Later that afternoon, the quiet hum of my band saw was abruptly cut short. Two burly men in black polo shirts, emblazoned with a generic security logo, appeared in the workshop doorway. Behind them stood Gavin Finch.
Finch was a man in his early fifties, his suit a little too tight, his smile a little too wide, like a salesman trying to move a lemon. He held a stack of papers.
“Mr. Pendelton,” Finch announced, his voice smooth and oily. “I am Gavin Finch, a licensed real estate appraiser. These gentlemen are here to ensure compliance.”
One of the security guards stepped forward, blocking my path to the main door. I put down my chisel.
“Compliance for what?” I asked, my voice steady despite the sudden spike of adrenaline.
Finch held up a document with an official-looking seal. “We’re here to serve you with an emergency padlocking order.”
My eyes narrowed. “A padlocking order? On what grounds?”
“The building has been deemed structurally condemned,” Finch rattled off, not quite meeting my gaze. “A rapid assessment by my firm, approved by Croft Heritage Properties, shows significant structural instability.”
He pushed the stack of papers across my workbench, right next to the intricate dovetail joint I’d been working on for a new cabinet.
“You have until 5 PM to remove any personal belongings,” Finch continued, a triumphant glint in his eye. “After that, the workshop will be secured, awaiting demolition.”
I picked up the document. The language was dense, filled with legal jargon, but one thing caught my eye immediately: a notary stamp. It was blurred, slightly smudged, but clearly visible.
“Structurally condemned?” I repeated, looking from the papers to Finch. “This building has stood for a hundred and forty years. My father taught me timber framing in these walls.”
Finch shifted his weight. “Modern assessments, Mr. Pendelton. Technology has advanced. Safety concerns.”
He gestured vaguely at the solid oak beams overhead. One of the security guards leaned against a workbench, his arms crossed.
“This document,” I said, pointing to the notary seal. “It claims to be officially notarized.”
“It is,” Finch said, puffing out his chest slightly. “Fully legal and binding.”
I slowly traced the numbers on the stamp with my finger. It wasn’t the seal itself that was the problem. It was the date printed below the notary’s signature.
“This is an emergency order,” I stated, more to myself. “Issued… today?”
“That’s correct,” Finch confirmed, sounding impatient. “Time is of the essence.”
I looked at him, then down at the blurry notary seal again. A quiet dread settled in my stomach. The official notary stamp indicated a license number. And next to that number, in fine print, was the expiration date.
It was faint, but unmistakable.
December 31, 2021.
The paper in my hand felt heavy, suddenly cold. Finch’s notary seal on the eviction packet carried an expired license number. This rendered the entire document, which he just claimed was “fully legal and binding,” legally worthless.
A phantom chill ran down my spine. This wasn’t just arrogance; this was deliberate deception.
+ There are no comments
Add yours