Leo Driscoll bought a crashed 2012 sedan at a county auto auction for $850 to salvage its engine.
The next morning, the smell of freshly brewed coffee mixed with stale exhaust fumes in Santos Auto Repair. I was still reeling from the recovered texts. Marcus Brody was a killer.
Just before lunch, a courier van pulled up to the garage. Another official-looking envelope was handed to Carla. She ripped it open with a visible sigh.
Her eyes scanned the document, and the color drained from her face. She handed it to me without a word.
It was a certified demand letter. From Randall Thorne, Marcus Brody’s lawyer.
The letter stated, in no uncertain terms, that I was illegally withholding property belonging to Marcus Brody, a 2012 sedan, VIN ending in 7748. It detailed my refusal to comply with the temporary restraining order.
Then came the punchline: “Failure to immediately surrender the vehicle by 5:00 PM today will result in a civil conversion lawsuit seeking damages of $150,000, along with criminal felony property withholding charges.”
My jaw tightened. $150,000. That was enough to bankrupt Santos Auto Repair and put me back in prison.
Carla began to pace, her steps quick and agitated. “Leo, we can’t afford this. $150,000? This shop is barely making it as it is. We can’t fight a lawsuit like this.”
She ran a hand through her hair, her gaze sweeping over the garage, over the lifts, the tools, the stack of tires. Her livelihood.
“This is just a scare tactic,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “He’s trying to get me to give up the car so he can destroy the evidence.”
“But what if he’s not?” Carla argued, her voice trembling slightly. “What if they win? We’d lose everything. You’d go back inside.”
The thought of prison, of the concrete walls and the endless days, made my stomach clench. I had fought too hard to rebuild my life.
“I found texts from Julian, Carla,” I said, my voice low. “He was afraid of Marcus. Said Marcus was going to kill him over money and take him to a crusher.”
Carla stopped pacing. Her eyes widened. “Are you sure?”
“It’s all on the phone. It’s proof.” I looked back at the letter. “He can threaten all he wants. I’m not giving him the car. Not until everyone knows what’s really in that trunk, and what Marcus Brody did.”
Carla stared at the floor, then at me. Her shoulders slumped. “What choice do we have, Leo? We can’t fight the mob.”
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