The Judge Asked Whose Hands Had Signed the Sale

Thursday morning, my good shoes squeaked across the courthouse floor.

Sabine wore a navy jacket over her band shirt. Theo held his folder with both hands. June had brought the photograph of Ida playing beside a folding table covered in paper plates.

"Does she need this one?" June asked Mara.

"Bring it," Mara said. "We'll offer the records first."

Dorian sat across the room beside a lawyer I had never met. He nodded at us as if we had come to hear him tell a story.

Mara had warned us that this hearing would be narrow. The judge could protect property while the case continued. She would not divide our whole business or settle a criminal charge that morning.

Still, my mouth went dry when I took the witness chair.

I explained the tags, the intake photos, and the three substitutes. Mara put the papers in numbered groups.

"Did any of these customers authorize a sale through you?"

"No."

"Did you buy their instruments?"

"No. They paid us to repair them."

Dorian's lawyer asked whether tags could be moved.

"Yes," I said. "These were. That's why I photographed the instruments when they came in."

"And photographs can be mistaken?"

"A red finish can look similar. A stamped number, a repaired corner, and a photograph together are harder to mistake."

I pointed to Sabine's narrow guards and the wrong guards on the substitute. I kept my voice level. I did not need to make his questions sound foolish.

Then Mara placed the supply receipt beside the sale release.

The judge leaned forward.

"This line crosses both signatures?"

"It's a crease in my original receipt," I said.

The supplier's emailed copy had arrived that morning. It showed the same signature, note, and crease. Mara had supplied it to the other lawyer before we started.

"I won't decide how that image got here today," the judge said. "But it doesn't establish consent from these owners."

Sabine testified next.

"He was welcome to call me," she said. "My number didn't change. My permission wasn't hard to ask for. He didn't have it."

Theo showed the extra $300 payment. June showed her authority to act for Ida's estate and the purchase receipt.

Dorian's lawyer asked for time to examine everything. The judge agreed there would be further proceedings. Until then, she wanted the property kept safe.

Cora took the stand with the warehouse inventory.

"Two disputed instruments are secured at our location," she said. "They won't enter tomorrow's sale."

"And the third?" the judge asked.

"Mr. LeBlanc checked it out before we received notice of the claims."

Dorian bent toward his lawyer.

I watched his lips move. For once, nobody was laughing.

The judge asked whether he could provide its location. His lawyer conferred with him, then said he could do so that day.

The resulting order barred sale or transfer of the three originals and required their locations to be disclosed. It allowed inspection and safe return under a written process. The auction company agreed to hold the two in its care until those steps were complete.

Business records had to be preserved. The accounting and our remaining property claims would continue separately.

The landlord's statement and lease rider also went into the record. Dorian agreed through his lawyer that he would not block my access while those matters were settled.

It was smaller than a final victory. It was large enough to breathe inside.

In the hall, Dorian approached while Mara stood beside me.

"You could have talked to me."

"I was outside a locked door."

"I meant like partners."

I looked at his lawyer, then back at him.

"I kept our customers' names. You called them inventory."

Mara guided me away before he answered.

At her office, we paid for copies and arranged the warehouse inspection. The judge's order did not repair a fold or carry a case. We still had work to do.

Sabine bought lunch from a little place near the courthouse. I ate half a bowl of rice and beans before I noticed I was hungry.

"You did good," she said.

"I was scared."

"I heard you answer anyway."

Just after two, Dorian's lawyer sent an address in Eunice. A man named Ben Creed held Ida's pearl accordion. Attached was his $3,900 deposit receipt.

June called the number before anyone could stop her.

We heard her introduce herself. Then she listened.

Her hand tightened around the phone.

"When?" she asked.

She switched to speaker.

A man's voice filled Mara's office.

"The carrier collected the case twenty minutes ago. I sent it to my daughter in Shreveport."