Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
I left the bank with a single sheet of paper folded twice in my front pocket.
The walk to the law office took ten minutes, the mountain wind biting through my canvas jacket. I stopped at the five-and-dime store next to the pharmacy and bought a standard yellow legal pad and a cheap black pen.
Rebecca Marsh sat behind her heavy oak desk, aligning three manila folders so their edges ran parallel to the wood grain. She did not look up until she finished placing her brass paperweight on top of the pile.
I laid the bank printout next to her folders.
“My son-in-law has my PIN,” I said. “He is trying to reroute my bank statements to Denver.”
Rebecca did not look surprised. She adjusted the folders again, her movements slow and deliberate.
“He is trying to establish residency and control,” she said. “If he controls the mail and the banking, he can make a case that you are not managing your own affairs. Or worse, he is trying to see how much equity you have.”
