The Bank Copies Put Six Paid Months Back On The Table

Marisol read the new notice twice.

"If I hand him the keys, he'll say I gave up the shop."

The page called itself a final order. There was no court name, no case number, and no signature except Curtis's.

I photographed it on her clean towel table.

"We need someone who handles leases," I said.

"I have $412 after payroll."

I had set aside money for a heavy stitching machine. I looked at the crooked foot beneath my station, then at the wall where Marisol had marked each child's height during free puppy wash days.

"I'll cover the first meeting. We'll put it in writing."

She shook her head. "You've already done enough."

"I haven't even finished tightening the foot."

That earned half a smile.

We called a Missoula lawyer named Ruth Ames. Her assistant found us a short appointment that afternoon. Before we left, we downloaded the bank images into a folder Marisol controlled and copied them to a drive of mine.

Six checks. Each for $1,650. Each made payable to Alder Court Properties, the company named in her lease.

The fronts showed dates. The backs showed deposits. None had bounced.

"Can you tell where they went?" Marisol asked.

"Not from what I understand here. Ruth can tell us what to request."

I was good at reading leather. I did not pretend bank marks were saddle stitches.

We took copies of the receipts too. Curtis had signed every one.

Outside, June rain had turned the hills green above Missoula. Water ran along the curb carrying cottonwood fluff. I drove slowly because Marisol held the folder on her lap as if a sudden turn might spill six months of her life.

Ruth's office had no grand desk. She moved two stacks of files onto the floor and gave us chairs.

"Start with what you can prove," she said.

I liked her at once.

She read the equipment lease, the building lease, both notices, and the canceled checks. She asked who had heard the accusation and whether my business had lost any work.

Two harness fittings had canceled by text. One customer wrote that she wanted to wait until the police issue was settled.

I had not told Marisol about those.

"Save those messages," Ruth said. "Don't argue with the customers."

She asked me to write the times beside each event while I still remembered them. I used the back of a clean invoice.

"Can I say he wanted to scare us?"

"Write what he said. Write what he did. You can describe how it affected you separately."

I drew a line down the paper. On one side went his words. On the other went the work I had missed. Both columns filled faster than I expected.

She called the number on Marisol's building lease. Curtis answered.

"I need the property owner's contact," Ruth said.

We could hear his voice from her phone.

"All matters go through me."

"This matter concerns your conduct."

He got louder. Ruth lowered the speaker volume.

After he refused, she used the company's mailing details from the lease to reach its office. By four, a woman named Dana Wu called back. She managed the building for its family owners from an office across town.

"Our ledger shows no rent since December," Dana said.

Ruth sent the check images while we sat there.

The call went quiet.

"Those weren't posted," Dana said at last.

"Your manager collected them and signed receipts," Ruth said. "My clients need written assurance about access tomorrow morning."

My clients. I had never liked the sound of a legal bill. I liked those two words.

Dana agreed to meet us at the wash at eight. Ruth sent a letter stating who owned my station and asking the company to preserve its records and camera footage.

We paid $350 for that first work. Ruth gave me an itemized receipt before we left.

At seven that evening, Marisol forwarded a message from Curtis.

Outside parties will only increase your balance.

I saved it beside the rent checks.

Then I went back to my bench. A half-finished harness lay under my lamp. Its yellow keeper was too tight. I removed two stitches, cut a new strip, and made room for the strap to move.

Anger could make a person pull every seam too hard.

At eight the next morning, Dana arrived in rain boots carrying a slim laptop and the company's ledger. Curtis hurried from his office with a thicker folder.

"You're missing the surrender agreement," he told her.

He spread it across the towel table.

It listed my station as Marisol's property. Beneath the list was a signature that looked like hers.

Marisol stepped back.

"I signed a floor plan," she said. "Not that."

I read the bottom line. It gave the courtyard every listed item if she failed to pay rent.

And clipped behind it was an older agreement bearing another tenant's name.