The Court Read My Firing Sheets Against His Forged Payout Receipt

The defense lawyer held up a blue chip between two fingers.

"A beautiful object," he said. "But it doesn't tell us when you made it, does it?"

"Not by itself."

"And your book is your book. You could write anything in it."

"I could write something false. That's why there are other records."

I sat in the witness chair with my feet flat on the floor. Beyond the courtroom windows, the Ouachita hills had gone green again. Almost eleven months had passed since Rusk first touched my shell.

He sat beside his lawyer in a dark suit. No silk tie this time.

"You expected payment from the state for your help?" the lawyer asked.

"No."

"You were afraid of being charged."

"I was afraid. I hired a lawyer to understand my position."

Elaine had told me not to argue with the question I wished he'd asked.

"You made the copies," he said.

"Yes. Under the contract you've been shown."

He asked about Felix. Had we met alone? Had he offered to make my problems disappear? Wasn't I hoping for a personal relationship?

My face grew hot. I kept my answer short.

"I liked him. He reported his feelings and stopped directing my cooperation. He never offered me a favor."

The supervisor's assignment records supported that. Felix had already testified about the first visits and his handover to Tessa. His part had been limited, recorded, and open to questions.

It hadn't been comfortable for either of us. It was still the right thing.

When the prosecutor stood, she brought me back to the work.

"What does the ultraviolet mark establish?"

"Which batch a piece belongs to. The sample tile gives us a match. The firing sheet describes that batch. The invoices and emails help establish the dates."

"Can you tell us who moved money through a bank?"

"No. I can tell you when my porcelain existed."

She showed the jury the signed June 9 quote. Next came the June 10 invoice and its attached firing sheet, obtained from my tax preparer's records. Then the June 11 set. The email records had been produced and checked before trial.

My tax preparer had testified that she received them before Mara was reported missing and before Felix ever entered my shop.

Those plain business emails answered the claim that I had built my records for investigators.

The prosecutor placed the forged June 3 redemption receipt beside them.

"Had these batches been fired on that date?"

"No."

A lab witness later explained the comparison of the chips and retained tiles. An officer explained their collection and storage. My drawer hadn't become proof just because I said it was important. Other people had checked what was in it.

Mara testified after lunch.

She read her buyout agreement. She described the two boxes and the demand that she sign away a debt she was still owed. Her lawyer's records helped establish when she sought help and what she brought.

Then the financial witnesses followed the $84,000.

Bank records showed the transfer from Cedar Step to Rill. Company records and account access tied Rill to Rusk. The money went toward property for his own use, while the false receipt closed Mara's balance in Cedar Step's books.

The chips linked those false entries to a physical delivery he had arranged. His final account page repeated the code and the false date. His pickup signature put the last lot in his hands.

There were also witnesses from the gambling rooms, with their own records and agreements disclosed to the jury. They described blue and pearl pieces being redeemed at the values Mara had named.

My work was one part of the case. It was the part Rusk had thought too small to matter.

The jury took a day and a morning.

When we were called back, I sat beside Elaine. Mara sat across the aisle with her sister.

The verdicts were guilty on the charged theft and forgery counts, and on the gambling charges submitted to the jury.

Rusk looked toward the prosecutor, then toward me. I didn't look away. I didn't smile either.

Outside, Mara put her hands over her face. Her sister held her. Elaine asked whether I wanted to speak to the people waiting with cameras.

"No," I said. "I'd like to go back to work."

At the studio, I set out clay for a set of tiny kitchen cups. I had just made the first handle when my phone rang.

It was the prosecutor's office. The caller had the sentencing date and a question: did I want the court to hear what Rusk's papers had cost me?