Two hours later, I was sitting across from my grandmother in her apartment—seventy-four, still sharp as a gavel.
“He changed the locks?” she asked.
I nodded.
She didn’t look shocked. She looked disappointed, the way a judge looks at a man who thought he could outsmart paper.
“Tonight,” she said, “he learns the difference between feeling powerful and being legally protected.”
At 7:00 p.m., Matt opened the front door expecting his lawyer.
Instead, he found two court officers, a process server… and me.
Still in uniform.
One of the officers read the order out loud, every word clean and fatal:
“Immediate restitution of the property to the rightful owner, Captain Mariana Rivas Navarro…”
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