Chapter 5 - The Document That Said We Had Nothing
For several weeks, I thought the blue certificate might blow open the entire Lozano sale.
Then their lawyers found the redemption agreement.
October 3, 1999.
According to the document, Rafael Martin had sold his remaining ownership interest to Enrique Lozano.
Price:
$180,000.
Signed.
Notarized.
Final.
Sergio’s lawyer sent a letter implying I was manufacturing an ownership dispute because my marriage had collapsed.
I stared at Rafael’s signature and felt stupid.
Maybe that was it.
Maybe the blue certificate was only obsolete paperwork.
Maybe Sergio wanted it because buyer’s counsel demanded clean historical records.
Marcus said:
“Good.”
I looked at him.
“I just lost.”
“No.”
He tapped the redemption agreement.
“Now we have a specific document to test.”
I showed it to my uncle Tomas, my mother’s younger brother.
He looked at Rafael’s supposed signature.
Then laughed.
“That’s not Dad’s.”
“You’re sure?”
He disappeared into his garage and returned with Rafael’s old steel toolbox.
Inside the lid, my grandfather had engraved his name.
Same capital R.
Same distinctive M.
Nothing like the signature on the redemption.
Not proof by itself.
But enough for document examination.
Then Tomas saw the date.
October 3, 1999.
His face changed.
“What?”
“Dad wasn’t in Texas.”
“Where was he?”
“Mexico.”
My great-grandmother had died October second.
Rafael flew down September twenty-ninth.
We found family photographs.
A funeral program.
Later, airline records.
All placing him outside the United States when he supposedly appeared before a San Antonio notary.
Then Marcus showed me the notarization line.
Notary:
Rosa Vega.
I stared.
“Vega?”
Rosa’s maiden name.
Sergio’s mother had notarized the document that supposedly removed my grandfather from the company.
Twenty-seven years before she called his granddaughter family.
Suddenly I remembered meeting her for the first time.
“Elena Martin?”
“Yes.”
“Martin from where?”
“San Antonio.”
“What was your grandfather’s name?”
“Rafael.”
Her spoon had slipped from her fingers and struck the saucer.
At the time, I thought she was clumsy.
May you like
She had recognized the name.
Rosa had known exactly who I was before I ever became her daughter-in-law.
