And the most critical clause: if they ever attempted to evict me or transfer the property, their tenancy was instantly revoked, they had to pay a $50,000 penalty to the trust, and they would be prosecuted for fraud.
There was also a video file on a USB drive.
In the video, my mother spoke clearly. She explained that Richard was forcing her to sign documents while she was heavily medicated.
“I am signing under duress, Clara,” she said in the video, her voice trembling. “But the house is already yours. It has been in the trust for years. They cannot touch it.”
I called Mr. Vance, my mother’s old attorney.
“Clara, this is massive,” Mr. Vance said after reviewing the files. “The will they showed you is a forgery. They tried to register the transfer at the county office last week, but the county database has a flag on the title.”
“What do we do?” I asked.
“We let them walk into the trap,” Mr. Vance said.
On Monday morning, Richard and Leo tried to finalize the sale of the house to a private developer.
They had forged my mother’s signature on the final sale agreement.
But the title company called Mr. Vance. And Mr. Vance called the police.
A week after I was evicted, my phone rang.
It was Richard. He was sobbing.
“Clara, please come here fast,” he wept.
“What is wrong, Richard?” I asked. I made my voice sound worried.
“Just come! The police are here. There is a mistake with the deed. They say we forged the signatures. Clara, tell them you gave us the papers!”
I drove to the Seattle house. The rain was pouring.
I walked through the front door.
Richard was sitting on the kitchen chair. His hands were cuffed behind his back.
Leo was sitting on the sofa, looking terrified, with a police officer standing over him.
Mr. Vance was standing by the counter, holding the blue folder.
“Clara!” Richard cried, trying to stand up. “Tell them! Tell them your mother gave us the house. Tell them we didn’t forge anything!”
