"Well," Cross said loudly, glancing at the other people in line as if inviting them to witness a public nuisance. "I wondered if you were going to show up to make a scene, young man. I told you yesterday: you don't work for Ross Precision anymore. Your employment was terminated when the board dissolved."
"He's not a former employee, Raymond," I said, stepping directly to the velvet divider beside Window 4. "And you know it."
The imposter didn't flinch. He turned toward me with a look of calm, rehearsed pity.
"Deputy Green," the imposter said smoothly, addressing the clerk behind the partition. "This individual followed me from the airport in Chicago yesterday afternoon. He caused a disturbance at the gate, made false claims to the airline crew, and tried to steal my seat. Airport police had to escort him off the jet bridge. I had hoped he wouldn't carry his harassment all the way into a municipal building."
"Is that so?" Deputy Green said, his eyes narrowing as he looked between the two of us. He reached toward the silent alarm button mounted under the counter edge. "Gentlemen, this is an official recording window. If there is a dispute regarding legal identity, I will have sheriff's deputies clear this rotunda in thirty seconds."
"Call them, Deputy Green," I said, opening my portfolio and placing it flat against the transaction tray. "Call the deputies right now. But before you press that buzzer, look at the papers in this tray."
Harlan Vance stepped forward, attempting to block the clerk’s view with his briefcase. "Deputy, this is an irregular interruption of a statutory recording. This man has no standing. We have priority at this window."
"Step back, counselor," Green said, his voice dropping into the cold authority of a public official who had seen every form of real estate fraud in forty years of county service. "Take your hands off the tray."
I slid my Michigan Class A operator’s license beneath the glass partition.
"My name is David Arthur Ross," I said clearly. "I was born on August 14, 1986. That license was issued by the Secretary of State in Detroit four years ago. Now ask the gentleman in the wool sweater to produce his Michigan driver's license."
Deputy Green looked at my card, then shifted his gaze to the imposter. "Driver's license, sir."
The imposter reached into his pocket and slid his laminated card across the counter. Green picked both cards up, holding them side by side beneath the high-intensity counter lamp.
"Both cards bear the name David Arthur Ross," Green observed, his brow furrowing. "The photographs are different. The addresses are different. One is Michigan. One is Illinois."
"My client recently relocated to Chicago to manage the firm’s logistics branch," Vance interjected quickly, his voice tightening. "The Illinois license is his current legal residency. The Michigan license this trespasser is holding is an expired duplicate or a forgery."
"It's not a duplicate," I said. I pulled the stamped carbon from my portfolio and slapped it against the glass. "This is a certified patrol log from the Port Authority Police Department at O'Hare International Airport, Incident 44-Charlie. It is signed by Officer Ramos, Badge 8821, and stamped with the raised rubber seal of the Cook County airport detachment. The timestamp is yesterday afternoon at 2:38 PM."
Deputy Green leaned in, running his thumb over the raised purple ring of the rubber seal.
"Read the log, Deputy Green," I said. "At 2:38 PM yesterday, Officer Ramos verified my Michigan driver's license through the Law Enforcement Information Network while I was standing inside the Terminal 2 police substation. At that exact minute, Flight 418 was cruising at twenty-six thousand feet over LaPorte, Indiana, carrying that man in seat 11F."
A heavy, suffocating silence dropped over the counter. Raymond Cross's smug expression finally cracked, his fingers clenching into the camel hair of his coat pockets.
"An airport detention report doesn't determine corporate ownership," Vance stammered, his spectacles slipping down his nose. "The corporate seal is on the counter. The operating agreements are here—"
"The corporate seal was stolen out of my checked tool chest at Detroit Metro last night," I cut him off, pointing directly at the brass cylinder. "Look at the pry marks on the green file box on your counter. My father never gave Raymond Cross the key to that box. Leonard Cross forced that latch with a pry bar yesterday afternoon after Pete Holbrook caught him trespassing on French Road."
I reached into the folder and drew out the final document: the four-page certified appellate decree from Lansing, the heavy bond paper crisp and unbent, the red judicial wax seal bearing the deep, distinct impression of the Michigan Court of Appeals.
"This is the final order of the Court of Appeals, signed by Judge Martha Keller at three o'clock yesterday afternoon," I said, sliding the document under the partition. "Judge Keller dismissed Cross Industrial’s receivership petition with prejudice. She affirmed that sole, unencumbered title to the French Road property and all tooling assets belongs to the estate of Arthur Ross, under my exclusive administration."
Deputy Green took the court order. He didn't just glance at it; he walked to the back desk, lifted a telephone receiver, and dialed the internal judicial extension for Lansing.