Chapter 66 - The Emergency Writ
"How did they get an appellate writ on a Sunday?" Julian shouted into the phone as we sprinted down the narrow stairs of the Brooklyn brownstone, Clara right behind us, still holding her wool coat around her shoulders.
"It wasn't an appellate writ for foreclosure," Douglas yelled through the speaker over the roar of his engine. "It’s a writ of assistance under an old mental hygiene petition Eleanor had filed against Mother back in September! They’re claiming Evelyn Keller is an escaped psychiatric patient residing illegally on corporate property. They’re using the county deputies to take her into state custody before the federal marshals can interview her!"
The sheer, breathtaking cruelty of Eleanor Vance’s mind hit me like an icy wave.
If Evelyn was taken into state psychiatric custody under an alias, she would be sedated, isolated, and legally silenced. By the time Julian’s lawyers could petition for a writ of habeas corpus on Monday, Mercer would have filed the foreclosure note, the master charter would be clouded by an incapacitated witness, and Eleanor’s defense team would have successfully tainted the key witness against her.
"How far out are they?" I asked, leaping into the passenger seat while Julian gunned the engine, tearing away from the Cobble Hill curb.
"Ten minutes from the farm gate," Douglas said, tires screaming on wet asphalt. "I'm five minutes behind them on the bypass, but I can't ram a sheriff's vehicle, Julian. You're two hours south."
"Call the federal prosecutor," Julian ordered. "Call Miller's office directly!"
"Miller is in Manhattan at the federal building preparing Monday’s grand jury indictment," Douglas answered breathlessly. "His office doesn't have immediate field jurisdiction over local deputies executing a state supreme court mental hygiene writ! They won't move without a signed order from a federal judge, and that takes hours on a Sunday!"
Julian slammed his hand against the steering wheel. "Then who can stop them?"
From the back seat, Clara leaned forward, her face pale but her eyes blazing with an intensity that suddenly looked remarkably like her brother's.
"I can," Clara said.
Julian looked at her in the rearview mirror. "Clara, they won't listen to you. Eleanor’s lawyers will say you’re an interested party."
"They will listen to the property owner," Clara said, holding up the signed deed of release and the original corporate charter of Kestrel Holdings. "The writ of assistance requires a supporting affidavit from the lawful landowner claiming an unlawful trespass. Eleanor didn't sign that affidavit in her own name—she couldn't, because the foundation title was transferred to Julian’s trust on Friday. She had to file that writ under the authority of *Kestrel Holdings* as the primary lienholder in possession!"
My mind raced through the civil procedure codes. She was right. Under New York practice, an emergency writ to remove an alleged trespasser on mortgaged agricultural land requires the verified petition of the mortgage holder asserting an immediate threat to the collateral.
"Douglas!" I yelled into the phone. "Who is the lead attorney in the convoy?"
"Sterling’s junior partner, Vance-Talbot," Douglas replied. "He’s in the black SUV right behind the sergeant’s car."
"Call Vance-Talbot right now," I said. "Put Clara on a three-way line. Read him the revocation of proxy. Tell him that if that convoy sets one tire onto the Keller gravel driveway, Clara Vance will personally file an emergency criminal complaint for attorney misconduct, civil rights conspiracy, and perjury with the presiding justice of the Third Department before noon."
"Doing it now," Douglas said. The line clicked.
Julian pushed the car past eighty on the Henry Hudson Parkway, cutting through the thin drizzle. The silence in the car was suffocating. In the back seat, Clara sat with her hands clamped around her mother's documents, her breathing fast and shallow.
"She kept me away from you," Clara whispered, staring out the window at the gray Hudson River sliding by. "Whenever I asked why you left the estate after college, Mother told me you were greedy. She told me you wanted to sell the ridge to developers. She made me swear never to answer your letters."
"I wrote to you every month for five years, Clara," Julian said, his voice cracking. "They all came back marked 'Refused by Addressee.'"
"I never saw them," she whispered, a tear tracing a path through the blue paint on her cheek. "She had the housekeeper burn them in the furnace. I found a burned corner of an envelope in the basement once. It had your handwriting on it. When I asked Mother about it, she sent me to boarding school in Switzerland the next week."
Julian looked into the mirror, catching his sister’s eye. "We’re going to fix it, Clara. All of it."
The phone chimed. It was Douglas. Julian hit the speaker button immediately.
"Douglas? What happened?"
"The convoy stopped at the stone bridge," Douglas said, breathing hard. "Vance-Talbot pulled over to the shoulder. I pulled up right beside him. I held Clara’s signed revocation against his driver’s side window."
"And?"
"The deputies didn't like it," Douglas said, a grim satisfaction in his voice. "The sergeant told Vance-Talbot that if the lienholder’s authority is in active dispute between corporate officers, the sheriff’s department cannot enforce an ex parte writ without an immediate hearing before the county administrative judge. The cruisers are turning around, Julian. They're leaving."
Julian let out a ragged breath, his shoulders dropping two inches. "And Vance-Talbot?"
"He’s sitting in his car on the shoulder, making a frantic call to Eleanor’s defense counsel in White Plains," Douglas said. "He knows the play failed. But Julian... Mercer wasn't in that convoy."
Julian’s relief vanished instantly. "Where is he?"
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"I don't know," Douglas said, his voice dropping into cold dread. "When the deputies turned around, I checked the back of Vance-Talbot’s SUV. Mercer wasn't there. His room at the Beekman Arms was checked out forty minutes ago."
"Mother," Julian whispered, his face turning to ash. "She’s alone at the farm."
