Chapter 5: What They Tried Next
The call came at 8:17 the next morning.
Not from Hartwell.
From a lawyer.
He introduced himself as Craig Bellamy, said he represented Richard and Diane Hartwell, and informed me — not Grandpa, me — that his clients intended to file a civil complaint against Frank Kowalski for trespassing, harassment, and tortious interference with their property.
I was still in my car in my own driveway when I took the call.
I sat there for a moment after he finished.
"Mr.
Bellamy," I said, "my grandfather has a signed contract, a signed release of installation, thirty years of documented business practice, and a county inspector who visited the property at the county's own initiative.
What exactly is your complaint based on?"
A pause.
"That's a matter for the court to determine."
"Is it?
Because it sounds like your clients signed a document they didn't read, and now they'd like someone else to be responsible for that."
"Ms.
Kowalski—"
"I'll have Grandpa's attorney contact you directly." I got out of my car.
"Have a good morning."
I called Grandpa before I reached my front door.
"They lawyered up," I said.
"I know.
Bellamy called me first.
I didn't answer." He sounded unbothered.
"Call Janet."
Janet Morse had been Grandpa's attorney for nineteen years.
She handled his contracts, his business filings, and twice before, situations like this one.
I had her number in my phone under "Janet — Grandpa's lawyer."
She picked up on the second ring.
I explained everything.
She asked three questions, all of them specific, and then said, "Send me the contract, the release document, the email chain with their project manager, and Dennis's inspection report when it comes through."
"Grandpa has all of it."
"Of course he does." I could hear her smiling.
"Tell Frank not to remove the cabinets yet.
If they're threatening civil action, we want the property status documented before anything moves."
"He'll listen to you."
"He always does," she said.
"Eventually."
I drove to Grandpa's house.
He was at the kitchen table with his own copy of the contract, a yellow legal pad, and a pen.
He had already written two pages of notes in his careful, even handwriting.
"Janet says hold on the removal," I told him.
He nodded without looking up.
"I figured."
I sat down across from him.
"Are you worried?"
He finished the sentence he was writing.
Set the pen down.
"No," he said.
"Worried would mean I didn't plan for this." He looked at the legal pad.
"I've been doing this work since before Hartwell was in high school.
I have documentation going back twenty-two years in those filing cabinets." He nodded toward the hallway.
"Let him file.
Let his lawyer read through thirty years of contracts and tell him what he's actually looking at."
My phone buzzed.
A text from a number I didn't recognize.
*You should tell your grandfather to be careful.
Rich people have long memories.*
I showed it to Grandpa.
He read it.
Read it again.
"Screenshot that," he said quietly.
"Send it to Janet."
His voice hadn't changed.
But he picked up his pen and wrote something new at the top of the legal pad, underlined it twice, and turned back to his notes.
May you like
I looked at what he'd written.
*Document everything.*
