**Part 2**
“Does your sister know where you work?” Opal asked.
“She shouldn’t.”
I examined the message again. Although Monica had sent it from her personal number, I couldn’t tell who had photographed my house.
The gray sedan immediately came to mind.
“I think someone’s following me.”
Opal remained composed.
“Then keep everything. We’re not going to hand them information or opportunities.”
That afternoon, I contacted Russell Keane.
His office stood near central Columbus. After hearing my account, he carefully avoided guaranteeing a successful outcome.
“I need to review the case file, Rebecca. A final conviction doesn’t disappear because someone finds inconsistencies. But if there’s new evidence, an attorney can evaluate how to present it.”
The following day, I brought everything I’d saved: four printed emails, a business bank statement, and Buckeye Medical Supply’s incorporation documents.
Russell spent almost two hours examining them.
“This says $320,000 was transferred to Halston Ridge Supply for a supposed equipment purchase.”
“That equipment never arrived.”
“Who had access to approve payments?”
“Me and Monica. Trevor could request payments, but he couldn’t approve them on his own.”
He indicated a notation I’d overlooked throughout the intervening years.
One payment authorization carried an administrative identifier: MH-17.
It belonged to Monica.
“At trial they said that code only showed who entered the transaction,” I remembered.
“That may be true. That’s why we need the original records, not conclusions drawn from a copy.”
Russell instructed me to reconstruct the entire sequence of events.
Back at Opal’s house, I spent three evenings organizing hospital visits, conversations, payment dates, and other relevant records.
Eventually, a contradiction emerged.
According to the prosecution’s records, I’d approved an $89,000 transfer at 11:43 a.m. on June 18, 2021.
But that day I’d accompanied Loretta to a medical procedure. I distinctly recalled Trevor asking me to give Monica my phone so she could resolve a payroll issue.
Nearly two hours passed before Monica returned it.
That didn’t conclusively demonstrate misuse of my banking credentials, but it identified a possible method.
I requested the hospital’s available records and supplied Russell with Monica’s emails asking for my phone.
Russell also introduced me to Helen Marsh, an attorney who reviewed the criminal proceedings and investigated whether a petition to overturn my conviction could be supported by new evidence of actual innocence.
Meanwhile, I located Gordon Pierce, Buckeye’s former accountant.
Rather than approaching him unexpectedly, I had Helen arrange a formal interview.
Gordon agreed.
He arrived looking anxious and carried an old, battered folder.
“Rebecca, I should have spoken up years ago.”
Inside were copies of accounting reconciliations he’d retained before leaving Buckeye.
They revealed that funds sent to Halston Ridge Supply eventually reached an account associated with another company, one naming Trevor as its authorized agent.
But Gordon possessed something even more significant.
He produced minutes from a supposed shareholder meeting held March 14, 2022, documenting my alleged transfer of a majority ownership stake to Trevor.
Every page bore what appeared to be my signature.
I examined the date repeatedly.
“That’s impossible.”
Russell looked at me.
“Why?”
“Because on March 14, I was already in custody. I didn’t even leave the prison that day for a hearing.”
Yet the document described my personal attendance at a meeting in a private office.
Gordon explained that Monica had submitted those papers after my arrest and demanded corresponding changes to the corporate stock ledger.
“I refused to sign off on a reconciliation, and they fired me,” he admitted.
Helen began obtaining certified custody records and verifying the supposed shareholder documentation.
We finally possessed something beyond my testimony contradicting Trevor and Monica.
Two days afterward, Trevor phoned me.
“Quit harassing Gordon. You already lost once.”
“I won’t discuss this with you again without lawyers.”
He disconnected.
I documented the conversation and informed Helen.
The following Thursday, while hanging freshly washed sheets outdoors, I heard a vehicle stopping near Opal’s property.
It was the same gray sedan.
Monica stepped out carrying an envelope.
“We’re offering you $90,000,” she announced. “You sign an agreement, stop investigating, and leave Ohio.”
Opal watched from the doorway.
“I’m not signing anything,” I said.
Monica’s smile disappeared.
“Do you know how little time you have before your house is sold?”
A wave of dread hit me.
“What did you do?”
She produced a copied deed bearing numerous official stamps and recorder’s annotations.
“The property secures a debt that’s in default. If you keep pushing, you could end up with nothing.”
I skimmed the pages.
A purported general power of attorney supposedly allowed Trevor to place a mortgage on my house.
My signature appeared beneath it.
Then I noticed its document number.
It matched an old limited power of attorney I’d granted solely for administrative matters.
Monica leaned close and whispered:
“You have until tomorrow to accept. After that, neither your little house nor that old woman will be able to protect you.”
They hadn’t simply reproduced my signature.
They appeared to have transformed a genuine, restricted authorization into the basis of another fraudulent transaction.
Unless we challenged it through proper legal channels, I risked losing the last property still registered in my name.
