“Dr. Webb’s credentials are impeccable, and her methodology is sound. Unless you can provide evidence to contradict her findings, I’m inclined to take this very seriously.”
“Your honor, my client provided this document in good faith.”
“In good faith?” I couldn’t stay silent any longer. “Your client created a forged will to steal my property. That’s not good faith. That’s fraud.”
Judge Holloway held up a hand.
“Mr. Winston, please let your attorney speak for you,”
but I caught the hint of approval in her eyes.
Marcus pressed forward.
“Your honor, given Dr. Web’s findings, we’re not just asking you to deny Mr. Morgan’s petition. We’re requesting that you refer this matter to the Pittkin County Sheriff’s Office for Criminal Investigation. The submission of a forged document to this court constitutes fraud upon the court, and the creation of that document is forgery, a class 5 felony.”
The courtroom went silent.
Deborah’s composure finally cracked. She leaned forward and hissed something at Morgan. I couldn’t hear what, but his face darkened.
“Your honor,” Morgan said, speaking rapidly. “Now, my client provided me with this document. If there are any issues with its authenticity, I had no knowledge of them. I acted in good faith based on what my client gave me.”
He was throwing Deborah under the bus just like that.
Deborah stood up, her voice shrill.
“That’s not true. He told me he could make it work. He said,”
“Mrs. Winston, sit down.” Judge Holloway commanded.
“You’ll have an opportunity to speak through your counsel.”
But Deborah was beyond reason now.
“This is ridiculous. We’re family. I was just trying to protect my husband’s inheritance from a scenile old man who”
“Enough.”
The judge’s voice cut through the courtroom like a knife.
“Mrs. Winston, another outburst, and I’ll have you removed.”
She turned to a court officer.
“Please contact the sheriff’s office. I’m referring this matter for criminal investigation.”
The gavvel came down.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Around 2:00 in the morning, I heard footsteps in the hallway. Then a soft knock at my bedroom door.
“Dad.”
Trenton’s voice barely above a whisper.
I opened the door. My son stood there in his pajamas, looking 10 years older. His eyes were red rimmed, his face haggarded.
We went to the kitchen. I made coffee. We sat across from each other, steam rising between us.
“I’m sorry,” Trenton said finally. “For everything.”
“You keep saying that”
“because I mean it.”
He stared into his mug.
“I knew this was wrong from the beginning, the whole plan. But I went along because Deborah told me to. I’m a coward, Dad.”
I looked at my son. Really looked at him. The boy who used to run to greet me was still in there somewhere, buried under years of manipulation.
Knowing something is wrong and doing it anyway isn’t weakness, Trenton. It’s a choice. Every time you went along with her schemes, every time you stayed silent, those were choices.
Tears ran down his face.
“I know,”
but here’s the thing about choices.
You can always make different ones, starting now.
He looked up at me, hope flickering in his eyes.
“I’m not forgiving you,” I said. “Not yet. But the door isn’t closed. It’s up to you whether you walk through it.”
The next morning, I woke to silence.
Deborah’s car was gone. Her wallet, her phone, her purse, all missing, but her suitcases remained in the guest room.
She had run.
The Pittkin County Sheriff arrived within the hour. I stood on my porch with Trenton, watching as Deputy Martinez took notes and asked questions.
“How long had Deborah been gone? What was she driving? Did we know where she might go?”
“She has a sister in Las Vegas,” Trenton said quietly. “Monica.”
“They’re close,” Deputy Martinez nodded. “We’ll coordinate with Nevada authorities. In the meantime, there’s a warrant out for her arrest. forgery, fraud, attempted exploitation of an atrisisk adult. If she crosses state lines to avoid prosecution, we can add federal charges.”