Chapter 8 - The Intercept
On Friday afternoon at 3:14 PM, Icelandair Flight 643 touched down on Runway 10 at Baltimore-Washington International Thurgood Marshall Airport.
The journey had taken thirty-six hours.
Richard, Eleanor, and Danielle had spent fourteen hours on hard plastic benches at the airport in Keflavik, huddled together for warmth in an uncarpeted terminal, surviving on three overpriced blueberry muffins and tap water from a bathroom sink. They had not showered in two days. Richard’s linen trousers were stained with coffee and grease from the budget airline cabin. Eleanor’s ankles were swollen to the size of grapefruits from the long, seated hours. Danielle’s pink hard-shell suitcase had lost a wheel during baggage transfer in Iceland; she was forced to drag it behind her, the metal axle scraping against the airport carpet with a rhythmic, dying screech: skrrrt... skrrrt... skrrrt.
They moved through the international arrivals corridor like ghosts returning from a shipwreck.
Richard walked with his head down, his collar pulled up around his neck, flinching every time a uniformed Transportation Security Administration officer walked past. His heart was hammering against his ribs in an irregular, stuttering rhythm—the terrifying anticipation of a man who knows a trap is waiting, but doesn't know where the tripwire is buried.
They cleared the primary passport control kiosks. Because the alert on Richard’s passport had been generated by a municipal warrant in Georgia rather than a federal indictment, the Maryland customs officer simply stamped their documents, handed them back with an indifferent grunt, and waved them through to the baggage hall.
Richard let out a long, shuddering gasp of relief.
"We're through," he whispered, wiping a film of cold sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his coat. "We're through. The warrant didn't hit their system. Once we get to the car rental counter, we take I-95 South, stay off the turnpikes, and go straight to your Uncle Bob's place in North Carolina. We don't touch Georgia until I get my lawyer to sort this out."
"I smell like an engine," Danielle whined, dropping the handle of her broken suitcase. "My skin is breaking out. Dad, I don't have any makeup left. How am I supposed to look when we stop at a restaurant?"
"Shut up, Danielle!" Richard snapped, his temper flaring with the sudden, ugly viciousness of a man whose fear has momentarily receded. "Just shut your mouth and walk! We have two hundred dollars left on Clara's card to rent a car and buy gas! If you say one more word about makeup, I swear to God I'll leave you at the toll plaza!"
They pushed through the frosted sliding doors of the international arrivals greeting area.
A small crowd of drivers holding paper signs and families holding welcome-home balloons stood along the chrome stanchions.
Standing directly in the center of the walkway, leaning casually against an aluminum pillar, was a man in his early forties wearing a navy windbreaker, dark jeans, and a baseball cap. In his left hand, he held a large white clipboard. In his right hand, he held a thick, heavy manila envelope secured with red string.
As Richard stepped past the stanchions, the man stepped forward, blocking his path.
"Mr. Richard Castillo?" the man asked.
Richard froze. His entire body locked into rigid, defensive paralysis. "Who wants to know?"
"My name is Donald Vance," the man said smoothly, pulling a laminated identification badge from his windbreaker pocket with one hand while extending the thick manila envelope with the other. "I am a registered private process server authorized by the Circuit Court for Anne Arundel County, Maryland, operating on behalf of the Superior Court of Cobb County, Georgia. I am serving you with a Summons, Complaint for Civil Conversion, Notice of Equitable Subrogation Lien, and a Temporary Protective Order issued under Case Number 24-CV-08912."
The man thrust the heavy envelope against Richard’s chest.
Instinctively, Richard’s hands came up to catch it. The weight of the five hundred pages of legal documentation felt like a block of lead in his palms.
"What... what is this?" Richard stammered, his eyes darting wildly around the crowded terminal. "I don't live in Maryland! You can't serve me here!"
"Service is valid within any domestic jurisdiction upon physical receipt, Mr. Castillo," the process server said, clicking a pen and checking a box on his clipboard. "The time of service is logged at 3:48 PM on Friday, September twenty-first. Inside that package, you will also find a copy of the emergency lis pendens filed against the title of your residence at 1420 Woodlawn Drive in Marietta. You are formally restrained from transferring, encumbering, or disposing of any personal or real property pending the preliminary injunction hearing on October twelfth."
The server turned to Danielle, who was standing frozen beside her broken pink suitcase.
He reached into his leather shoulder bag and pulled out a second, smaller envelope.
"Mademoiselle Danielle Castillo?" he asked.
Danielle backed away, her hands flying behind her back as if the paper were dipped in poison. "Don't touch me! I don't know you!"
"You are served by substitution, Ms. Castillo," the man said, dropping the envelope neatly onto the top of her hard-shell suitcase. "That is a formal notice of legal claim for tortious interference, civil fraud, and defamation per se, accompanied by a preservation order regarding your social media accounts and third-party fundraising activities. If you delete a single video, comment, or electronic transaction from this point forward, you will be subject to direct spoliation sanctions and contempt of court proceedings."
"You bastards!" Eleanor screamed, lunging toward the process server with her acrylic handbag swinging. "You monsters! Who paid you to do this? Was it Valerie? Was it that ungrateful bitch? Tell her she's going to hell! Tell her God will punish her for what she's doing to her family!"
The process server didn't even flinch. He took two steps back, tapped the screen of his body-worn camera—which had recorded every second of the interaction—and tipped the brim of his baseball cap.
"Have a wonderful afternoon in Maryland, folks," he said.
He turned and walked toward the exit doors, disappearing into the crowd of travelers.
Richard stood in the center of the terminal, surrounded by the rush of arriving passengers, holding five hundred pages of legal devastation against his chest.
He looked down at the top page through the clear plastic window of the envelope.
The plaintiff’s name was printed in bold, black twenty-point font:
VALERIE CASTILLO.
Beneath it, the relief sought:
May you like
Judgment in the amount of $74,890.00, plus statutory interest, punitive damages for intentional fraud, attorney's fees of $18,500.00, and judicial sale of real property.
Richard’s knees finally buckled. He sank onto his suitcase, right in the middle of the floor, his breath coming in shallow, wheezing gasps, his hands shaking so violently that the legal papers spilled across the carpet like autumn leaves.
