Chapter 16 - The Ambush in Seattle
At seven-thirty the following morning, the rain in downtown Seattle fell in horizontal sheets, driven by a gale off Puget Sound.
The lobby of the King County Courthouse was buzzing with morning commuters, attorneys in damp overcoats, and court reporters sipping cheap coffee. But the air outside Department 14 on the third floor was deathly silent.
Donald Croft was already there. He was a tall, silver-haired man in a bespoke three-piece pinstripe suit, his fingers adorned with a heavy signet ring, leaning against the marble wall while whispering to a team of four junior associates. Beside him, dressed in an ivory wool suit that screamed old-money elegance, stood Vivian.
When the elevator doors parted and Mark and I stepped out, flanked by Marcus Vance and two forensic accounting partners, Vivian’s eyes flared with malicious anticipation.
"Look who dragged herself down from the mountain," Vivian sneered, stepping forward to block our path toward the courtroom doors. "Have you come to beg for an extension, Claire? Donald was just telling me that if you surrender the northern sixty acres on Lake Chelan, he might convince the probate judge not to unseal Mark's fraudulent Swiss promissory note."
Donald Croft offered a patronizing, razor-thin smile. "Mrs. Sterling-Vance. A pleasure. Your sister is merely trying to resolve a painful family matter with minimum public embarrassment. If your husband’s firm is subjected to an evidentiary hearing, the commercial lenders will pull the bridge financing on your amphitheater project within forty-eight hours. Why not be practical?"
I stopped six inches from Croft. I didn't look at Vivian. I looked Croft dead in the eyes until his rehearsed, corporate smile began to fray at the edges.
"Mr. Croft," I said, my voice cutting through the corridor like a steel blade, "before you address the bench this morning, I suggest you consult your lead associate regarding Case Number 24-2-09881, filed electronically in this registry at twelve minutes past midnight."
Croft’s brow furrowed. He glanced back at his senior associate, who was frantically tapping at an iPad screen.
"What is she talking about?" Croft hissed under his breath.
"Claire Sterling has already deposited nine hundred and eighty-seven thousand dollars into the court’s escrow registry," Marcus Vance stated, stepping forward with his hands clasped behind his back. "Representing the complete satisfaction of the 1994 reserve note, including thirty years of statutory compound interest. The trust obligation is extinguished, Mr. Croft. Vivian Sterling has zero unsatisfied monetary claims against Mark Sterling’s estate."
Vivian’s jaw dropped. The ivory-clad composure she had worn like armor cracked down the center. "You... you paid it? That was your operational liquidity! You can't make payroll on Chelan without those funds!"
"I don't need that liquidity, Vivian," I said coldly. "Because three hours ago, Arthur Sterling transferred fifty-one percent of his voting shares in Sterling Pacific Enterprises to the Vance Foundation. We don't have a liquidity crisis. You have an insolvency crisis."
The senior associate whispered frantically into Croft’s ear. Croft’s face turned an ugly, mottled shade of crimson.
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"You filed for sanctions?" Croft muttered, his voice shaking with sudden venom.
"Rule 11 sanctions for frivolous litigation and malicious prosecution," Marcus Vance replied pleasantly. "And an expedited referral to the Washington State Bar Disciplinary Board regarding your firm’s undisclosed financing of a vexatious family litigant. Have a lovely morning in chambers, Donald."
