Six Customers Brought Their Receipts While Russell Demanded My Originals
Part 4 · 4 min read ·
We invited the customers to my sample room on Saturday morning.
I moved bags of screened earth under the bench and borrowed folding chairs. Beatriz brought a portable scanner, a stapler, and a cooler. She parked facing the street, as if she expected to defend the whole meeting with her truck.
“We're checking records,” she reminded me. “We aren't holding a trial in your garage.”
I wrote that on a card and clipped it above the table.
The blue clothespin helped me remember.
Inés arrived first. Then came Mr. Orr, who wanted his porch columns repaired, and Dana Bell, who had planned a small guesthouse wall restoration. Marcus Cho brought a folder from his shop. June Price had kept her receipt in an envelope with a grocery list. Alma Salas came with her daughter.
They looked at one another as people did in a waiting room.
“Did he tell all of you I retired?” I asked.
Six heads moved.
“I'm sorry. I didn't.”
Beatriz gave everyone a separate sheet showing only that customer's job, deposit, and transfer date. Nobody needed another person's bank details.
We matched canceled checks to my ledger and bank records.
Orr's $9,600 had left my account on a Tuesday. Bell's $8,400 had followed on Thursday. Cho's $10,200 went the next week. Price's $7,800 and Salas's $8,400 had gone during my trip.
With Inés's $14,000, the total was still $58,400.
The number didn't become smaller because six people stared at it.
“I made my check out to your company,” June said.
“You did,” I said. “Your payment counts. I'm not asking anyone to pay it twice.”
“Can you finish all these jobs?” Marcus asked.
“I can finish them with proper funding and time. Today I can promise accurate updates. I won't invent a start date to keep you quiet.”
That answer hurt to give. It also settled the room.
Dana and June said they might need refunds. The others could wait a short time while we traced the money. Beatriz recorded their choices as requests, not signed settlements.
“Talk to your own adviser if you wish,” she said. “Leilani's records are available for your job.”
Alma raised a printed email.
“He offered me a five hundred dollar discount if I signed the transfer by Friday.”
The same form. The same L.K. in the box.
None of the six customers had signed it.
Russell had counted on their trust, then rushed them before they could compare notes.
Outside, a truck door slammed.
He walked into my driveway carrying a cardboard file box.
“This meeting wasn't authorized,” he said.
Beatriz capped her pen.
“By whom?”
He looked past her at the customers.
“I'm sorry you're being put through this. Leilani is upset about changes we agreed to.”
“Show us,” Inés said.
He held out the empty box to me.
“Original contracts. Bond papers. Rental accounts. We'll sort everything at my office.”
“You can request copies in writing.”
“Those files belong to the partnership.”
I brought out his commission agreement. I laid it on the table without letting go.
“Show me the ownership clause.”
“You know what our arrangement was.”
“I know what we both signed.”
He pointed toward the sample shelf.
“You made mud. I built the business.”
My face grew hot. For a moment I wanted to tell him about every summer roof, every cold morning, every customer who had waited for me because I kept my word.
Instead, I asked, “Where is the fifty-eight thousand four hundred dollars?”
He stopped pointing.
“Operating funds,” he said.
“Whose operations?”
“You can't run a company on little test patches.”
Beatriz stood.
“Please leave this property.”
He looked at the six customers, then took his empty box away.
After everyone left, I sat beneath my samples. I had kept every receipt and still felt foolish.
Beatriz touched my shoulder.
“Trusting someone gave him access,” she said. “Keeping records gives you a way back.”
On Monday, we took the folder to attorney Mara Venn. She read the agreements, asked hard questions, and warned that getting a judgment and collecting money were different jobs.
We hired her anyway.
Before we left, Mara asked whether I had any business debt I hadn't mentioned. I listed the supplier balances and the next insurance payment. Beatriz checked them against her sheet.
“Anything else?” Mara asked.
“I'm embarrassed.”
She set down her pen.
“That isn't a debt.”
I looked at the folder on her desk. Every page had cost me a small piece of pride to gather. For the first time, I saw the stack as something I had built instead of something I had failed to prevent.
Before she finished drafting the first demand, her assistant brought in a courier envelope addressed to me.
Inside was Russell's demand for $18,600 in supposed management charges on the Vale courtyard, with a notice that his company intended to claim a lien if I didn't pay.