If you are looking for Silas O’Driscoll, you are staring right at him, the grey-bearded man said, holding out a weathered hand on the muddy wooden platform of the Fort Griffin depot.
The courthouse clock struck four as I ascended from the damp basement, clutching the official copy of Thomas’s paternity ledger and the hastily scribbled notes about Elihu Claggett, alias Vance. My mud-stained dress felt like armor, not a mark of shame.
I walked directly to the county court office, a smaller room off the main hall, where Circuit Judge Sanford presided. He was a stern man with a neatly trimmed white beard and sharp, knowing eyes. He sat behind a large oak desk, reviewing papers.
I stepped forward, my throat dry but my voice steady. “Judge Sanford, my name is Clara Higgins. I represent the O’Driscoll estate.”
He looked up, his gaze sweeping over my disheveled appearance. A flicker of recognition, likely from Gentry’s handbills, crossed his face. “Miss Higgins. I’ve read the reports in the town press. Your reputation precedes you.” His tone was skeptical, unyielding.
“Those reports are false, Your Honor,” I replied, placing the certified paternity ledger on his desk. “This, however, is not.”
I pushed the document toward him. “This ledger from the 1861 Texas Militia proves that Thomas O’Driscoll is Silas O’Driscoll’s biological and lawful heir. It nullifies any claim that he is incompetent or without bloodline right to the property.”
Judge Sanford picked up the ledger, his brow furrowing as he read the entry. His gaze sharpened.
Then, I laid out Silas’s hidden letter, its pages still slightly stained from the oilcloth. “And this is a deathbed confession from Silas O’Driscoll, detailing how Micah Gentry forced his mark onto a blank deed while he was delirious.”
My hand trembled slightly as I placed the next document: my notes on Elihu Claggett. “Finally, Your Honor, I present evidence that Elihu Claggett, the notary who witnessed this fraudulent transaction, is in fact Elihu Vance, a wanted man from Baltimore involved in a massive financial fraud that led to my own father’s bankruptcy five years ago.”
I watched his face. The judge’s eyes widened slightly as he read the details, his initial skepticism giving way to a more serious, troubled expression.
Just then, the door to the chamber burst open. Micah Gentry stood framed in the doorway, his face red with indignation. He had clearly just arrived back in Albany.
“Judge Sanford!” Gentry boomed, striding into the room. “This woman is a trespasser, a charlatan! She has no right to be in this office, slandering good citizens and defaming town officers!”
He pointed a furious finger at me. “I demand her immediate arrest for trespassing and public defamation! She’s nothing but a fortune hunter who poisoned old Silas for his land!”
Judge Sanford held up a hand, silencing Gentry. His eyes, though, were fixed on me. He picked up my notes on Claggett, then looked at Gentry.
“Mr. Gentry,” Judge Sanford said slowly, his voice laced with new authority. “Miss Higgins has presented some… disturbing allegations. Including serious charges of fraud against Mr. Claggett, and concerning the validity of your land deed.”
Gentry froze, the color draining from his face. He glanced at the papers on the judge’s desk.
Judge Sanford struck his gavel once, a sharp crack that echoed in the small office. “This matter requires immediate attention. I am calling for an emergency hearing in open court. To settle the validity of this land deed before the sun sets.”
My heart pounded. It was happening. Tonight. I was on my own, facing the full might of Gentry and his lawyers. But I had the truth, and now, I had a judge who was finally listening.
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