Chapter 9 - The Confrontation at the Mansion
The Juriquilla estate was a monument to old money and unearned luxury. Built behind three layers of stone walls in one of the most exclusive enclaves in the country, it featured five separate courtyards, a stable for Andalusian horses, and gardens that required eight full-time workers to maintain.
At 4:00 PM, Victor’s black Suburban pulled through the main iron gates without stopping for the private security guards, who simply bowed their heads as the owner of the title drove past.
Victor stepped out into the main courtyard. The afternoon air was warm, smelling of dry pine and roses. The front door of the mansion was open, and three corporate removal movers were already carrying out the heavy oil paintings and antique furniture that belonged to the Williams Development corporate inventory.
Maris Williams was sitting on a stone bench near the central fountain. She was accompanied by a senior attorney from a high-priced firm, but the man looked bored, his eyes constantly checking his watch. She had been released on a temporary asset-secured electronic monitor, a black plastic band visible around her ankle beneath her linen trousers.
"You're stripping the house," she said as Victor approached, her voice dry and hollow. She didn't look at him; she looked at a heavy silver mirror being loaded into the back of a moving truck.
"The house belongs to the corporate logistics firm, Mother," Victor said, standing under the shadow of the arched arcade. "Your right to live here was contingent on your status as a non-executive trustee of the foundation. Since the board removed you this morning, your lease has expired."
"Where am I supposed to go?" she asked, her voice finally losing its aristocratic pride, sounding like a frightened old woman for the first time in her life. "My personal accounts are gone. The apartments are under a judicial hold. Your brother has fled to Guatemala."
"There is a small, one-room apartment behind the old railway tracks in Northside," Victor said, his tone perfectly level. "Room number four, Calle de la Amargura. The rent is paid for the next three months out of my personal charity fund. The ceiling leaks a bit when the rain comes from the north, but Brian tells me the neighbors are very quiet if you don't bother them."
Maris looked up at him, her eyes wide with a deep, visceral horror. "You... you wouldn't dare."
"The landlord is expecting you by six, Mother," Victor said, turning his back on her. "I’ve already had your clothes packed into two suitcases. The same two suitcases you gave Catherine three years ago."
The lawyer stepped forward, clearing his throat. "Mr. Williams, as her representative, I must protest this treatment. My client is an elderly woman with an international social standing."
"Your client is a convicted felon who stole from an infant, counselor," Victor said without stopping. "If you want to argue her civil rights, I suggest you do it in front of the federal judge at the preliminary hearing on Monday. I’ve already submitted the forensic panels showing the digital clone signatures. You have about twelve hours before your own firm’s retainer is flagged as a product of laundered capital."
The lawyer turned pale, immediately dropped his briefcase, and walked toward his own car without looking back at Maris.
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Victor stepped into the front seat of his truck alongside Brian. As the vehicle turned around the circular driveway, leaving the elderly woman sitting alone among the empty crates on the stone plaza, Victor looked at the small silver frame mounted on his dashboard. It was a photo taken four years ago—Catherine laughing under the sun at a beach in Huatulco, holding a tiny Annie in her arms.
"Let’s go back to the hospital, Brian," Victor said. "The air is much cleaner out there."
