Chapter 9 - The Badge at the Door

The metal delivery door shook under three heavy, authoritative thuds.

"Roxanne Miller!" a loud voice echoed from the alley. "This is Deputy Miller, County Sheriff's Department. Open the door!"

I froze on the stairs. "Deputy Miller? That’s Uncle Greg’s brother-in-law."

Walter stood up slowly from the desk, slid the blue quitclaim deed and the certified trust ledgers into his inside coat pocket, and buttoned his tweed vest.

"Let him knock," Walter said.

"He's a cop, Grandpa," I whispered, panic rising in my throat. "They’ll break the door down."

"This is private commercial property registered under a valid custodial trust deed," Walter said, walking down the spiral stairs with steady, unhurried steps. "He has no warrant, no exigent circumstances, and no jurisdiction inside this building without my authorization."

Walter unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the steel door open four inches, keeping the heavy brass security chain engaged.

Deputy Miller stood on the concrete steps, a heavy flashlight held in his left hand. Behind him, Dad and Uncle Greg stood with their hands shoved into their down jackets, their breath pluming in the freezing night air.

"Walter," the deputy said, his tone stiff and formal. "We received a wellness check call from Tom. He reported that Roxanne suffered an acute psychological episode during Thanksgiving dinner, took your vehicle without consent, and broke into this commercial facility."

"Does Tom have the vehicle title?" Walter asked through the gap.

Deputy Miller frowned. "Walter, let’s not do this out in the cold. Open the door so we can evaluate the situation."

"I am the legal owner of the vehicle," Walter said calmly. "And as the co-trustee of the Helen Miller Testamentary Trust, I have full legal authority to grant Roxanne access to every square foot of this building. If you attempt to force this door without a signed judicial warrant, Deputy, I will have the State Attorney General’s internal affairs division review your badge number by nine o'clock tomorrow morning."

Dad pushed forward, his face inches from the metal frame. "Roxanne! Get your ass out here right now! You think this old man can protect you from the debts on this building? You sign that quitclaim paper or you’re homeless by sunrise!"

I stepped down the final two steps and looked through the gap directly into my father's bloodshot eyes.

"The quitclaim paper with my forged signature, Dad?" I said. "The one Julian left on your desk before he ran?"

Dad’s mouth snapped shut.

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