The Judge Asked What Would Happen To The Seeds

At the courthouse, I put the hard case through the security belt and waited for it on the other side.

I had brought no laptop. My affidavit was twelve pages with exhibits. The spiral trial map was Exhibit F.

Priya found me studying it outside the courtroom.

“No last-minute improvements,” she said.

“Tray nine gets less light.”

“Then it's good you wrote that down yesterday.”

I had also written down our daily tray rotation. The spiral helped me reach the labels; the rotation kept a tray's place from deciding its result. We used duplicate samples for the same reason.

I could explain those choices without notes. Explaining my own place in a sale felt harder.

Priya handed me a cup of water.

“Answer what's asked,” she said. “You don't need to fill every silence.”

Sterling arrived with his lawyer, who carried a neat red folder. He walked past me without speaking. Owen came separately and sat near the back.

Judge Nora Keene began by asking what had been served, who had received it, and what relief the cooperative wanted that morning.

Priya stood.

“Preservation, Your Honor. No movement or disposal of the listed seed lots, no destruction of related records, and continued basic care for the live samples pending a fuller hearing.”

Rillbank's lawyer said the company disputed our reading of the license. He said an emergency order could damage a valuable sale.

The judge turned a page.

“Did the company order these lots shipped?”

“For secure storage.”

“And did anyone tell the carrier that some were active germination trials?”

He asked for a moment to speak with Sterling.

I stared at the wood rail in front of me. My mouth felt dry. The room had no windows, and I kept thinking of the narrow lab window and the foothills beyond it.

Priya called me to testify.

I swore to tell the truth, then gave my name and job history.

“Are all these seeds fragile?” she asked.

“No. The dry reserve lots can be moved with proper labels and storage. The growing samples are different. If you seal them in shipping boxes, you change the trial and may kill the roots.”

“Could money replace the trial?”

“We could pay to start another. We'd lose this trial's results and miss part of the field schedule.”

She asked about the appointment and the original agreement. I identified the documents and explained the reserve inventory.

Rillbank's lawyer asked whether I was angry about being fired.

“Yes,” I said.

Priya did not move.

“And you want your job back?”

“I want to keep working on the breeding program.”

“So you benefit if this court interferes with the sale.”

“I might also lose the best buyer we have. That's why I asked for the seed to be cared for while the terms are checked.”

He asked whether I owned DF-17.

“No. The rights are divided under the license. I'm the appointed steward.”

It felt strange to say something so small when Sterling had spent years making it sound smaller.

But the judge wrote it down.

She did not decide the whole contract case that morning. She entered a temporary order protecting the listed lots and records, set a further hearing, and required a $10,000 bond from the cooperative.

The board had approved using its reserve for the bond that morning. Priya arranged the deposit while counsel settled the wording of the care schedule.

The order allowed supervised access for an agreed seed professional. It did not give me back my job, award us sale proceeds, or declare Sterling a fraud.

It gave the samples time.

In the hallway, Sterling stepped close enough for me to smell his mint.

“Ten thousand dollars,” he said. “How many farmers can afford this hobby?”

“Five board members approved it.”

“They'll blame you when the buyer leaves.”

Priya moved beside me.

“Your lawyer is waiting.”

She said it the way someone might point out an open car door.

That afternoon, a supervised inventory began. The agreed seed professional was a retired testing manager named Ruth Bales. I joined her as the cooperative's steward under a written access agreement.

My old badge was still dead. Ben signed us in as visitors.

Chamber three had been checked. The shipping manager had written the moisture readings in careful block letters.

I stood over the trays and let myself breathe.

Ruth counted seals while I read lot numbers. We found all the reserve seed. One stack had already been packed, but it contained dry samples. We photographed every label and signed a joint inventory.

Outside, Mara waited beside Priya's car.

“I have authority to discuss a route forward,” she said.

She handed me an envelope with my name on it.

The first page offered me $240,000, if I would help approve a deal that ended the growers' share.