Chapter 3 - The Cold Call from NashvilleI stepped out of the office and opened the side door to the service bay, wiping my grease-stained hands on a red shop rag. Pete followed close behind, holding his worn leather briefcase, while Jade kept Lily behind her near the desk.
Arthur Sterling was a tall, silver-haired attorney with polished leather shoes that looked wildly out of place on my grease-stained concrete floor. He looked around my shop with an expression of mild disgust before fixing his gaze on me.
“Owen Tate?” Sterling asked, his voice smooth and detached.
“You’re standing in my shop,” I replied, stepping between him and the office door. “State your business.”
Sterling produced a thick sheaf of legal papers from his briefcase. “I represent Drew Meridian Logistics. We are here to serve a formal cease-and-desist notice regarding your interference with the probate proceedings of the late Robert Calloway.”
Pete Marsh stepped forward, taking off his glasses and tucking them into his pocket. “I’m Pete Marsh, legal counsel representing the Calloway estate. You’re talking to my client’s associate, Sterling. Hand those papers to me.”
Sterling’s eyes flicked to Pete, an arrogant smirk touching his lips. “Ah, Mr. Marsh. Small-town probate attorney. I suggest you advise your clients to accept the settlement offer currently before the probate judge. Mr. Drew is willing to waive legal fees if the sisters relinquish their claim to the Calloway Logistics route contracts by Friday.”
“And if they don’t?” Jade’s voice rang out from the office doorway. She walked out into the service bay, her head held high, standing beside me.
Sterling looked at her with condescending pity. “Ms. Calloway, litigation is an expensive, drawn-out process. My firm retains forty full-time litigators. We can file motions until your father’s estate is completely consumed by court fees. Settle now, or walk away with nothing.”
I took a step forward, closing the distance between myself and the high-priced lawyer.
“You tell Marcus Drew something for me,” I said, my voice low and dangerous. “Tell him he picked the wrong town, he picked the wrong daughters, and he definitely picked the wrong mechanic. That notary stamp on your loan document belongs to Evelyn Vance, a woman who retired a year and a half ago. We know the contract is fake.”
Sterling’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. A tiny twitch near his eye revealed everything we needed to know. He hadn’t known we uncovered the notary glitch.
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He quickly recovered, smoothing his tie. “Allegations without proof are useless in court, Mr. Tate. I’ll see you at the probate hearing in Nashville on Monday. Try not to get grease on your suit.”
He turned and walked back to his sedan. The black car pulled away, leaving a plume of exhaust hovering in the crisp autumn air.
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