Chapter 9: Gerald Fitch Tells the Truth
Patricia found Gerald Fitch on a Thursday morning, living in a retirement community forty minutes outside the city.
She called me from the parking lot before she went in.
"He agreed to speak with me," she said.
"That's already something.
Innocent people usually don't agree that quickly."
"Guilty people trying to get ahead of it do," I said.
"Exactly." A pause.
"I'll call you after."
She called two hours later.
"He talked," she said.
"All of it."
I sat down.
Gerald Fitch was seventy-four years old, retired, and had been approached eight months ago — two weeks after Eleanor's funeral — by a man he described as a business associate of Marcus Hale.
The man had explained that a letter needed to be notarized, that it was a straightforward gift arrangement, and that the family involved had already agreed to the terms.
He had been paid three thousand dollars in cash.
"He didn't know the letter was forged?" I asked.
"He says he didn't read it carefully.
He says he was told it was a formality." Patricia's voice was even.
"Whether that's true or whether he knew exactly what he was doing and is now trying to minimize his exposure — that's a question for another day.
What matters is that he's willing to provide a sworn statement that he was paid by an associate of Marcus Hale to notarize a document he was not given time to review."
"That's enough to challenge the letter."
"That's enough to do considerably more than that," she said.
"Notarizing a document under those circumstances, accepting payment outside normal channels — that's a serious professional violation, even for a retired notary.
He knows that.
He's cooperating because he wants to be on the right side of this before it becomes a criminal matter."
"Is it going to become a criminal matter?"
A pause.
"The document examiner finished the analysis this morning," Patricia said.
"The letter was printed on a laser printer manufactured no earlier than three years ago.
The paper stock is consistent with standard office supply.
The signature — I sent it to a handwriting specialist — shows characteristics inconsistent with your grandfather-in-law's known signatures.
Specifically, the pressure pattern is wrong.
He has mild arthritis in his right hand.
The signature on the forged letter was made by someone with full, unimpaired grip strength."
I was quiet for a moment.
"They forged his signature," I said.
"After his wife died.
While he was grieving."
"Yes."
"And they used a retired notary who needed money and wouldn't ask questions."
"Yes."
"And Victoria knew all of it."
Patricia didn't answer immediately.
When she did, her voice was careful.
"We can place Victoria in contact with Marcus Hale during the period when the letter was created.
We have the Scottsdale documentation.
We have her pattern of asset transfers.
We have the email sent from your account." She paused.
"Whether she directed the forgery or simply benefited from it — that's a line a prosecutor will draw.
What I can tell you is that I've already forwarded the document analysis and Fitch's statement to the district attorney's office."
The word landed quietly.
"The DA," I said.
"This stopped being just a divorce some time ago," Patricia said.
"I think you already knew that."
I thought about the trust amendment, slid across the table toward me.
The envelope with the photographs.
Her grandfather, sitting in his kitchen, telling me he wanted the truth in a room where everyone had to look at it.
"What happens now?" I said.
"Now," Patricia said, "we let them file their next move.
Because they will.
And when they do, we'll be ready."
She was right.
Two days later, Victoria's attorneys filed a motion to compel a formal capacity evaluation of her grandfather.
They cited his age, his recent bereavement, and what they described as a pattern of unusual financial decisions in the months following his wife's death.
I read the filing in Patricia's office.
The phrase they used for the trust amendment was "emotionally manipulated generosity."
I set it down on the desk.
"They put it in writing," I said.
May you like
"They always do," Patricia said.
"And now so have we."
