The Judge Asked For Titles Before She Looked At The Brochure

Brielle wore the same pale jacket to the courthouse. Her lawyer carried a much thicker folder than Lena's.

I carried the flat steel drawer's contents in a plain document case. The cardboard strips were still between the titles.

We sat outside a courtroom in Sioux Falls while shoes squeaked down the hall.

I had worn my only dark suit. There was a small burn on the cuff from an old shop heater. I tucked that wrist beneath the document case and kept both feet flat on the floor.

"You can end this," Brielle told me.

"The keys would be a start."

She turned away.

Inside, Judge Maren Holt asked each lawyer what needed to happen that day. Lena asked for protection of the fleet, its return under court supervision, and a hold on funds until customer claims could be sorted out.

Brielle's lawyer called the dispute a misunderstanding between spouses.

"My client relied on a management agreement," he said. "She has spent substantial money preparing these vehicles for tours."

He held up the brochure.

The judge left it on the table.

"Who holds the current titles?"

Lena stood.

"The Boone Fabrication Trust. Mr. Boone has the originals. The official record still reflects that ownership."

The clerk marked our copies as exhibits. I brought the originals forward when asked.

My hands shook a little. I had steadier hands under a welding hood than I did beneath a courtroom clock.

The judge read the booking agreement, then the different version attached to the transfer applications.

"These paragraphs are not the same," she said.

Nobody answered for a moment.

Brielle's lawyer finally said he had only recently received the application copies.

"We aren't making a criminal finding today," the judge said. "We are deciding what must be protected until this matter is heard."

That sentence let me breathe. I did not need her to decide my whole life before lunch. I needed six vehicles to stay where the court could find them.

Lena called me to explain the trust, the lease, and the service records.

"Did you give your wife authority to transfer ownership?"

"No. She could book rides and arrange where we staged the fleet."

"Did you sign these applications?"

"No."

The other lawyer asked whether Brielle had helped earn the rental income.

"Yes," I said.

"So she contributed to the business."

"She did. We paid her for some work, and we both took draws. She was good at bookings."

He seemed to wait for me to take that back.

I did not.

"Could the tours run without you?" he asked.

"With trained drivers and proper checks, yes. The lease set out those rules. A booking page didn't meet them by itself."

Lena put Warren's chart before the judge. It linked every company unit to a trust-owned motorcycle and sidecar. The invoices also showed that the missing rental money had paid to service those same rigs.

Brielle leaned toward her lawyer.

I heard only one word.

"Cardboard."

The judge asked her to speak into the microphone if she had something to add.

"He makes everything look official," Brielle said. "He saves scraps. He dates boxes. I trusted what we agreed to as a couple."

"Then you should welcome a clear record," the judge said.

The bank records showed $47,260 remaining in Prairie Lantern's account. Warren had checked the math before we entered the room.

Of that amount, $28,800 came from the twenty-four riders. Another $4,000 came from a possible fleet buyer. The remaining $14,460 came from our rental account.

The judge ordered the company to preserve those funds while she heard the refund request. She barred it from selling, moving, or using the six rigs and required it to stop accepting more deposits for tours using them.

Then she ordered the rigs delivered into the trust's temporary custody through a supervised handover. The final ownership ruling would come later.

Brielle's lawyer asked for time to arrange another fleet.

"Your client may seek lawful replacements," the judge said. "She may not promise these vehicles while this order is in place."

Outside, Brielle caught my sleeve.

"Those people will blame me."

"Tell them the truth."

"You always say that like it's free."

I pulled my sleeve loose.

"It would have cost less on Monday."

Lena called a transport service and arranged the handover with the sheriff's office. I went back to the shop and swept all six marked bays.

I checked the fire door. I charged the battery tester. I set clean cardboard beneath each parking space so any leak would show.

At four, a deputy called to confirm the yard address and the next morning's time.

Then he added, "The yard manager says there's a buyer waiting beside a flatbed. He has a bill of sale with your name on it."