Lucinda Asked A Judge To Make Me Return Missing Property

Lucinda wanted an emergency order before her inventory case went any further.

Her motion asked the judge to make me return the eight components and all clinic records. It described an urgent risk that I would destroy evidence.

“I don't have the parts,” I told Joel. “I don't have their records.”

“Then that's what we'll prove.”

His bill frightened me almost as much as hers. My savings had fallen below $4,000.

He set out a payment plan in writing. I signed after I read it. That simple pause felt like something I had earned.

I also started keeping receipts for every expense tied to the case. Parking, copies, postage. Joel said not all of it could be recovered. I kept them anyway. I needed to see where my money went, even when I couldn't bring it back.

The hearing took place Thursday morning in a Hillsborough County courtroom cold enough to raise bumps on my arms.

Marisol sat behind me with Dennis. They had taken time away from work and family to be there.

I carried one paper model in my coat pocket. I did not bring patient photographs. Joel had filed the needed records with the patient details protected.

Lucinda arrived with a lawyer and a cream-colored binder. She nodded at me as if we were about to attend a staff meeting.

Her lawyer said I had exclusive control of valuable equipment.

Joel asked which document supported exclusive control.

“The defendant maintained the inventory,” the lawyer said.

“Maintaining a record and owning the keys are different things,” Joel replied.

Lucinda took the witness stand for the limited hearing. She said I had handled every movement of parts through the workshop.

“Every movement?” Joel asked.

“That was his job.”

He showed her the July 12 transfer sheet.

“Is that your approval?”

“Yes, but it was routine.”

“Did Mr. Mena approve that transfer?”

“He must have prepared it.”

“His name doesn't appear on it. Did you see him prepare it?”

She pressed her lips together.

“I have a clinic to run. I can't watch everything.”

“Who arranged the pickup?”

“I did.”

The judge made a note.

Then Lucinda's lawyer called the archive unreliable. He said a workshop employee could have changed the scans.

Joel presented a declaration from the records service. The retained copies had been stored before my dismissal. Their access log showed no later changes to those copies.

“The defendant built the index,” her lawyer said.

“Under your client's signed records policy,” Joel replied.

I watched Lucinda turn a page that did not need turning.

She had expected my habit of saving things to look small. Under oath, the dates made it larger than her story.

The judge did not decide the billing questions. She said those matters were outside the motion before her.

She did deny Lucinda's request to order me to surrender equipment without evidence that I possessed it.

Both sides agreed to preserve relevant records. The judge entered that agreement as an order. Joel made sure it covered the archive, shipping records, and electronic messages.

When we stepped into the hall, I realized I had been gripping the paper model through my pocket. Its seam was bent, but it had held.

Lucinda caught up to us beside the elevators.

“You always needed me to explain the business side,” she said.

Joel moved between us.

“Communications go through counsel.”

She looked past him at Marisol.

“You know this could disrupt care for everyone.”

Marisol shifted her cane to her other hand.

“I asked you to explain two numbers. You could have answered in June.”

The elevator opened. Nobody followed Lucinda into it.

Outside, a streetcar bell rang beyond the courthouse traffic. Dennis offered to buy lunch, but my phone started vibrating before we reached the corner.

It was a state investigator, Mateo Ellis. He asked whether I could speak privately with Joel present.

We went back upstairs and borrowed a small conference room.

Ellis had interviewed several people named on the upcoming shipment. Seven said they had never visited Bay Lantern. Two still had both legs and had attended only a general mobility fair at a senior center.

Their names had reached the clinic through an outreach sheet.

“I need to understand the fittings,” Ellis said. “Could you build a permanent socket from an outreach form?”

“No. You need measurements, a cast or a scan, fitting work, a prescription. A name and a phone number won't do it.”

“Could a complete leg be delivered before that happened?”

“Not a usable leg fitted for that person.”

He asked me to explain it again in a written statement, using plain words. I did.

At four that afternoon, he called Joel with one more question.

“The carrier just reported a schedule change,” he said. “Does Rafael know why Frost moved Friday's pickup to tonight?”