For six years, I cared for eighty-two-year-old Mrs. Sun-Hee Choi in her Richmond District apartment in San Francisco, refusing every envelope of cash she handed me.
The rain was relentless, typical for a San Francisco autumn day. I was hurrying out of a small Korean grocery store on Geary Boulevard, clutching a plastic bag of banchan and a bottle of soy sauce. My mind was still reeling from the discovery in Mrs. Choi’s attic. The syndicate, Min-Jae’s debts—it was a new, terrifying layer to everything.
I pushed open the door, shielding my head with the grocery bag, when two figures stepped in front of me, blocking my path.
They were both men in dark suits, their faces grim under the grey sky. Each held a stack of legal documents.
“Daniel Park?” the taller one asked, his voice flat and official.
My heart sank. I knew what this was.
“Yes,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady.
In unison, they held out the documents. One man had a thick stack bound by a rubber band. The other held a single, more imposing-looking file.
“You have been served,” the second man recited, his eyes scanning a small card in his hand. “Fourteen temporary restraining orders, filed by Oakes & Associates on behalf of Master Julian Oakes.”
Fourteen. The number itself was a shock.
My hands, still wet from the rain, fumbled to take the papers. The stack was heavy, slick. I glanced at the first page, my eyes trying to absorb the dense legal jargon.
The documents were explicit. I was prohibited from coming within 500 feet of Mrs. Choi’s archive building—the very place I’d spent six years caring for. I was banned from contacting any of Mrs. Choi’s former medical providers, a direct attempt to cut off any access to her health records.
And then, the final, chilling blow. A third order specifically targeted my primary bank account, stating it was now frozen, pending further investigation into “suspicious financial activities related to the deceased’s estate.”
My small life savings, the money I had carefully accumulated since arriving in the US, was suddenly inaccessible.
The second process server handed me the other, thinner file. “And this is a freeze order from the Superior Court, targeting any assets held in your name connected to the probate of Sun-Hee Choi.”
He wasn’t finished. “You are also ordered to cease and desist all attempts to interfere with the ongoing probate process, as well as any communications with known witnesses or beneficiaries.”
I stood there, soaked and stunned, the rain plastering my hair to my forehead. Passersby hurried past, oblivious, their umbrellas like colorful mushrooms against the grey. The smell of fresh bread from the bakery next door, usually a comforting aroma, now seemed utterly out of place, an ironic juxtaposition to the unraveling of my world.
“These are absurd,” I managed to say, my voice hoarse. “This is harassment.”
The process servers showed no emotion. “Our job is simply to deliver, Mr. Park.”
They waited until I had a firm grip on the soggy papers, then turned and walked away, disappearing into the downpour as quickly as they had appeared.
I stared at the stack of documents, the ink already blurring slightly from the rain. Oakes wasn’t just making legal threats. He was using every legal tool available to isolate me, financially cripple me, and cut me off from every resource that could help me fight back. The man who taught me patience and precision in restoration was now unleashing a relentless, aggressive legal war designed to bury me.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours