Chapter 11 - The Subpoena
On a rainy Tuesday morning two weeks after the Florida trip, a certified process server knocked on the door of my parents' suburban Tampa home.
He wasn't delivering a civil lawsuit; he was serving my mother and father with federal subpoenas to appear as witnesses before the grand jury investigating Greg’s financial crimes.
Because Greg had routinely used my parents' home address to register several of his fraudulent Cayman shell companies, the federal prosecutors suspected them of acting as paid straw owners.
My mother apparently went into a state of absolute hysteria, locking herself in her bedroom and refusing to come out until my father called a criminal defense lawyer.
When they discovered that retaining a reputable federal defense attorney required a minimum retainer of twenty-five thousand dollars in cleared funds, panic turned into absolute desperation.
My father drove to my attorney’s downtown office without an appointment, demanding to see David and insisting that I was legally obligated to provide them with legal representation.
My attorney, a sharp, no-nonsense litigator named Sarah Jenkins, met my father in the lobby accompanied by two building security guards.
"Mr. Bennett, my client has no fiduciary or legal responsibility to fund your criminal defense regarding shell companies you willingly registered at your residence," Sarah stated clearly for the lobby cameras.
"If you attempt to contact Mrs. Sterling, her daughter, or her legal representatives again without formal counsel, we will execute the pending restraining order immediately."
My father stood in the polished marble lobby, his face pale and haggard, finally realizing that the daughter he had dismissed as insignificant had completely cut the financial cord.
He walked back out into the rain to his aging sedan, realizing that he would have to liquidate his prized coin collection just to pay a lawyer to keep him out of federal prison.
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While my parents were panicking in downtown Tampa, I was sitting in a front-row seat at Mia’s elementary school auditorium, watching her receive an award for her summer reading project.
She stood on the stage holding her certificate, beaming with pride as she waved to me, her traumatic afternoon in the Clearwater hallway fading into a distant memory.
