom, I’m sorry about Michael. He was a good man.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Tell me everything.”
I told her the signatures, the power of attorney, Jake’s threats, the embezzlement accusations. Catherine took notes, her pen moving quickly across a yellow legal pad. When I finished, she sat back in her chair.
“The signature on those power of attorney documents. You said it looked wrong? Too neat?”
“Michael’s handwriting was awful,” I said.
“These look traced.”
Catherine pulled out her phone and made a call.
“Daniel, I need you in my office. Bring your forensic kit.”
The Forensic Evidence
She hung up and looked at me.
“Tom, do you have copies of those documents?”
I pulled out my phone and showed her the photos I’d taken with trembling hands the night before. Catherine’s eyes narrowed as she examined them. Five minutes later, a young man in his 30s entered the office carrying a laptop and a small case. Catherine introduced him as Daniel Chen, forensic document examiner.
“Daniel, look at these signatures. Compare them to these.”
She pulled out a file folder. Inside were documents I recognized: lease agreements, vendor contracts, all signed by Michael over the years. Daniel set up his laptop, uploaded my photos, and began comparing them side by side. He zoomed in, analyzed pen pressure, examined the flow of ink. After 10 minutes, he looked up.
“These power of attorney signatures are forgeries. See how the pen pressure is uniform throughout? That’s consistent with tracing. And look here.”
He pointed at the screen.
“The tremor that was developing in Michael Brennan’s later signatures, consistent with his neurological condition, is completely absent in these documents. Someone traced these from older signatures, probably from documents that predate his illness.”
Catherine smiled, but it wasn’t a pleasant smile. It was the smile of a lawyer who just found the weak point in an opponent’s armor.
“Tom, those documents Jake showed you are worthless. But that’s not the interesting part.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jake doesn’t actually know what he’s trying to steal.”
She pulled out another file, this one much thicker.
“Do you remember when Michael set up the corporation? When you two decided to protect yourselves from lawsuits?”
I nodded.
“That was 1998, after a customer tried to sue us for a slip and fall. Our lawyer had recommended incorporating, setting up an LLC.”
“Your lawyer at the time was very smart,” Catherine said. “He didn’t just set up an LLC. He set up a series of holding companies and a family trust. Brennan’s Restaurant Group isn’t owned by you and Michael. It’s owned by the Brennan Family Trust. And the trust is controlled by a board of three trustees.”
I felt my confusion must have shown on my face because Catherine continued.
“You, Michael, and your mother Agnes. Do you remember signing those papers?”
I did, vaguely. It had seemed like legal boilerplate at the time.
“Your mother is still alive, Tom. Still living in that assisted care facility in Quincy. Still legally competent. And according to the trust documents, no major decisions can be made without unanimous consent of all three trustees. Michael’s death doesn’t change that. His trustee position passes to his estate, which means it goes into probate. Jake doesn’t automatically inherit anything. So he can’t sell the restaurants. He can’t fire me. He can’t do anything without my mother’s consent.”
“Exactly. And there’s more.”
Catherine pulled out another document.
“The trust also owns the real estate. The building on Newbury Street, you and Michael didn’t just lease it, you bought it in 2003. It’s worth about $4 million now. The building in Cambridge where your second location is, another $3 million. Jake thinks he’s stealing a restaurant business. He has no idea he’s trying to steal a real estate empire.”
