Chapter 4 - The Audit of the Trust
The office of Ramirez Construction was located in a renovated brick warehouse down by the Chicago River, the air inside smelling of old blueprints, cedar shavings, and the deep, rich warmth of coffee that had been brewing since 5:00 a.m.
Don Arturo sat behind his massive mahogany desk, his glasses resting on his nose as he looked over the thick folders Artie Pendelton had brought from the family’s private archives.
"They think because I’m seventy-two, my head is full of fog, Artie," my father said, a dry, cold smile touching his lips as he flipped through the bank statements. "They think because I cried at my wife's funeral, I don't know how to read a ledger."
"Your daughter’s lawyer is sharp, Arturo," Artie said, leaning his heavy forearms on the desk. "He’s already filed the motion in probate court. They’re demanding a psychological evaluation from a state-appointed doctor to prove you weren't competent when you signed the trust amendment on October twenty-fourth."
"Let them bring their doctor," my father said, his voice level and steady. "I’ve kept every corporate tax return, every property deed, and every bank transfer from the last forty years. And I have something else that Richard Ramos didn't calculate."
He reached into his drawer and pulled out a small, black leather journal. It was my mother’s diary from the final year of her life, before the cancer took her.
"When your mother was sick, Javier," my father said, looking at me as I stood by the window. "Gabriela didn't visit her. Not once in the last six months. She told us she was too busy with her real estate business. But I found the bank statements from that year. Gabriela had taken a two-hundred-thousand-dollar loan from our mother’s private account—a loan that she never declared on her tax returns, and that she never paid back."
"She stole from Mom while she was dying?" I asked, my blood turning cold.
"She didn't steal it; she asked her mother to sign the transfer when she was heavily medicated," my father said, his eyes darkening with a deep, painful memory. "I didn't say anything back then because I didn't want to tear the family apart after the funeral. I wanted to believe she was just young, foolish, and scared. But she’s not scared anymore, Javier. She’s just greedy."
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"We can use this, Arturo," Artie said, his eyes shining with a hard, triumphant intensity. "In Illinois, if a beneficiary is found to have engaged in financial exploitation of an elderly or disabled family member, they are legally barred from receiving any inheritance under the 'Slayer Statute' guidelines. We don't need to prove you’re competent. We just need to prove she’s a thief."
"File the counter-suit, Artie," my father said, closing the journal with a heavy, dry snap. "And make sure the state attorney’s office gets a copy of those bank transfers. If Gabriela wants a fight, she’s going to find out that the foundation of her entire life is built on sand."
