Chapter 8: The Notary's Answer
Carla Briggs was fifty-three years old, worked part-time at a title company in Greensboro, and had held her notary commission for eleven years without a single complaint filed against her.
Martin told me this on the phone Thursday morning, two days after Lorraine's visit.
"She agreed to meet," he said.
"This afternoon.
Her office.
I'd like you to come."
"You want me there?"
"She needs to see you.
The woman whose signature she may have notarized.
I want to watch her face when she does."
We drove to Greensboro separately and met in the parking lot outside a small brick building on Main Street.
Martin was already there, briefcase in hand, glasses on, expression neutral.
"Let me lead," he said.
"You observe."
Carla Briggs met us in a small conference room with a round table and a window that looked out onto a side street.
She was a compact woman with reading glasses pushed up on her head and the careful posture of someone who had been anxious since the moment she agreed to this meeting.
She shook Martin's hand.
Then she looked at me.
Something moved across her face.
Fast, then gone.
"Mrs.
Hastings," she said.
"Ms.
Briggs," I said.
We sat down.
Martin opened his briefcase and placed a copy of the deed amendment on the table, turned so Carla could read it.
"Ms.
Briggs," Martin said.
"You notarized this document on March 14th, 2019.
Do you remember it?"
She looked at the document.
Her hands were flat on the table.
"I notarize a lot of documents," she said.
"Of course.
But this one is unusual.
It adds a co-owner to a residential property deed.
That's not a routine transaction.
And the primary owner — Mrs.
Hastings — says she was not present and did not sign."
Carla looked at the signature line.
At the notary stamp below it.
Her own seal, her own commission number.
"I would have required ID," she said.
"I always require ID."
"What form of ID was presented?"
A pause.
"I'd need to check my records."
"We'd appreciate that," Martin said.
"But I want to ask you something first." He leaned forward slightly.
"Is it possible that someone presented ID in Mrs.
Hastings's name that was not actually Mrs.
Hastings?"
The room was very quiet.
Carla looked at the document again.
Then she looked at me.
Really looked at me — the way you look at someone when you are trying to match a face to a memory.
"The woman who came in," she said slowly.
"She was about your height.
Lighter hair.
She had a Georgia driver's license."
"In my name?" I said.
"In the name on this document." Carla's voice had gone careful and tight.
"Dorothy May Hastings."
Martin placed his pen on the table.
"Ms.
Briggs.
I want to be clear about something.
You are not under investigation.
We are not here to cause you harm.
But we need to understand what happened in this room in March of 2019, because a fraudulent deed amendment has been used to claim ownership of a property worth several hundred thousand dollars.
If someone impersonated Mrs.
Hastings in front of you, you are a victim of that fraud, not a participant."
Carla's hands came together on the table.
She looked at them.
"She had the license," she said quietly.
"She signed the document.
I stamped it.
I had no reason to think—" She stopped.
"The man who brought her in.
He was very confident.
He knew the address, the parcel number, all the details.
He said it was a family matter.
A simple addition."
"What did this man look like?" I said.
Carla looked at me.
"Older.
Maybe late sixties.
Silver hair.
Nice suit."
Martin and I did not look at each other.
"Did he give you his name?" Martin said.
"He said he was the property owner's father-in-law.
He said she was shy about paperwork, that she'd always been that way.
He laughed about it." Carla's voice had gone flat.
"I thought it was sweet."
I looked at the window.
The side street outside.
A woman walking a dog.
A normal Thursday afternoon.
"Ms.
Briggs," Martin said.
"I'm going to need a signed statement from you.
Everything you just told us.
The description of the man, the woman, the license, the conversation.
All of it."
"Will I lose my commission?"
"Not if you cooperate fully.
You were deceived.
That is a different thing from participating." Martin paused.
"But I want you to understand — this is going to court.
And when it does, your testimony will matter."
Carla nodded slowly.
She pulled a legal pad from the drawer and uncapped a pen.
"Tell me what you need," she said.
We were in that room for another forty minutes.
When we walked out to the parking lot, the afternoon had gone golden, the light long and flat across the asphalt.
Martin stopped beside his car.
"He brought a woman in to impersonate you," he said.
"He had a fake ID made.
He planned this."
"Yes," I said.
"Dorothy, this is not a civil dispute anymore.
This is crjminal."
I stood in the parking lot with the sun on my face and thought about Gerald at Thanksgiving dinners.
Gerald rearranging the dock chairs.
Gerald saying, *Of course, Dorothy.
Of course.*
May you like
"What happens now?" I said.
"Now," Martin said, "I call the district attorney's office."
