My Old Loan Inventory Opened a Door Wyatt Had Locked

Janel Ortiz put three sheets beside each other on her desk.

"Purchase," she said, touching the first. "Ownership. Permission to use. They're three different things."

Her office was above a small insurance office. Through the window, I could see rain darkening the sidewalk.

She had helped us form the company. I had called her because I remembered what she asked before she drew up the papers.

What could I afford to lose?

"You represent the business?" I asked.

"That work ended after formation. Before I agreed to meet, I checked whether I could represent you in this dispute. I can. The company will need separate counsel."

She gave me an agreement and time to read it. I paid a $2,000 retainer from savings I had meant to use for my roof.

Then she opened Schedule B.

The trailer had cost me $11,600. The large press cost $6,800; the small one, $2,400. I had bought them with money earned before Wyatt ever carried a repair ticket.

My hand-cut patterns were listed separately. I had shaped those from years of fitting breastcollars, keepers, and trace ends. They had never been his to price.

"Both of you put in one thousand dollars in cash," Janel said. "The equipment wasn't part of that contribution. The loan inventory says so. Your operating agreement refers to it."

"He says I put everything in."

"He can say it. He needs evidence."

She asked for the closure email, the sale pages, and Lan's signed count. I had brought all three.

"Did you tell Ellis he couldn't move the tools?"

"Yes."

"Good. I'll give formal notice too. Keep the originals here while we scan them."

She called Ellis with me in the room. He agreed to pause collection. He wanted his $8,000 back, and he wanted no part of a dispute over customer goods.

Then she called Wyatt.

He asked to speak to me alone.

"You can speak with both of us," she said.

"Khoa, this lawyer is going to eat the sale money."

"Where is the sale money?" I asked.

"Available when we settle things."

"What account?"

He went quiet.

Janel asked him to preserve the business records and return my access to the booking system. She asked that nobody move, damage, or pledge the listed equipment.

"I need a day," he said.

"You have until four to agree that it stays put."

He hung up without agreeing.

I wanted to drive straight to the stable and cut the padlock. Janel must have seen it in my face.

"We can seek a court order," she said. "Don't make a new fight with bolt cutters."

She prepared a demand for return of my property. She also began a court filing to wind up the failed company and protect its records and assets while we sorted the claims.

"Will I have to stop repairing?"

"You'll need your tools first. After that, new work needs clear, separate terms. Don't mix new money with the old company's debts."

That afternoon, Lan let me use a feed room table. I had my pocket tools, wax, and needles. I could finish hand stitching, but I couldn't cut new heavy strap ends without my forms and press.

She brought Mrs. Pike to the door.

"I didn't want to send this by phone," Mrs. Pike said.

She held a printed email from Wyatt. It said I had withdrawn vital equipment without warning and forced the closure.

"I haven't withdrawn a thing," I said. "I'm locked out."

Mrs. Pike looked toward the trailer.

"I paid six hundred dollars for work on two sets. Does that money still exist?"

I couldn't give her a kind answer that was also true.

"We're checking. Your harness is here. Your money is on our list."

"Put me first on the phone list when you know."

Lan waited until she left.

"He used your name to take the work," she said. "Now he's using it to explain the hole."

I had thought losing the tools was the worst thing Wyatt could do. I had not counted what he could do with a mailing list and ten spare minutes.

At four, Janel called. Wyatt had refused her demand. He had hired a lawyer and sent what he called proof that the business owned my equipment.

"Is it another inventory?" I asked.

"A copy of your old signature page attached to a new equipment sheet. He calls the sheet a correction."

I stopped rubbing wax into my thread.

"I never signed a correction."

"Bring the email from the day you formed the company," she said. "The one with all the original attachments."