Chapter 5 - THE LEGAL INTRUSION
The first sign of the Whitmore response arrived on Thursday morning—not with guns or dogs, but with a silver Mercedes sedan that looked completely out of place on the muddy gravel track of the Hocking Hills facility.
The car stopped twenty yards from the cabin porch. A man stepped out, wearing a crisp charcoal suit that cost more than my truck’s engine block. He was carrying a leather briefcase with gold latches, his polished shoes sinking an inch into the wet clay with every step he took toward the house.
Marcus was sitting on the woodpile, an old Remington 870 shotgun resting across his knees, his face completely expressionless as the lawyer approached.
"My name is Vance," the man said, stopping at the base of the porch steps, his eyes tracking the shotgun before settling on me. "I represent Vivian Whitmore and the Whitmore Group LLC. I am here to deliver an emergency injunction from the Commonwealth of Virginia, as well as an administrative custody order for the animal currently in your possession."
I didn't stand up from my rocking chair. I kept my cane resting between my knees, my hands clasped over the silver handle. "You're about three hundred miles outside your jurisdiction, Mr. Vance. Virginia orders don't carry much weight in the Ohio woods."
Vance smiled, a cold, practiced movement of his lips that didn't reach his eyes. "The animal, 'Titan,' is registered under a corporate tax identification number as an asset of the Whitmore Security Division. That makes his removal an interstate transportation of stolen property—a federal felony under the National Stolen Property Act. If you do not surrender the dog and Emily within the next ten minutes, the federal marshal’s office in Columbus will be notified."
Emily stepped out of the cabin door behind me. She was wearing an old flannel shirt of mine, her face still pale, but her eyes were fixed on the lawyer with a newfound strength. "I'm not going back, Vance. Tell Graham that the divorce papers are being filed in Franklin County tomorrow morning."
Vance looked at her, his expression shifting into something pitying. "Emily... your prenuptial agreement contains a standard lifestyle and reputation clause. If you file for divorce under allegations of domestic abuse without a certified medical report from an approved Virginia commonwealth physician, you forfeit ninety-five percent of your marital assets, including the trust fund for your medical debts. You'll leave with nothing but the clothes you're wearing."
"She’s leaving with her life, Vance," I said, standing up from my chair. My hip cracked, the sound distinct in the quiet clearing. I took one step down the porch stairs, the tip of my cane sinking into the dirt. "And as for the dog... he’s not property. He’s an active K-9 asset currently undergoing an administrative evaluation under Ohio Revised Code 955.16. I logged him into the department registry via the state terminal on Tuesday night. He’s a witness in a domestic assault investigation."
Vance’s smile finally vanished. He looked at the white envelope in his hand, then back at me, realizing that the old man with the limp wasn't a retired factory worker he could scare with corporate stationary.
"You're playing a very dangerous game, Sergeant Mercer," Vance said, his voice dropping into a low threat. "The Whitmore Group has resources that go far beyond the legal system. This camp... it's very isolated. It would be a shame if an accidental fire destroyed these old structures before the federal authorities could resolve the title dispute."
"Marcus," I said, not looking back at the woodpile. "Show Mr. Vance our fire suppression system."
Marcus stood up, the slide of the Remington 870 moving back and forward with a loud, mechanical clack-clack that caused Vance to take three rapid steps backward, nearly tripping over a tree root.
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"The road out is the same way you came in, counselor," Marcus said, pointing the muzzle of the shotgun toward the gravel track. "Watch out for the creek bed. It likes to eat expensive transmissions."
Vance didn't say another word. He scrambled back into his Mercedes, the tires spinning wildly in the mud, throwing a spray of brown clay across the cypress trees as he backed down the ridge.
