Chapter 5 - The Notice on the Gate
By Saturday afternoon, Villa Mariposa had been transformed into an obscene monument to vanity.
Large white party tents had been erected across the manicured coastal lawn—directly crushing the rare Japanese white pines my mother had planted before she succumbed to cancer six years ago. Caterers from downtown San Diego scurried back and forth carrying crates of silver-trimmed porcelain, ice sculptures depicting soaring gulls, and towers of vintage champagne.
Harold Vance stood on the travertine terrace, smoking an imported cigar, surveying the workers with an air of absolute lordship.
At precisely two o'clock, an unmarked gray sedan drove past the stone pillars at the end of the long driveway and came to a halt near the fountain. A thin, sharply dressed man in a navy blue suit stepped out. Under his arm was an embossed manila folder.
Harold frowned, descending the steps with an irritated scowl. "Hey! Who authorized you to drive up the private drive? Deliveries go to the service gate around the rear!"
The man did not blink. He drew a laminated badge from his pocket. "Harold Vance?"
"I am Harold Vance. Master of this estate. Who the hell are you?"
"My name is Arthur Pendelton. I am a certified process server registered with the Superior Court of California, acting on behalf of Price, Sterling & Ward, and under direct federal warrant issued by the Southern District of California."
Pendelton extended the folder.
Harold didn't take it. He shoved his hands into his pockets, his face darkening with rage. "If this is another one of my daughter’s pathetic legal temper tantrums, you can take it right back to her. I am the legal owner of this property under a filed county quitclaim deed! Rebecca has no standing here. Tell her to hire a real lawyer and take it up in probate court in six months!"
Pendelton let the folder drop. It hit the immaculate stone steps, sliding until it rested against Harold’s Italian leather loafers.
"You have been formally served, Mr. Vance," Pendelton stated with mechanical precision. "Inside that packet is an emergency federal cease-and-desist order, an unsealed Lis Pendens on the title of Villa Mariposa, and a direct summons to appear before the federal magistrate. Furthermore, you are officially notified that any alteration, removal, or destruction of personal property within that residence constitutes a Class 3 felony under military property protection statutes."
Olivia, who had been directing the florist inside, rushed out to the terrace, her eyes wide. "Dad? What is this? What’s going on?"
Harold looked down at the packet, his face turning purple with indignation. He kicked the folder away like a piece of filthy trash.
"It’s nothing, Olivia!" Harold shouted, glaring at Pendelton. "It’s a bluff! Rebecca thinks that because she wears a uniform she can scare me with high-dollar lawyers. She’s trying to ruin your party tomorrow because she’s alone, bitter, and jealous of your family!"
Harold turned toward the process server, his finger jabbing into the air. "Get off my property! Before I call the harbor patrol and have you arrested for criminal trespass! Tell Rebecca that if she steps foot within a mile of this house, I’ll have a restraining order slapped on her so fast it’ll strip the stripes off her shoulders!"
Pendelton didn't flinch. He pulled out a small digital camera, snapped a clear photograph of Harold, a photograph of the discarded documents on the stone, and a photograph of Olivia standing on the terrace.
"Service perfected at 14:14 hours," Pendelton muttered into a lapel microphone. Then he looked at Harold with eyes that held pure, unadulterated pity. "May God have mercy on you, Mr. Vance. Because the United States Navy certainly won't."
Pendelton turned, walked back to his sedan, and drove down the hill without another word.
"Dad..." Olivia whispered, her voice trembling slightly as she picked up the fallen folder and flipped open the first page. "Look at the seal on this. It says 'United States Department of the Navy, Office of the Judge Advocate General'... Dad, it says Rebecca is invoking the Maritime Heritage Trust Act!"
Harold snatched the papers from her hands, crumpled them into a ball without reading a single sentence, and hurled them into a nearby waste bin.
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"Listen to me, Olivia!" Harold grabbed her shoulders, his voice harsh, desperate, and domineering. "I built this family! Margaret’s money was my money! Rebecca’s salary was paid by our sacrifices! I am the head of this house! Tomorrow, two hundred people are coming here. The bank president will be standing right on that lawn. Once we introduce Greg to the board and secure that credit line, Rebecca won't be able to touch us even if she brings the whole damn Pacific Fleet! Do you hear me?"
Olivia swallowed hard, looking at the crumpled papers in the trash, then forced a brittle, shallow smile. "Yes, Dad. You're right. She’s just bluffing."
