The Clerk Stamped My Objection Before The Clearing Crew Arrived

At six the next morning, I sat outside an attorney's office with my mother's codicil across my knees.

Nora Bell arrived carrying coffee and a sack of rolls.

“You left a message about trees,” she said.

“And a will.”

“Trees first. Tell me what can happen today.”

I showed her Dale's schedule, the sale sheet, and the orange marks on my phone.

She unlocked the office.

“Come in.”

I paid a $3,500 retainer from my savings. It was money I had set aside for a newer truck. Nora gave me a receipt before she touched the codicil.

“Have you folded this since your mother signed it?”

“Only along these folds.”

“Who else handled it?”

“My mother, her witnesses, the mail carrier, and me.”

She put it in a clear sleeve.

The county court file showed that Victor had asked to admit the May will. He also held a temporary appointment to protect estate property while the petition was pending.

“He's been telling everyone he can sell,” I said.

“Temporary authority isn't a blank check,” Nora said. “His agreement says court approval is required. His early access letter is another matter.”

She called the number on Dale's letter and told him there was a dispute.

He put her on speaker. I heard an engine behind his voice.

“We've got six men on the clock.”

“Then pay them to wait.”

Nora reached the court clerk when the office opened. By then the crew had reached the orchard. I drove there while she filed my objection and a request for an emergency order.

Two trucks stood inside the gate. A loader waited behind them.

I parked clear of the drive. Years beside canals had taught me never to stand in front of a moving machine and call that a plan.

The foreman got down from his truck.

“You the son?”

“Desmond Fong.”

“Mr. Liang said you might cause trouble.”

I gave him Nora's number.

“Please call before you start. The purchase hasn't closed.”

He looked past me at the orange trees.

“I'm charging somebody for this.”

“Keep your time sheet.”

Victor arrived twenty minutes later.

“You spent money on a lawyer?”

“Yes.”

“Your mother would hate this.”

I had no answer that would help the trees, so I wrote down the time he arrived.

He saw my envelope.

“Drawing again?”

“Making a record.”

At 8:41, Nora called. A judge had signed a short emergency order against cutting, removal, or damage to the orchard while the court set a prompt hearing. Proper service was being arranged. She sent the filed copy to me and the parties' lawyers.

The foreman read it on my phone, then called his office.

He shut off the loader.

I asked his name and wrote it beside the truck numbers. He watched me without smiling.

“I'm not here to lose my business over somebody else's estate,” he said.

“Then this record helps both of us.”

He gave me his office address and asked for a copy.

In the sudden quiet, I heard water slipping through the field lateral beyond the fence.

Victor held out his hand.

“Let me see.”

I sent him the copy. I kept my phone.

The order gave us time, not ownership. Nora made that clear when I returned to her office.

“We still have to challenge his will with evidence. Your mother's earlier wishes don't defeat a later valid will.”

“I know.”

“We need the 2018 will your codicil refers to.”

My mother had used a local attorney who had since retired. Nora found the firm that held his closed files and requested the original through its records process.

Then we studied Victor's pages.

My mother's signature looked right. That was what bothered me. Her hand had shaken that spring. This signature had the firm downward stroke I remembered from years before.

Below Alan Pruitt's name sat a tiny dark crescent.

“Dirt on the copier?” I asked.

“Maybe. We won't decide that from a phone picture.”

Nora asked Victor's attorney to preserve the original and every electronic version.

I called Alan. His phone went straight to voicemail.

At noon, Victor left a message saying my challenge could cost me $64,000 in delay charges. He added that family matters belonged inside the family.

I saved the message and ate half a sandwich.

Then I walked the orchard with a notebook. I counted eleven painted trunks. One branch had cracked where a truck brushed it. I photographed that too.

I drew the rows on a used envelope and put a blue square at the gate.

At four, Alan called back.

“Read me that signing date again,” he said.

“May fourteenth.”

There was a long pause.

“Desmond, I was in Portugal on May fourteenth. I can prove it.”