Chapter 9 - The Gathering of the Wolves
Saturday morning arrived without a cloud in the sky.
By 6:00 AM, the canyon road leading up to 8420 Crestview Ridge was already choked with traffic.
From my second-floor master suite balcony, I watched through high-powered binoculars as the armada arrived.
First came the three refrigerated floral trailers from San Diego, parking along the shoulder of the public road just outside my exterior gate line.
Then came the four massive catering trucks from the West Hollywood French bistro, their chrome bodies gleaming in the morning sun.
Then the generator trucks. The sound equipment trailers. The luxury mobile restroom trailers with faux-marble finishes.
And parked right behind them, blocking the ascending lane of the narrow mountain road, were two black SUVs carrying the private security guards Sam had hired to keep *me* out of my own home.
At 7:15 AM, the white Buick LeSabre crawled up the hill.
My father and mother stepped out. My father was wearing an ill-fitting navy suit he had bought for Sam's college graduation seven years ago. My mother was wearing a floor-length mother-of-the-bride gown in shimmering champagne silk—a dress that still had the retail tag tucked into the zipper seam so she could return it on Monday.
Ten minutes later, a silver stretch limousine pulled up behind them.
The door opened.
Samantha Carter stepped out onto the asphalt.
She looked breathtaking. Her wedding dress was a fifteen-thousand-dollar custom ballgown with hand-sewn crystals across the bodice, a twelve-foot cathedral train carried by two terrified-looking bridesmaids, and a delicate lace veil that floated around her perfectly contoured face.
She held a massive bouquet of white peonies in her gloved hands.
She looked like a princess.
She looked like a woman who was thirty minutes away from securing her place in high society.
Standing beside the limousine was Ethan. He was dressed in a classic black tuxedo, his bow tie perfectly straight. But his face was completely drained of life. He looked like a prisoner walking toward a firing squad.
And pulling up behind the limousine were three black Cadillac Escalades bearing Texas and Fresno plates.
Harold Henderson stepped out of the lead Escalade.
He was a hulking, broad-shouldered man in his late fifties, wearing an expensive western-cut suit and a Stetson hat. His wife, Eleanor, stepped out beside him, wearing emerald green silk and a furious, frozen scowl. Behind them were sixty close family members and executives from the Henderson automotive empire, all dressed to the nines, adjusting their sunglasses against the morning glare.
Sam turned to Harold, flashing a brilliant, radiant smile.
"Harold! Eleanor! Welcome to the Carter Estate!" she announced loudly, gesturing toward my towering iron gates. "The staff is just finalizing the terrace setup! We'll have you inside the gardens in just two minutes!"
Harold Henderson didn't smile. He adjusted his cuff links, his sharp eyes surveying the closed, silent gates.
"The gates are shut, Samantha," Harold rumbled, his voice cutting through the chatter of the wedding party. "And where the hell is the valet service? Why are all these catering trucks parked out on the street?"
"Oh, you know how these Bel-Air security systems are!" Sam laughed, a sharp, nervous sound that fluttered in the dry morning air. "My sister’s estate manager is just resetting the commercial access codes! Dad, go punch the gate code in!"
My father puffed out his chest, adjusted his tie, and marched up to the stone pillar.
He pulled the manila envelope containing the fraudulent conservatorship petition out from under his arm and held it up toward the security camera, tapping it aggressively.
"Maddie!" my father shouted into the intercom. "We have the court papers! The Sheriff has been notified of the emergency conservatorship filing! You open this gate right now or you will be removed in handcuffs in front of three hundred people!"
Down below, Harold Henderson’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.
"What court papers?" Harold demanded, stepping up behind my father. "What in the hell are you talking about, Richard?"
Before my father could answer, the heavy, motorized hum of the main gates began to vibrate through the canyon stone.
The massive iron gates slowly, majestically swung inward.
Sam let out a triumphant shriek. "See? I told you! Everything is under control! Come on, everyone! Let’s get the photography started on the lower terrace!"
The wedding party began to move. The bridesmaids hoisted Sam's twelve-foot train. Harold Henderson gestured for his family to follow him up the long, curving driveway.
The three hundred guests began streaming past the stone pillars, marveling at the towering cypresses, the manicured gardens, and the modern architectural masterpiece looming at the crest of the hill.
Sam walked at the head of the procession, her chin held high, her veil fluttering in the wind, a victorious, sneering smile plastered across her face.
She had won.
In her mind, the game was over.
She had brought the crowd. She had brought the in-laws. She had used the family, the internet, and the threat of court filings to break me.
She rounded the final bend of the driveway and stepped onto the grand circular motor court.
And then, she stopped dead in her tracks.
The entire wedding procession clattered to an abrupt halt behind her.
Standing in the center of the motor court, directly in front of the main entrance of my home, were twelve uniform officers from the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department.
Standing beside them were Victoria Vance, David Chen, and two process servers holding thick stacks of federal legal summonses.
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And sitting comfortably in a modern teak armchair on the elevated terrace above them, wearing a tailored black linen jumpsuit, holding a cold glass of iced tea, was me.
***
