You don't belong on these grounds, Emma, my brother Julian said, stepping into the warm glow of the country club entryway and motioning for security to block me. "A disgraced felon ruins the fami...
Leland Croft’s eyes darted from Julian’s phone, where the promise of another $10,000 glittered, to my silhouette in the lounge doorway. The champagne glass in his hand rattled as he made his decision.
He nodded, a quick, jerky motion. “Alright, Julian. But this is… this is the last time.”
Julian merely gave him a dismissive wave, already pulling a small, embossed leather notebook from his breast pocket. He scribbled something quickly on a piece of club letterhead, then tore it out.
“Here,” Julian said, shoving the note and a pen into Croft’s hand. “Write it out. Make it sound official.”
Croft fumbled with the pen, his hands visibly shaking. He found a quiet corner near a potted palm and hastily scrawled a few lines, his face etched with a mixture of fear and avarice. Within minutes, he had a short, handwritten statement.
He approached Director Danforth, who was still hovering near the lounge, looking frazzled.
“Mr. Danforth,” Croft began, trying to sound authoritative despite the quaver in his voice. “I am a certified notary public of this state. I believe Ms. Hollingsworth’s probate submission lacks proper state authentication.”
He presented the hastily signed statement, which he’d stamped with a small, travel-sized notary seal he carried in his pocket. It looked official enough at a glance.
“This document,” Croft continued, puffing out his chest slightly, “attests that the court filing is irregular, and should be disregarded.”
Danforth took the paper, his brow furrowed. He looked from Croft to me, then back to the document. The club’s entire charter and tax-exempt status hung in the balance, and he was clearly unnerved by the conflicting claims.
“Mr. Croft, are you absolutely certain?” Danforth asked, adjusting his spectacles. “A state-certified order is not something we can simply ‘disregard’.”
I stepped forward from the lounge, the sound of my sensible shoes a stark contrast to the soft tapestries and hushed conversations around us. From my purse, I pulled out a second document.
This wasn’t a handwritten note. It was a crisp, emerald-green receipt, issued directly from the State Attorney General’s Office. It bore multiple watermarks and a prominent digital timestamp.
“Director Danforth,” I said, my voice clear and steady. “Mr. Croft’s statement is a handwritten notarization, based on his personal assessment.”
I held out the green receipt. “This is a certified green receipt from the State Attorney General’s Office itself.”
Danforth took it, his eyes widening as he read the official wording.
“It confirms,” I continued, “that the digital filing of the genetic mandate was registered directly to the state court server at precisely 4:00 PM this afternoon.”
Croft’s face went from pale to ashen. His breath hitched in his throat. His eyes darted to Julian, who now looked furious and trapped.
A handwritten statement, even with a notary seal, could not override a direct, digitally timestamped registration to the state’s highest legal authority. The legal system, slow as it might be, had its own unbreakable rules.
Croft’s hands began to shake uncontrollably, the faint clinking of his champagne glass against the table the only sound. He knew, and Julian knew, that his forged paper was worthless against the state’s digital registry.
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