Oksana Read Both Numbers Aloud In The Ward County Courtroom

I wore my good gray suit to the hearing. The cuffs had gone shiny, so I kept my hands loose at my sides.

June met me at the courthouse in Minot. She was there for me, she said, but the prosecutor would handle the criminal case.

"Answer the question you're asked," she told me. "If you don't know, say so."

"I've had practice lately."

She smiled and checked the courtroom number.

Oksana sat on a bench with her husband. He held her coat while she checked a small card in her red glasses.

"Studying?" I asked.

"Bus times. I know my own leg."

Bram came past us with his lawyer. He wore a dark suit and a soft tie. For a moment, I expected him to ask how my drive had been.

He looked at the floor.

The hearing was about whether the case should move forward. It was not a trial, and the judge said so. I was glad she put that plainly. I needed to know which kind of waiting we were doing.

The detective spoke first about the records he had collected. He described the bank payments and the serial matches. He did not call Bram a monster. He called a deposit a deposit.

That was enough.

When my name was called, I left my bag with June. The wooden bird stayed clipped beside the buckle. I had thought about putting it in my pocket, but I wanted my hands empty.

The prosecutor asked what my work involved.

"Minor repairs, service calls, and documented deliveries," I said. "I didn't bill for fitting a new knee."

She showed me a transfer sheet.

"How did you recognize this?"

"My writing. My route number. Bram's receiving signature. The blue copy stayed in the bound book."

"What did stock transfer mean?"

"The clinic received a sealed part. It did not mean a patient received it."

Bram's lawyer asked about my age.

"Sixty-eight," I said.

"Have you ever forgotten an appointment?"

"Yes. Once I wrote Tuesday instead of Thursday. I called and fixed it."

"So your records can contain errors."

"Any record can. That's why this one also has the maker's certificate, his signature, and the buyer's invoice."

He asked whether I had ever seen money change hands at Crosswind.

"No."

Whether I had watched Bram submit a false claim.

"No."

Whether I wanted my old job back.

"I wanted my name back. I had other work."

The prosecutor asked one more question.

"Did Mr. Ellery identify a wrong serial in your records before ending your contract?"

"I asked him to. He didn't."

I stepped down with my knees feeling oddly hollow.

June shifted her bag so I could sit. I checked the bird's clip with one finger. It was still fastened.

Across the aisle, a clerk lined up exhibits beside a glass of water. I watched those small tasks until the room felt level again. Then Oksana's name was called.

She explained the October visit, the tightening, and the click that never changed. She read M4-662 from her insurance list. Then she read K7-1186 from the bill.

Bram's lawyer suggested she might have confused the visit with another one.

"My husband drove," she said. "We ate lunch afterward. I kept the receipt because the soup was cold and they took it off the bill. October 3."

"Do you have medical training?"

"No. I have forty years of machine work. I know which number is stamped on a piece of metal. My new prosthetist supplied the medical report."

The lawyer changed the subject.

From the witness chair, she could see Bram. She turned toward him only once.

"I thanked you that day," she said while answering a question about the visit. "I thought you'd helped me."

He straightened his tie.

I looked down at my hands.

The judge allowed the case to proceed. Dates were discussed. Papers moved between desks. Nobody clapped. I had never wanted a room to clap less.

Outside, Oksana asked if I wanted lunch.

"Somewhere with hot soup," I said.

We sat near a window facing the street. Her husband told us about a stubborn heater at home. The talk felt so ordinary that I nearly cried over my sandwich.

Later, June called about the civil case. Bram had withdrawn his counterclaim. His lawyer wanted to discuss payment and a written correction.

"A correction sent to the people who heard it?" I asked.

"That's what I'll request."

"And no sentence saying I made an inventory mistake."

"None."

The criminal case took longer. Summer wheat rose beyond town while lawyers met behind doors. I kept doing repairs and turned down interviews.

In September, the prosecutor called to explain a plea agreement. I would not have to testify at a trial if the judge accepted it.

A week later, I sat beside Oksana in court again.

The clerk opened the door, and Bram walked in carrying his signed plea.