Chapter 7: Garrett Comes Anyway
He didn't wait until the weekend.
Garrett Marsh knocked on the door at eleven-fifteen on a Thursday morning.
I knew because Deb called me while I was finishing a patrol report at the precinct.
"He's here," she said.
"Radley just texted me.
Garrett showed up unannounced with the same lawyer from the will signing."
I was already standing up.
"Is Brenna at school?"
"Yes.
Radley made sure of that this morning."
"Good.
Tell Radley not to open the door until I get there.
Ten minutes."
"Lionel." A pause.
"He already opened it.
He said he didn't want Garrett to have a reason to claim he was being obstructed."
I grabbed my jacket.
"I'm on my way."
I arrived to find three men in the small living room.
Radley was standing near the kitchen doorway.
Garrett was in the center of the room — taller than his brother, broader, with the kind of careful grooming that announced money without displaying it.
The lawyer, a man named Stills according to the business card Deb had already photographed and sent me, sat at the folding table with a briefcase open in front of him.
Garrett turned when I came through the door.
His expression didn't change much, but his eyes moved to my uniform and stayed there.
"Officer Lionel," he said.
"I didn't realize this had become a police matter."
"It hasn't," I said.
"I'm here as a courtesy."
"A courtesy." He looked at Radley.
"You called a cop before calling your own brother."
"You called me," I said.
"Three days ago.
You told me you were coming this weekend."
"Plans change." He spread his hands slightly.
"I was in the area."
"Spokane to Portland is four hours."
"I had business in Salem." He smiled.
It was a practiced smile, the kind that had probably worked on a lot of people.
"Look, I came because I'm concerned.
I heard there was some kind of inquiry into the estate, and I want to clear that up before it becomes something it doesn't need to be."
"What kind of clearing up did you have in mind?" I asked.
Stills opened a folder on the table.
"We've prepared a revised rental agreement," he said.
"More favorable terms for Radley.
Reduced monthly payment, a longer security of tenure.
Mr.
Marsh wants his brother to feel settled here."
Radley looked at the folder.
He didn't move toward it.
"You drove four hours," Radley said, "to give me a better rental agreement."
"I drove four hours because you're my brother and I care about what happens to you."
"You called me dramatic," Radley said.
"On the phone with Officer Lionel.
You said I struggle with the truth."
Garrett's smile held.
"I said you have a tendency to see things a certain way.
That's not the same thing."
"Mom left me a voicemail," Radley said.
The smile didn't disappear.
But something behind it did.
"She left a voicemail saying she didn't understand what she signed," Radley said.
"She thought it was paperwork for hospital bills.
She said you told her that."
Garrett looked at Stills.
Stills looked at his folder.
"Mom was on significant medication at that point," Garrett said carefully.
"Her memory wasn't reliable.
Whatever she thought she remembered—"
"There are photographs," I said.
Garrett turned to me.
"Three photographs taken on the day of the signing.
They show your mother at this table, with you and Mr.
Stills, with your hand over hers on the pen." I kept my voice level.
"We've also been in contact with the prescribing physician's office regarding her documented cognitive state in the weeks before she died.
And we have a referral to the Multnomah County probate court for a formal review of the will."
The room was quiet.
Garrett looked at me for a long moment.
Then he looked at his brother.
"You have no idea what you're doing," he said.
His voice had changed.
The warmth was gone.
"You want to drag this family through a court process?
You want Brenna growing up knowing her father tore the family apart over a house?"
"The house was already taken," Radley said.
"I kept you in it."
"You charged me rent on it."
"I could have sold it." Garrett's voice rose slightly.
"I could have had you removed.
I chose not to.
I have been patient with you for five years, Radley, and this is—"
"Mr.
Marsh." Deb's voice came from the hallway.
She stepped into the room with her canvas bag over her shoulder and her glasses on.
"I'm Deborah Paulson.
I'm working with Radley in an advisory capacity.
I'd like to make sure everyone understands where things stand legally before this conversation goes further."
Garrett stared at her.
"Who are you?"
"I just told you." She sat down at the folding table across from Stills, opened her own folder, and set three documents on the table.
"The photographs and voicemail have been preserved and submitted to our office as evidence.
A petition for probate review has been filed with the county court as of this morning.
And I have here a letter from the Oregon State Bar regarding Mr.
Stills' involvement in the original will signing, which raises some questions his licensing board may want to discuss with him directly."
Stills looked at the letter.
His hand went flat on the table.
"You have until the end of the month to respond to the petition," Deb said to Garrett.
"If you'd like to discuss a resolution before it reaches a hearing, Radley is open to that conversation.
If not, we'll see you in court."
Garrett stood very still.
"You think this is going to work," he said quietly.
"You think a photograph and a voicemail is enough to overturn a legal document."
"I think a judge will find it interesting," Deb said.
She didn't look up from her folder.
"Particularly the part where your mother's hand needed guidance to hold a pen."
The silence stretched.
Then Garrett picked up his jacket from the back of the chair and looked at his brother one last time.
"You'll regret this," he said.
"I already regret a lot of things," Radley said.
"This isn't one of them."
Garrett walked out.
Stills closed his briefcase and followed without a word.
The front door shut.
Radley sat down on the floor with his back against the kitchen doorframe.
He put his face in his hands — not crying, just breathing.
Deb looked at me.
"That went about as expected."
"Will it hold?" I asked.
"The petition."
"The voicemail alone is significant.
The photographs corroborate it.
The physician's records will tell us how medicated she was." She gathered her papers.
"It won't be fast.
But yes.
I think it holds."
I looked at Radley on the floor.
"Brenna gets out of school at three," he said, without lifting his head.
"I need to be okay by three."
"You've got four hours," I said.
He nodded slowly.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay."
But that evening, after I'd gone home and filed my notes, my phone buzzed with a message from a number I didn't recognize.
*You should ask Radley about the second will.
The one from before.*
May you like
I stared at the message for a long time.
Then I called Deb.
