The Mold Numbers Followed Us Into The County Courtroom

Sora got the truck delayed by written agreement that Friday evening.

Company counsel promised the molds would stay in Bend through a Monday hearing. Sora filed a lawsuit to collect the note and enforce my security interest, along with a request to preserve the tools while the case was pending.

"The filing alone doesn't chain equipment to a floor," she told me. "We need an agreement or an order for that."

I slept badly all weekend anyway.

I kept imagining the rack empty. In my dreams, its eight clean spaces looked like missing teeth.

On Sunday, I checked my notebook against the schedule again. Each number matched. I put the notebook away and washed a sink full of dishes, slowly, until my hands stopped wanting to check it a third time.

Ruth called that night.

"I'll be there," she said.

"You don't have to come for me."

"I loaded those molds. I can say what I did."

On Monday, I wore a shirt I usually saved for family dinners. One cuff had a little burn from the plant's drying oven. I folded it inward.

Sora met me outside the Deschutes County courthouse.

"Answer what's asked," she said. "If you don't know, say so."

"I know mold numbers."

"Then we have a place to start."

Blaine sat behind company counsel with his boots planted wide. He gave me a small, sad smile, as though we had met at a funeral he blamed me for causing.

The lawyer explained that the company considered the tools old research equipment. Their removal, she said, would make room for the buyer's improvements.

Sora placed the signed schedule before the judge.

"The debt is due. These specific tools secure it. We ask that they remain available while the parties resolve the claim. Ordinary production can continue."

The judge looked at the two lawyers.

"I am not deciding every issue of priority or damages today. I want to understand what is being moved, and why."

When I was called, my mouth went dry.

Sora showed me a photograph of the rack. Company counsel had provided the image that morning after receiving our request.

"Can you identify these?"

"M-04 through M-11. Eight aluminum molds."

"How?"

"The numbers are stamped near the handles. I used them on my test sheets."

She showed me the plant's production records, which had also been produced for the hearing. The last run on M-07 was dated the Thursday after I was fired.

"How many pieces?"

"Six hundred bottle cradles."

"Passed or failed?"

"Passed. Under the moisture and load limits in the sheet."

Company counsel asked about my museum.

"You kept many failures from these tools, correct?"

"Yes."

"Then you knew they had quality problems."

"The samples had problems. Sometimes the mix was too wet. Sometimes we packed the corners too loosely. The mold gave the piece its shape. It didn't choose the mix."

I asked to look at the sheet again before answering her next question.

Waiting those few seconds steadied me.

"The mold isn't a mushroom," I said. "We didn't throw it away after one grow. We cleaned it and used it again."

From the back row, Ruth made a sound that might have been a cough.

She testified next. She had loaded the same molds all week. No one had told the press crew they were retired.

Then Sora showed the company's proposed shipment list. It described the tools as obsolete and placed a value of $1,200 on the whole lot.

The buyer's tooling review, supplied with its permission, valued those eight molds at $186,000 for continued use.

The judge turned a page.

"Those descriptions require an explanation."

Company counsel asked for a short break.

In the hall, I saw her speak to Blaine. He spread his arms. She kept hers at her sides.

When we returned, she said the company would agree to a narrow preservation order while the audit and settlement talks continued. It would provide an inventory and keep the molds at the plant. Any proposed transfer would require further written agreement or a court order.

Sora reviewed the terms with me before accepting them.

The judge approved the agreed order. Nobody cheered. A clerk gathered papers. Another case waited outside.

Blaine caught up with me near the stairs.

"All this over a few checks."

I held my folder against my chest.

"Then why didn't you write them?"

For once, he did not answer before I finished walking away.

Ruth and I bought sandwiches across the street. She cut hers in half and wrapped one piece for her late shift.

"Are we winning?" she asked.

"The molds are staying. That's what happened today."

She nodded.

We ate without making the day carry more than it could.

That evening, Sora sent me the audit team's first request for records. Attached by mistake to the company's reply was a separate payment schedule.

It listed Blaine's proposed closing bonus: $210,000.