Chapter 5 - The Yellow Notice
Maya’s face went entirely white—whiter than the snow clinging to her coat collar.
She moved quickly, setting Clara down on the small braided rug inside the doorway and stepping back onto the threshold, effectively blocking Mason’s view of the living room with her thin body.
"It’s nothing," Maya said, her voice high, fast, and strained. "It’s an administrative issue with the landlord. It’s being taken care of."
"Maya," Mason said, stepping onto the doorframe so she couldn't shut the door on him. "That is a Form 4B Expedited Eviction Warrant issued by Judge Sterling's court. It gives the county sheriff authorization to lock this door forty-eight hours from now."
Maya swallowed hard. Her hazel eyes flared with a sudden, desperate anger—the rage of a cornered animal that had no room left to fight.
"I know what it is!" she whispered fiercely, keeping her voice low so Clara wouldn't hear from the rug three feet away. "I know how to read! I don't need a lawyer in a thousand-dollar suit standing in my hallway pointing out how ruined my life is!"
"How much?" Mason asked flatly.
"What?"
"How much do you owe them?"
"That is none of your business!" Maya snapped, her chest heaving beneath her brown coat. "You drove us home. You gave my daughter a toy. You've done your good deed for the year, Mr. Vale! You can go back to your nice house, write off your donation on your taxes, and feel good about yourself! Leave us alone!"
"Maya," Mason said, his grey eyes dead steady, unyielding as granite. "I handle property law and commercial litigation for a living. Form 4B is illegal when served on residential tenants during a declared municipal weather emergency. Harbor Glen declared a winter storm emergency at four o'clock this afternoon. This notice was posted illegally."
Maya froze. Her mouth parted slightly, her anger stalling mid-air as his words registered.
"What?" she whispered.
"Who is your landlord?" Mason asked.
Maya backed up a step, her strength suddenly giving out. She leaned heavily against the wooden doorframe, covering her face with one wet, shaking hand.
"Vance Properties," she rasped through her fingers. "Sterling Vance. The principal's husband."
Mason felt a cold, dark burst of pure, unadulterated legal wrath ignite inside his brain.
Sterling Vance. A local slumlord who owned three dozen dilapidated tenements across the south side of town, managed them through shell companies, withheld heat to cut overhead costs, and pushed illegal holiday evictions on tenants who didn't have the money or legal literacy to hire a lawyer to fight back.
And his wife ran the elementary school that charged five-year-old children ten dollars to receive a Christmas present.
"How much do they claim you owe?" Mason repeated, his voice dropping an octave into a low, dangerous rumble.
Maya slowly lowered her hand. Her eyes were red-rimmed, brimming with silent, bitter tears she refused to let fall.
"Eight hundred and fifty dollars," she whispered. "I was short on November's rent because Clara had croup and I had to miss four night shifts at the laundry plant. I paid six hundred. I told Mr. Vance I’d have the rest by January first with my holiday overtime pay. He said okay. Then he posted that notice yesterday morning while I was at work."
Eight hundred and fifty dollars.
Mason thought of the five thousand dollars in cash he had slammed onto Mrs. Gable’s clipboard an hour ago without batting an eye. He thought of the two-hundred-dollar bottle of scotch sitting on his mahogany desk at Vale & Hart. He thought of the high-end legal retainers his firm collected every hour from local developers.
Eight hundred and fifty dollars was standing between this mother and her five-year-old child being thrown into a snowstorm on Boxing Day.
"Maya," Mason said softly. "Do you have your lease agreement?"
"Yes," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "In the kitchen drawer."
"Get it," Mason commanded gently. "And put a pot of water on the stove. If your radiator is broken, we're going to fix your heat first, and then we're going to fix Mr. Vance."
Maya stared at him, completely dazed. "Why are you doing this? You don't know us. You don't owe us anything."
May you like
Mason looked past her shoulder to where Clara was sitting on the rug, carefully unwrapping her plush polar bear from its plastic wrap, her pale blue eyes glowing with quiet, blissful wonder.
"Santa skipped her once tonight, Maya," Mason said, looking back into her eyes. "I'm not going to let him skip her twice."
