The Locksmith Found Me Working Beneath A Court Order

Mara called the lock company while we sat in her office.

"The trust owns the premises," she said. "We have not approved a lock change. The person who sent that order has no authority over this tenant."

She wrote down the name of the woman who answered.

Then she gave me the number of June Patel, a lawyer who had helped another tenant after a roof dispute.

June answered at four fifteen.

"Tell me the shortest true version," she said.

I told her about the party, the deposit, the lease, and Monday's locks.

"Bring the originals. Don't argue with him again."

Her office was above a bakery, up stairs that smelled of sugar and wet wool. I carried my folder flat beneath my arm.

June read every sheet. She checked the notice address in the lease against the delivery receipt for my renewal letter.

"People lose good claims over a bad envelope," she said.

Mine had gone to the right place, on time. Mara had signed for it.

June called Bryce and sent him the papers by email. She told him she was asking the court to stop any interference with the loft while the dispute was heard.

His voice came through her speaker.

"This is family business."

"Then the family should stop ordering locks."

He said he needed a lawyer. June gave him time to call one while she prepared my sworn statement.

I described exactly what he had said. I left out what I thought he meant.

By early evening, after a brief phone hearing with notice to Bryce, a judge granted a temporary order. Bryce and his company could not change the locks, remove my tools, or block access. A hearing was set for Tuesday.

June sent the order to him, his new lawyer, the trust, and the lock company.

"This holds the door still," she said. "It doesn't finish the case."

Her first bill would be $2,000 against a retainer. I wrote the check without enjoying it.

On Saturday, I worked on a torn jib while Inez made copies at the other end of the cutting table.

"Should we tell everybody from lunch?" she asked.

"Tell anyone who asks that the records show I'm the tenant."

"I'd like to tell them more."

"So would I."

She looked at me over her glasses.

"You always make patience sound easy."

"It isn't patience. I don't want to buy him a claim against us."

That made her smile.

We placed one copy set in June's office drop box and another in our bank box. I kept the working set in the loft, inside the drawer where I stored needles by size.

Sunday brought a hard east wind. I checked the storm shutters and carried three customers' sails to the dry side of the room.

I barely slept that night.

At five thirty Monday, I unlocked the loft. The harbor was black except for mast lights and the yellow square of the bait shed window.

I put the court order beside the door and made coffee.

At six, a van rolled onto the gravel.

A young locksmith stepped out with his tablet. Bryce climbed from his car behind him.

"Dispatch canceled this," the locksmith said. "Then somebody called and said the owner had cleared it."

"I cleared it," Bryce said.

I opened the door wide enough for them to see me and the paper taped at eye level.

"Please read that before you touch a screw."

The locksmith read. His eyes moved to Bryce.

"Sir, this has a judge's signature."

"It's temporary."

"So is my being here."

He called his office. Mara arrived before the call ended, carrying her own copy and a travel mug.

"The trust has not changed its answer," she said.

The locksmith took two photographs of the untouched locks for his records. Then he left.

Bryce stood with his hands in his coat pockets.

"You've cost me a lot of money."

"You took money for a room you couldn't deliver."

"Dana's people were going to restore this dump."

From upstairs came the small scrape of Inez moving her chair. She stepped into the window light.

"My drawings are in this dump," she said. "So are thirty years of our work."

"Come down and talk sense to him."

"I am talking sense to you."

Bryce left without looking up again.

I sent June the van's arrival time and the locksmith's name. Then I went back to the jib. My hands were steady enough to set a patch, though I had to unpick the first row.

At ten, a courier brought a packet from Bryce's lawyer for Tuesday's hearing.

I read his sworn statement beside the coffee pot.

He had found a new claim: the $48,000 renewal payment, he said, had really been his father's company money.