The Forged License

Chapter 13 — The Lawyer

The construction attorney’s office was on the twenty-ninth floor of a glass tower not far from Copperline — close enough that Marcus could see the condo tower from the waiting room window, gleaming in the afternoon sun like nothing was wrong with it. The receptionist looked at Marcus’s work boots like they were a personal insult.

“Mr. Harlan will see you now.”

Ellis Harlan was sixty, silver-haired, with the smooth, expensive manner of a man who billed in six-minute increments and had never once touched a wire in his life. His office had a view of the whole valley, a desk the size of a pool table, and framed verdicts on the wall like hunting trophies.

He listened to Marcus’s story without interrupting — the bids, Teresa, the fire, the elevator, the permits — flipping through the photographed permits with a jeweler’s loupe he produced from his desk drawer like a magician’s prop.

“These signatures,” Harlan said at last, setting the loupe down. “They’re forgeries. Bad ones, frankly — any competent handwriting analyst would tear them apart in ten minutes. The real question isn’t whether they’re fake. The real question is whether you can prove it in a forum that matters, against the other side’s resources.”

“The license number is mine,” Marcus said. “I never did the work. My schedule, my invoices, my material orders, my crew timesheets — none of them show Copperline Towers. I can account for every hour of the last eighteen months.”

“All of which Whitaker’s attorneys will call incomplete records from a small shop with something to hide.” Harlan leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. “Mr. Reed, let me be blunt, because you’re paying for candor. Dale Whitaker retains Calloway and Stern. That’s a six-partner construction defense firm with a forensic accounting department. If you sue him — or if the state comes after your license and you try to drag him into it — you will be litigating against a team that does nothing but bury small contractors. Discovery alone will take eighteen months. They will depose your cousin. They will subpoena every text message you’ve ever sent. They will make your life a living hell, and they will bill Whitaker less for the privilege than you make in a year.”

“So what are you saying? That I should just — what? Wait for the tower to burn down with my name on it?”

“I’m saying my retainer for a case like this is eighty thousand dollars.” Harlan said it the way other people say “it’s raining.” “And that’s to start. To get us through the initial filings and the emergency license defense. A full trial would be triple that.”

Marcus thought about the truck payment. Lily’s college fund, still more hope than money. The shop lease. Teresa’s salary. The six months of runway in the business account that was supposed to get them through the slow season.

“No,” Marcus said quietly. “I don’t have eighty thousand dollars.”

“Then here’s my free advice, and it’s worth exactly what you’re paying for it.” Harlan slid the permit photos back across the desk. “Bring me proof, not suspicion. Bring me a witness who’ll testify, a document that can’t be explained away, a recording — something a judge can’t wave away and a jury can’t misunderstand. Bring me the kind of evidence that makes Calloway and Stern advise their client to settle before breakfast. Until then, you’re a man with a story, and stories don’t win cases. Evidence wins cases.”

Marcus stood up. His legs felt unsteady. “Thank you for your time.”

“Mr. Reed.” Harlan’s voice stopped him at the door. The attorney’s smooth manner had dropped away, and for a moment he looked like what he was: a man who’d seen this movie before. “Off the record? If those permits are what you say they are, you’re in more danger than you understand. A man who forges a license number isn’t cutting corners. He’s preparing for a catastrophe. He’s building himself an exit. Watch your back. Document everything. And Mr. Reed — ”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t trust the city on this one. If Whitaker’s been operating this boldly for this long, he’s got friends in low places.”

Marcus drove back to the shop with the sun in his eyes and Harlan’s words ringing in his ears. Eighty thousand dollars. Proof, not suspicion.

He pulled into a gas station on Indian School Road, not because he needed gas but because he needed a minute. He called Jenna from the parking lot, the pump clicking beside him.

“Eighty thousand dollars,” he said. “That’s the retainer. To start.”

Jenna was quiet for a moment. “We don’t have eighty thousand dollars.”

“No.”

“Then we do it the other way.” Her voice was calm, decisive — the ER nurse triaging. “You said there’s a retired inspector. Ruiz. He works with the state fraud unit. Marcus, that’s better than a lawyer. A lawyer defends you after the damage. The state can stop the damage.”

“Harlan said not to trust the city.”

“So don’t. Trust the state.” A pause. “And Marcus? That text — the one about the permits. Forward it to Ruiz too. If Whitaker’s watching the permit office, Ruiz needs to know.”

Marcus leaned against his truck, the desert sun hot on his neck. “When did you get so good at this?”

“I’ve been married to you for fifteen years,” Jenna said. “I’ve had to get good at everything.”

He laughed for the first time that day. Then he drove the rest of the way to the shop, and the laughing stopped, because Teresa’s car was in its usual spot, and through the office window he could see her at her desk — and he still didn’t know how to look his cousin in the eye.

He parked behind the shop and sat in the truck for a while. Teresa’s car was in its usual spot. Through the office window, he could see her at her desk, head bent over invoices, doing her job like the world hadn’t tilted sideways.

His phone buzzed. Unknown number. The text read: “Nice permits, Marcus. Shame if the state thought you filed them.”

Marcus stared at the message. His hands went cold. Somebody had been watching the permit office — or the clerk had talked, or Whitaker had a flag on the file. It didn’t matter how. What mattered was the message was clear: we know what you found, and we can use it against you.

He did what his father had taught him to do with every problem: test it twice before you cut.

He forwarded the text to Jenna with a note: “Save this. Don’t delete.” Then he forwarded it to the fraud unit investigator who’d taken his statement. Then he deleted it from his phone, got out of the truck, and went inside to work.

Because there was exactly one person left who might know how to turn suspicion into proof. A retired inspector who’d failed him on a ground rod nine years ago and liked him for fixing it the same day.

He just had to find Hank Ruiz first.