“Arthur Vance signed these commercial extension guarantees in July,” I said, pointing to the blue ink signature on the second page of the bank document.

“Greg was having diagnostic scans at the neurology clinic in Knoxville on those exact four personal days.”

Marcus leaned back, the brown leather of his desk chair groaning softly in the quiet office.

“Arthur’s attorney is going to claim Greg gave verbal consent for those signatures.

If we go to trial, they’ll try to paint Greg as legally incompetent.”

“Let them try,” I said.

“We could push for a private settlement,” Marcus offered, adjusting the stack of files near his elbow.