Chapter 6: What Patricia Osei Said
Her office was on the fourteenth floor of a building downtown, and she was already at her desk when I arrived at five minutes to eight.
Patricia Osei was in her mid-fifties, compact and precise, with reading glasses pushed up on her head and a yellow legal pad covered in handwriting already in front of her.
She stood when I came in, shook my hand firmly, and gestured to the chair across from her.
"I've read the summary your father sent me last night," she said, sitting back down.
"I want to see the documents."
I laid them out in order.
The bank statements.
The share transfer.
The email to Phoenix.
She read each one without speaking.
When she reached the email, she read it twice.
"When was this email sent?" she asked.
"Six weeks ago."
"And the share transfer — it hasn't been filed with the state yet?"
"Not according to the date on the document."
She made a note.
"That's fortunate.
If it had been registered, unwinding it would have taken significantly longer." She set down her pen.
"Mrs.
Crestview, I want to ask you something directly.
The signature on the transfer document — you're certain it's not yours?"
"I have never signed anything transferring my shares.
Not a draft, not a preliminary document, nothing."
"Do you have samples of your signature from around the same time period?
Contracts, correspondence, anything dated within the last six months?"
"I can get them.
I still have access to our contract files."
"Get them today, before that changes." She looked at the email again.
"This phrase — *spousal asset removal* — combined with the forged transfer and the movement of funds into a related party's holding company, that's not a misunderstanding about tax structure.
That's a coordinated scheme." She paused.
"I want to be honest with you about what this means.
Civil action for fraud and forgery is straightforward given what you've shown me.
But there may also be criminal exposure here — for your husband and potentially for others."
"Ofelia," I said.
"If the holding company received funds she knew were improperly transferred, yes." She folded her hands.
"And the secretary — Brenda?"
"She's willing to give a statement.
Her husband has the originals.
He made copies."
Patricia nodded slowly.
"All right.
Here's what happens today.
I file an emergency motion to freeze the Crestview Developments accounts pending investigation.
That stops any further transfers.
Simultaneously, I send a preservation letter to Hartwell and Associates — the firm named in the email — requiring them to retain all communications with your husband.
They will not be happy about it, but they have no choice."
"Mark will know immediately."
"Yes, he will." She looked at me steadily.
"Is that a problem?"
I thought about the kitchen last night.
Mark reaching for his phone.
Ofelia pulling her robe tighter.
The small look that passed between them.
"No," I said.
"Let him know."
She almost smiled.
"Good." She picked up her pen.
"I also want to discuss the house and your personal accounts.
Do you have any accounts in your name only — not joint?"
"One.
A small savings account I've had since before we married.
My father insisted I keep it."
"How much is in it?"
"About fourteen thousand dollars."
"That's enough to move on.
Don't touch the joint accounts.
Don't transfer anything.
Don't give him any reason to claim you were hiding assets." She made another note.
"Is there anywhere you can stay that isn't the marital home?"
"My father."
"Go there today.
Take your personal documents — passport, birth certificate, anything irreplaceable — and your signature samples.
Leave everything else."
I nodded.
She set down her pen and looked at me directly.
"Mrs.
Crestview.
I've handled a number of cases like this.
The ones that go wrong are the ones where the other party gets warning and time to move.
You've caught this before the transfer was filed.
That matters enormously." A pause.
"But I want you to be prepared.
He will fight this.
He'll claim the signature is valid, that you consented verbally, that the structure was explained to you.
His attorney is going to be aggressive."
"Gerald," I said.
"I don't know his last name."
"Gerald Marsh," she said.
"I know him." Something in her expression settled.
"He's good.
But the email exists.
The forged signature exists.
And you have a witness who was present when your husband instructed her to cover it up." She picked up the documents and tapped them square against the desk.
"That's not a case he can win, Mrs.
Crestview.
That's a case he can only delay."
I drove to the house while Mark was at the office.
I took forty minutes.
I moved through every room I had scrubbed and painted and furnished over twenty-eight years, and I took only what was mine before any of it existed: my passport, my birth certificate, a folder of contracts with my signature, three photographs from a box in the closet, and the small silver bracelet my mother had left me.
May you like
I was pulling out of the driveway when my phone rang.
It was Ofelia.
