The Court Asked Cedric To Explain A Return He Denied

The first court date was about preserving records and keeping refund money available. It was not the trial I had built in my head while washing dishes.

There would be no single speech that gave everyone their money back.

June wore a gray jacket with a button she had sewn on in blue thread. She carried no folder. Ruth had the originals for the exhibits, each in its own sleeve.

“Feels strange,” June said, flexing her empty hands.

“You can hold mine.”

She did, until we reached the courtroom door.

Cedric sat with two lawyers. He nodded at June as if they had run into each other at the post office.

She nodded back. Then she sat beside me.

The state's lawyer laid out the records found so far: returned trial devices billed as completed sales, reused signature images, and transfers among the four offices that did not clear patient balances.

Cedric's lawyer called them posting errors in a growing business.

That phrase covered a lot of ground. It covered June's lost $740. It covered Leon saving for aids he had been told were new. It covered my mother delaying the work on her car.

I kept my face still.

June testified about what she borrowed, what she returned, and what left her bank. She did not offer a view on Cedric's soul.

“Why were you so sure of the date?” his lawyer asked.

“I wrote it down that day.”

The court reporter's keys made a soft rush of sound. June glanced toward her once. I wondered how often she had sat where that woman sat, keeping a record while people wished they had used different words.

This time, she had come to finish a sentence that had started in a small exam room: I returned them.

“People make mistakes when writing things down.”

“Yes.”

“You were unhappy with both trial pairs?”

“Yes.”

“So you were unhappy with the clinic?”

June waited.

“I was unhappy with the sound,” she said. “I became unhappy with the clinic when it charged me for things I returned.”

The lawyer moved on.

When I testified, he asked whether I resented being fired.

“Yes.”

“You want Mr. Lorne to lose his business?”

“I want these accounts explained and corrected. I also want the statements about my work corrected.”

He showed me June's yellow slip.

“You created this form.”

“I asked that patients receive a copy. The clinic used the form.”

“Your signature is on it.”

“Because I accepted the devices.”

“Isn't this all based on your word?”

The state's lawyer later showed the stock record produced by the clinic. Both of June's serial numbers had been checked back into inventory on May twenty-eighth.

My word had company.

I let out a breath slowly. At work, I told dizzy patients to look at one fixed point. In court, I picked the edge of June's yellow receipt inside its clear sleeve.

Cedric testified that he depended on office staff to handle daily entries. His voice softened when he spoke about elderly patients. I knew that voice well enough to feel it in my teeth.

The state's lawyer asked about an email he had sent to the bookkeeper.

The email had been obtained with the business records. It directed her to carry returned trials as completed sales until the end of the quarter and leave scheduled payments running.

“That was a draft policy,” Cedric said.

“Where does it say draft?”

He adjusted the cord on his glasses.

“I would need the full chain.”

The lawyer supplied it. A reply from him approved the list that included June and David.

I watched June press one thumb against the seam of her jacket. She did not smile.

After the hearing, the judge ordered preservation of the records and limits on moving certain business funds. An independent review would go ahead under the court's orders. The offices could keep providing care under the conditions set that day.

The case still had to be resolved.

Outside, June bought us tea in paper cups. We stood near the courthouse steps while buses hissed at the curb.

“Were you glad?” she asked.

“When he had to read the email? Yes.”

“I was glad when the judge told them to preserve the records.”

That was why I needed her.

The review lasted months. The court-appointed accountant checked the satellite accounts against device stock, payment records, and patient copies. People who had never come to our meeting received notices and a way to submit disputes.

My little chart became one piece of a much larger file.

I worked more hours at the rehabilitation practice. I paid my mother $100 when I could. Some nights I still woke thinking a patient had fallen because Cedric had moved the appointment.

I had no proof that had happened. Fear did not belong in our evidence column.

In October, Ruth asked us to come to her office.

The accountant's final report lay on the table, open to a total of $186,420 in improper charges.