Chapter 6 - The Freezing of North Ridge
The offices of Vance Development Group were located in a retrofitted brick warehouse in the lower village, designed to look rugged and successful to potential out-of-state investors. But on Monday morning, the atmosphere inside the building felt like an engine room that had suddenly run out of oil.
Nelson Vance sat behind his oversized walnut desk, his eyes bloodshot, his silk tie unknotted and hanging loosely around his neck. Beside him stood his head accountant, a nervous young man named Miller, who kept wiping his glasses with a blue microfiber cloth.
"What do you mean the draw was denied?" Nelson slammed his hand onto a stack of blue blueprints. "The foundation crew is out there right now in ten-degree weather with five concrete mixers idling! If we don't pour the footings today, the soil will freeze deep, and we’ll lose an entire month of production!"
"The bank issued a formal hold on the escrow account at 8:14 this morning, Mr. Vance," Miller said, his voice trembling like a reed in a marsh. "They sent a certified digital notice. It’s a compliance freeze under Section 12-B of the credit agreement."
"Section 12-B?" Nelson ripped the printout from Miller’s hand. His eyes scanned the legal language until they hit the highlighted text near the bottom: Pending litigation involving primary guarantors and dependents that may materially impact the financial stability or reputational asset value of the borrower.
Attached to the back of the bank's notice was a copy of the civil complaint filed in the Cook County Circuit Court by Marcus Choi on behalf of Clara Vance and her minor child, Peyton. The damages sought were listed as Unspecified Punitive and Compensatory Damages for Battery and Intentional Infliction of Emotional Distress.
"She sued me," Nelson whispered, the color draining from his face until he looked like the snow outside his window. "She actually sued her own brother. And she named Bryce as the primary actor."
The desk phone rang, its sharp, electronic chime sounding like a gunshot in the small office. Nelson snatched it up. "Nelson here."
"Nelson, the police are at the house," his wife, Brenda’s, voice came through the line, tight with a high-pitched, hysterical panic. "Two county deputies just knocked on the front door. They served me with a temporary restraining order! It says Bryce cannot be within three hundred feet of Clara or Peyton! They said if he goes near Peyton’s school or our winter cabin while they're in town, he’ll be taken into juvenile detention!"
"Calm down, Brenda—"
"Don't tell me to calm down!" she screamed. "Bryce is in his room crying! He was supposed to have an interview with the admissions director for the St. Jude Academy tomorrow afternoon! Now Henderson says if there’s an active restraining order on his record, the academy will automatically reject his application! What did you do at that cabin, Nelson?! What did your father do?!"
Nelson hung up the phone without answering. He looked at Miller, who was trying to look at anything other than his boss’s collapsing face.
"Get my father on the line," Nelson muttered, his hand trembling as he reached for his bourbon bottle again, only to find it empty. "Tell him we need to drive down to the lower valley right now. We need to find Clara before she finishes us."
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"Sir," Miller said softly, checking his tablet. "Your father’s car was just reported as repossessed by the local dealership. The lease payment was tied to the corporate account that was funded by the primary bank draw. The transaction failed at midnight."
Nelson sat back in his leather chair, the walnut desk suddenly looking impossibly large, while the sounds of five concrete mixers idling outside his window began to sound like a countdown to his own personal bankruptcy.
