My Lawyer Answered His Demand With A Stack Of Numbered Exhibits

I left Wain's proposed statement unsigned on my desk.

For ten minutes, I could not do anything but look at the amount. Seventy-five thousand dollars was more than the value of my van, my tools, and every horn in my shop together.

Then I put the letter in the blue sleeve with the rest.

Noor gave me the name of Beth Ansel, a lawyer who had helped her settle a house repair dispute. Beth offered a $225 meeting the next morning. I brought a check and a box of copies.

She read Wain's demand without speaking.

"Did you post anything online?" she asked.

"No. I spoke to the school, the auditor, and the detective."

"Good. Tell me what you want."

I had expected her to ask how much money I wanted.

"My work back. My bill paid. My name put right where he put it wrong."

"And your losses?"

I gave her the canceled $420 overhaul, the unpaid $1,275 bill, and the time I had spent chasing papers instead of fixing horns. She asked which losses I could show and which were only fears.

That was a harder question.

Two other directors had postponed pickups. Neither had canceled. I had been counting both as gone already.

"We'll keep those separate," she said.

She made a list of exhibits. A was the auction notice. B was my receipt. C was the signed serial inventory. By H, the pile included the altered list, the receiving record, the storeroom count, and Ruth's written findings.

"He put the new serial numbers in your dispute," Beth said. "That gave everyone a reason to ask where the new horns were."

"He could have just read my receipt."

"He had that choice."

Beth answered his lawyer that afternoon. She rejected the demand, denied the claim that I had lied, and asked him to identify any statement of mine he could prove false. The exhibits went with the letter.

She sent a separate claim to the district for my losses and asked for a clear public correction. She also asked that payment for accepted repairs be handled on its own, without making me sign away anything else.

"Does he get to freeze my work?" I asked.

"Let's make the district answer that in writing."

It answered two days later.

Vera Bell wrote that Wain had no authority to contact vendors while on leave. My repair bill had passed review. Payment of $1,275 was being issued. There was no finding against my work or my conduct.

I read that last sentence aloud in the shop.

Then I read it again.

It did not undo the band room, but it let me breathe while I waited for the rest.

I matched the payment notice to eleven work slips. Each had a date, a repair, and a teacher's signature accepting the horn back. One slip still had a little ring of valve oil on it. I had always kept those sheets to get paid. Now they showed how much ordinary work a loud accusation could hide.

I called the two directors who had postponed pickups. I sent them the superintendent's letter. Both put me back on their calendars.

The customer who canceled her overhaul asked for another estimate.

"My boy heard you got arrested," she said.

"I didn't. I can show you what the district found."

"I'm sorry I believed it."

"Bring the horn when you're ready. The old estimate still stands."

Beth kept the canceled job on her loss log until we knew whether the customer returned. A rumor was loose and hard to measure. An empty slot in my work book was easier.

That week, I stripped the green cord off my old trumpet case and fitted a new handle. I kept the cord in a drawer. Eli had liked the way it looked, and I might use it on a music folder for him.

Noor called while I was setting the handle rivets.

"They've given Chester notice of the charges for his job hearing," she said. "He can answer them before the board decides."

"Will you have to go?"

"Yes. I'm taking my written statement."

"I'm sorry he pulled you into this."

"He brought it into my classroom. I was already there."

Later that afternoon, the records clerk sent the first batch from my request. Beth told me to save the whole email, not just the pages I liked.

There were sale minutes, pickup records, and an email Wain had sent Elsie at 5:16 on the day he marched me out.

I called Beth and read it to her.

"Replace the shared sale inventory with this corrected copy. Remove the prior copy from the folder before responding to any inquiries."

Elsie's reply came six minutes later.

"I cannot change a completed transfer. These serial numbers do not match lot forty-four."

Below her reply sat another attachment from Wain.

It was the same changed inventory he had sent to me.