“That company has no legal standing,” Finley said. “The eviction is void. ”
They raced to the courthouse. Sloan stood in the atrium, holding a newly stamped document.
“I filed the transfer. Apex Uran is the legal owner. Your injunction is moot. ”
“Maybe,” Finley said.
“But the eviction notices were served yesterday by Apex Uran, which didn’t own the building until ten minutes ago. You served fraudulent evictions. ”
The color drained from Sloan’s face. Judge Wallace’s voice boomed across the hall.
“Counselors. My chambers. Now. ”
“You tried to use a typo to render my injunction worthless,” Wallace said, her voice lethally quiet.
“You filed fraudulent documents to throw eighty people out of their homes. ”
She referred Sloan to the state bar and the district attorney. She expanded the injunction to cover Thorne personally and every shell company. The evictions were void.
The tenants were safe. Marcus Thorne was arrested three weeks later. Indicted on thirty-two counts of fraud, conspiracy, and tax evasion. His empire crumbled.
Sloan was disbarred. The Warrick Arms tenants formed a co-op and bought the building. The Bluebell Diner reopened. Finley’s dusty office was suddenly flooded with clients.
He hired Claraara as his lead paralegal and chief investigator. “You should go to law school,” he told her. “I’m thinking about it,” she said, tapping a line in a contract with her pen. “But someone needs to stay here and read the fine print.
”
She was still a server, in a way. But she wasn’t serving coffee to sharks anymore. She was serving them justice, and it was always served cold.