Rosalie Croft didn't just have money, she had influence. The few independent lawyers willing to take a look required a retainer of $10,000 just to file a response. Tom had exactly $40 left to his name. He looked at the injunction. Rosalie wasn't trying to win the case on its merits.
She knew her legal standing was shaky. She was using the legal system as a weapon of attrition. She was going to bleed him dry. If he didn't respond to the injunction within 7 days, she would win by default. The court would seize the car, and he would be left with nothing but court fees he could never pay.
It's a siege," Tom muttered to the empty room. Maya walked into the kitchen. She didn't look defeated. She looked furious. She had a tablet in her hand.
"They're deleting the threads," she said, dropping the tablet onto the table. "Tom looked up." "Who?" "The forum moderators." Reddit, too. "Every time I post a picture of the lawsuit, it gets taken down within an hour. She has a crisis PR firm scrubbing the internet. Maya pulled up a chair and sat across from him.
"Dad, we have to fight this with what, Maya?" Tom asked, his voice cracking. He didn't want to yell, but the panic was a physical pressure in his chest. "I have no money. I can't afford a lawyer to fight a parking ticket, let alone a billionaire's legal team. She knows it.
That's why she did this. So, we just give it back, Maya demanded, her voice rising. After Mom, after everything, we finally get a break and we just let some corporate vulture take it because she has fancy paper. It's not just paper. Tom slammed his hand on the table.
The coffee cup rattled. It's the law. If I ignore this, they will take the house. They will garnish my wages for the rest of my life. I have to protect you.
Maya stared at him. The anger in her eyes didn't fade, but it hardened into something older and much sadder. Mom wouldn't let her take it, she said quietly. She stood up and walked back to her room. The door clicked shut.
Tom buried his face in his hands. He was failing. He was failing his wife. He was failing his daughter. And he was being crushed by a machine he didn't understand.
He reached for his phone. He dialed the number he had memorized two days ago. David speaking. The smooth voice answered. "It's Tom Harris," Tom said, staring at the grain of the wood table.
"Tell Rosalie, I'll take the 50,000, but she has to drop the suit and cover all the legal fees." There was a pause on the line. Then David chuckled softly. "Mr. Harris, the offer of $50,000 was on the table before you forced my client to involve her legal team. Her expenses have grown. The current offer is $10,000.
Take it and you walk away clear. 10,000. It was an insult. It was Rosalie putting a boot on his neck and demanding he thank her for it. I Tom swallowed the bile in his throat. I need an hour.
You have 30 minutes, David said. The line went dead. Tom stared at the phone. He stood up, walked to the kitchen counter, and gripped the edge until his fingers achd. He was going to sell a $3 million ghost for pennies just to survive.
Then the phone rang again. Tom picked it up without looking at the caller ID. I said, "I need time. David. I don't know who David is, son, but he sounds like a real pain in the ass.
The voice on the other end was like grinding gravel. It was deep, slow, and carried a thick Texas draw that sounded like it had been cured in cigar smoke and motor oil. Tom blinked. Who is this? My name is Chuck Dayton, the voice said.
And Arthur Pendleton tells me you've got a piece of metal in your garage that belongs in a museum, not a courtroom. Tom froze. Even a guy who only knew framing and drywall knew the name Chuck Dayton. He was a titan, a driver who had dominated endurance racing in the 1970s, transitioned into manufacturing, and built an automotive empire. Dayton was one of the few men on earth whose net worth made Rosalie Croft look like a middle manager.
Mr. Dayton, Tom stammered. I I do, but I can't sell it. I'm under a court injunction. A CEO named Rosalie Croft is tying it up. I know who Croft is.
Dayton grunted. She buys perfectly good factories, fires the workers, and sells the copper out of the walls. She doesn't know a spark plug from a lug nut. Pendleton sent me the photos of the chassis, the Monza damage, the firewall stamp. It doesn't matter, Tom said.
The exhaustion returning. She's suing me into the ground. I have to surrender it to her in 20 minutes or I lose my house. Dayton went quiet for a moment. Tom could hear the faint clinking of ice in a glass over the line.
"Son," Dayton said slowly. "Jack Callahan was a maniac. He drank too much. He didn't sleep, and he drove like he had a death wish. But he was my friend.
I was in the pit lane at Monza when they dragged him out of that wreckage. I watched him cry over that car. I'll be damned if I let some real estate vampire lock his legacy in a vault so she can brag to her country club. I don't have a choice, Tom said. You do now, Dayton said.
The gravel in his voice hardened into steel. I don't buy cars, Mr. Harris. I buy histories and I protect them. You tell Rosalie Croft's lap dog to go to hell. You don't sign a damn thing.
But the lawyers, I have a legal team in Seattle, Dayton interrupted. They are already on a chartered jet to Portland. They will be at your house in 2 hours. I'm putting $100,000 into an escrow account right now just to cover your retainer. We are going to counter sue Croft Holdings for harassment, frivolous litigation, and tortious interference.
Tom's knees gave out. He slid down the front of the kitchen cabinets, sitting on the cheap linoleum floor. Why? Tom whispered. Why are you doing this?
Because bullies only understand one thing. Dayton said a bigger stick. And son, I've got a forest. Do not surrender that car. The line clicked.
Tom sat on the floor, the phone still pressed to his ear. He looked at the torn pieces of Rosalie's check that he had taped to the fridge as a reminder of his own stupidity. He reached up, ripped them off the door, and threw them in the trash. He stood up and walked to Maya's bedroom door. He knocked once firmly.
"What?" she called out, a voice muffled. "Get your coat," Tom said, a strange wild energy flooding his veins. "We're going to the hardware store." The door opened. Maya looked at him confused. What for?
Tom smiled. It was the first real unburdened smile he had worn in a year. We're buying a better tarp and a whole lot of padlocks. The cavalry is coming. The cavalry didn't arrive with sirens.
They arrived in three unremarkable black Chevrolet Suburbans that parked in a neat, mathematically precise line along Tom's cracked curb. Five people stepped out. They didn't wear flashy designer brands. They wore dark, tailored suits that fit perfectly, carrying heavy leather briefcases and portable document scanners. They walked up the driveway with the synchronized purpose of a military strike team.
The man at the front knocked on the open garage frame. He had thinning gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses, looking more like a high school history teacher than a corporate executioner. "Mr. Harris?" he asked, extending a hand. "Richard Hayes, lead counsel for Mr. Dayton. I apologize for the delay.
Traffic on I5 was uncooperative." Tom shook his hand. Hayes's grip was firm and dry. Come on in," Tom said, gesturing to the kitchen. Within 10 minutes, Tom's modest kitchen was transformed into a war room. The lawyers moved with frightening efficiency.
They plugged in a portable laser printer that hummed quietly on the counter. They stacked files next to the microwave. One of the paralegals, a sharp-eyed woman named Brenda, was already scanning the injunction Rosalie's process server had delivered, her fingers flying across a laptop keyboard. Maya sat on a bar stool, watching the spectacle with wide eyes. She had never seen power like this.
Real Power didn't need to yell in a driveway or tear up a check. Real Power was quiet, methodical, and heavily caffeinated. Tom's cell phone vibrated on the table. The screen read unknown caller. The 30-minute deadline was up.
Tom looked at Hayes. The lawyer adjusted his glasses and nodded. Put him on speaker, Tom. Tom tapped the green button and set the phone down. Hello, Mr. Harris.