Chapter 6 - The Fall of the Widow
While Brandon sat in his jail cell, Samantha Gable was experiencing her own private apocalypse across the bay in Coronado.
At three o'clock that afternoon, two flatbed tow trucks from the San Diego Sheriff’s Department arrived outside the luxury condominium complex on Ocean Boulevard.
Samantha stood on the front balcony of the fourth-floor penthouse, clutching a silk robe around her waist, screaming down at the deputies who were currently attaching chains to her white Mercedes-Benz G-Wagon.
“You can’t touch that car!” Samantha shrieked, her voice echoing off the stucco walls of the neighboring luxury estates. “That car is registered to S&L Horizon Ventures! It’s corporate property! I am a widow! My husband died serving his community!”
A deputy sheriff didn't even look up from his clipboard. “Ma’am, we have a civil asset seizure writ signed by Judge Martinez. The vehicle was purchased with stolen funds originating from the Vance Family Trust. You have thirty minutes to gather your personal effects from the premises before the locksmith arrives to change the deadbolts.”
“What?” Samantha’s voice cracked into a shrill, hysterical shriek. “Change the deadbolts? This is my home! My son lives here!”
“The real property at 104 Ocean Boulevard is subject to an immediate interlocutory injunction,” another plainclothes officer said, stepping out from the building foyer. “The title was fraudulently acquired using diverted marital assets. The real owner of the underlying capital—Mrs. Rachel Vance—has exercised her right of summary repossession.”
Inside the penthouse, eight-year-old Leo was crying hysterically in the middle of the living room, surrounded by piles of designer toys, gaming consoles, and half-packed luggage.
“Mommy!” Leo wailed, tugging at Samantha’s robe. “The men took my PlayStation! They said I can’t keep my dirt bike! Tell them Uncle Brandon will fire them!”
Samantha dropped to her knees on the hardwood floor, her perfectly manicured nails clawing at her own hair. Her phone was buzzing relentlessly on the kitchen island.
She crawled toward it, her heart leaping into her throat.
*Mother Gable.*
Samantha answered instantly, putting the phone to her ear with shaking hands. “Mother! You have to help me! The police are here! They’re taking the cars, they’re locking the doors—they’re throwing Leo and me into the street!”
On the other end of the line, Mrs. Gable’s voice was completely stripped of its former aristocratic arrogance. The old woman was sobbing uncontrollably.
“Samantha… they came to my house too,” Mrs. Gable cried, her voice thin and reedy. “Two men from the state franchise tax board… they said Brandon used my social security number to create three fake shipping companies. They froze my pension account, Samantha! My credit cards don't work! I went to the country club for lunch, and the waiter told me my membership had been canceled for non-payment!”
“What about Brandon?” Samantha screamed. “Has he posted bail? When is he getting out?”
“The judge denied bail,” Mrs. Gable sobbed. “They said he’s a flight risk because he had two fake passports and thirty thousand dollars in cash stashed in his office safe. Samantha, what did you two do? What did you do to that poor girl’s money?”
“I didn't do anything!” Samantha shrieked, panic turning into venomous rage. “Brandon promised me! He said Rachel was stupid, that she never checked the trust accounts, that she was too weak to ever fight back! He said we were going to Costa Rica!”
*Click.*
The line went dead.
Samantha stared at the dark screen of her phone.
From the hallway, the sound of heavy boots echoed on the hardwood. Two uniformed deputies entered the penthouse, accompanied by a locksmith carrying an industrial drill.
“Time’s up, Ms. Gable,” the lead deputy said, holding open the door. “Take your son, take one suitcase, and step outside the gate.”
“Where am I supposed to go?” Samantha cried, tears finally breaking through her makeup, carving ugly black tracks through her foundation. “I don't have anywhere to go! I don't have any money!”
The deputy looked at her with total indifference.
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“There’s a women’s transitional shelter on 12th Avenue downtown,” he said, pointing down the hall. “They serve lunch at four. But you’d better hurry. If you want meat, you have to get in line early.”
***
