“My will?”
“A will you supposedly signed three years ago, leaving everything to Trenton, the cabin,? your investments, your savings, all of it. Morgan is petitioning the court to recognize this document as valid and to freeze all your assets until the guardianship case is resolved.”
I sat down heavily in my study chair. This was a serious escalation. If the court froze my assets, I wouldn’t be able to pay Marcus, Carla, or anyone else helping me. I’d be financially paralyzed.
“There’s just one problem,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“I never signed any such will. I don’t even have a will that leaves everything to Trenton. This document, whatever it is, is a forgery.”
Silence on the other end.
Then Carla spoke, her voice careful.
“Mr. Winston, are you absolutely certain? Is there any possibility you signed something years ago that you might have forgotten about?”
Carla, I built four restaurants from scratch. I’ve signed thousands of documents in my life, contracts, leases, permits, tax forms. I remember every important signature I’ve ever put on paper, and I have never ever signed a will leaving my entire estate to my son.
“Then we need to prove that. I will contact a forensic handwriting expert. If that signature is forged, we’ll know within a week.”
I hung up and stared out the window at the mountains. Deborah had been busy. While I thought I was playing chess, she’d been playing a completely different game, one I hadn’t even known about.
But forgery was a felony.
If we could prove the document was fake, this wouldn’t just be a civil matter anymore.
It would be criminal.
The next few days were a blur of activity. I met with Nathan Price, the notary, and officially drafted a new will. This one was very different from whatever fiction Deborah had created. 90% of my estate would go to a charitable foundation I was establishing, the Winston Young Restrators Fund, dedicated to helping aspiring restaurant owners get their start.
The remaining 10% would go into a trust for Trenton, but with conditions, he could only access the money after completing a financial literacy course and maintaining stable employment for 5 years.
“Are you sure about this?” Nathan asked as I signed the document.
“Completely sure. If my son wants my money, he’ll have to earn it the way I earned it.”
Meanwhile, Randall Morgan’s petition moved through the court system. A hearing was scheduled for the following week. If we couldn’t prove the will was forged before then, the judge might grant the asset freeze.
It was a race against time.
Carla worked her contacts, finding the best forensic document examiner in the state, a woman named Dr. Patricia Webb, who had testified in over 200 court cases. Dr. Webb agreed to expedite her analysis. Understanding the urgency of the situation 3 days before the hearing, she called with her findings.
“Mr. Winston,” she said, “I’ve completed my examination of the signature on the document Mr. Morgan submitted. I compared it to 12 verified samples of your signature from various sources, bank documents, property records, business contracts, and the signature on this will is not yours. There are significant inconsistencies in the letter formation, pen pressure, and baseline alignment. Whoever signed this document was attempting to copy your signature, but they made several telltale errors.”
I felt a wave of relief wash over me.
“You’re certain?”
“I’d stake my professional reputation on it. This signature is a forgery. I’ll have my full report ready for the hearing.”
I thanked her and hung up. Then I called Marcus Reynolds.
“The handwriting expert confirmed it,” I said. “The will is fake.”
A pause.
When Marcus spoke, there was satisfaction in his voice.
“This changes everything, Harold. Forgery is a class 5 felony in Colorado. Whoever created that document, and whoever submitted it to the court could be looking at prison time.”
“What do we do now?”
“We go on the offensive. I’ll file a motion with the court presenting Dr. Webb’s findings, and I’ll contact the Pitkin County Sheriff’s Office. It’s time to turn this into a criminal matter.”
The hearing arrived on a gray morning, clouds heavy over the mountains. I sat at the plaintiff’s table with Marcus, watching as Randall Morgan strutdded into the courtroom like he owned it. He was exactly as Vivien had described, polished, expensive, and utterly confident. Behind him came Deborah and Trenton. Deborah’s face was a mask of determination. Trenton looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.
Judge Katherine Holloway presided, a silver-haired woman in her 60s, with a reputation for nononsense rulings. She reviewed the stack of documents before her, her expression unreadable.
“We’re here on the matter of Morgan versus Winston,” she began. “Mr. Morgan, you’ve submitted a petition to freeze Mr. Harold Winston’s assets based on a will you claim he signed three years ago. Is that correct?”
Morgan rose smoothly.
“That’s correct, your honor. My client, Mrs. Deborah Winston, is concerned that Mr. Winston’s recent erratic behavior suggests he may be suffering from cognitive decline. We believe it’s in the family’s best interest to preserve the estate until,”
“Your honor,” Marcus interrupted, rising from his chair. “Before Mr. Morgan continues, I’d like to present evidence that fundamentally undermines his entire petition.”
Judge Holloway raised an eyebrow.
“Go on.”
Marcus handed copies of Dr. Web’s report to the judge and opposing council.
“This is a forensic analysis conducted by Dr. Patricia Webb, one of the most respected document examiners in the state. Her conclusion is unambiguous. The signature on the will Mr. Morgan submitted is a forgery. My client never signed this document.”
The color drained from Morgan’s face. He recovered quickly, but not before I caught the flash of panic in his eyes.
Deborah, sitting behind him, went very still.
“Your honor,” Morgan said, his voice tight. “This is highly irregular. We’ve had no opportunity to review this report or challenge its findings.”
“The report was filed with the court yesterday, Mr. Morgan. Perhaps you should have reviewed it before this hearing.”
Judge Holloway’s tone was ice.
She studied the document for a long moment.