In the morning, I called an attorney.
A colleague in Chicago had once mentioned a woman named Francis Okafor, a real estate and property law specialist who apparently had a reputation for being extremely direct. I got her on the phone within the hour.
She listened to my account, asked four or five clarifying questions, and then said, “This is a civil matter, which means the police will probably tell you there’s nothing they can do. They’ll call it a domestic dispute. Don’t waste your time with them first. Come see me.”
She was right about the police.
I went anyway because I needed to hear it for myself. The officer I spoke with was not unkind. He explained that since my brother had been allowed entry through a key given by my mother, establishing unlawful trespass was complicated. He recommended I resolve it through the courts.
I walked out of the station and sat in my car in the parking lot for a few minutes, not crying, just recalibrating. Then I drove to Francis’s office.
She had a corner office on the 14th floor with the kind of desk that communicates that its occupant wins. She reviewed my documentation, the deed, the date of purchase, the original photos I had taken of every room when I first moved in, the text messages from my mother informing me after the fact, the photo from my neighbor of the dumpster, and she set it all down and looked at me.
“Your brother and his wife do not have a lease agreement. They do not have your permission. They made structural and cosmetic alterations to your property without authorization. You have before and after evidence. The case for your legal position is solid.”
She tapped the stack of photos.
“These are your strongest asset. A lot of people don’t have this kind of documentation. You clearly love this house.”
I had photographed every corner the day I got the keys. I’d sent a whole album to my best friend back home with the subject line mine. That album was now the backbone of my legal argument.
Francis outlined the approach. First, a certified demand letter to vacate with a specified deadline and a notice that all property damage and unauthorized alterations would be assessed and claimed through legal channels. No specific dollar figure yet.
The ambiguity, Francis explained, would work in our favor.
“They’ll panic,” she said. “Panic makes people do things we can use.”
She was not wrong.
The certified letter arrived at my house 3 days later. I know this because my mother called me within 20 minutes of its delivery. Her voice pitched at a frequency I associated with moments of maximum familial drama.