The Discovery Request Asked For The Records He Said Settled Everything

Ruth's answer to the lawsuit was seven pages long. Mine would have been one sentence, and not a useful one.

She denied Duncan's claims and filed my claim over the false release. The museum filed its own case over the paid history project. Later, the court set the related matters before the same judge.

"It will still take time," Ruth told me.

She gave me a written fee plan. I would pay $250 a month after the first payment. Any money recovered for legal fees would be credited against what I owed.

I signed it with my usual flat, plain signature.

That small act made me angry enough to stop shaking.

A customer called while I stood outside Ruth's office. He needed a worn buckle cover replaced before a weekend trip to City of Rocks. I quoted him $35 and wrote down the size. For ten minutes, I could solve a problem with a ruler and a return label. Then I went back upstairs and checked the court dates. The lawsuit would take hours I could not sell twice. I began keeping those hours in their own column, beside every postage receipt.

Duncan had given a stranger a false version of even that.

The court ordered both sides to preserve records. Our requests covered the disputed release, project interviews, promotion papers Duncan had supplied to the museum, and messages about those records.

"We don't get his whole life," Ruth said. "We ask for the things tied to what he's claimed."

I gave her my shop calendar, messages, and every version of my statements. I hated handing over notes where I had written that I wanted to throw his cake into the road.

"Did you?" Ruth asked.

"No."

"Then your private wish won't break the case."

In March, I sat in a plain room while Duncan's lawyer asked me questions. A woman at a small machine took down every word.

"You sew recreational goods now?" he asked.

"I make adaptive climbing harnesses."

"You aren't a pilot."

"No."

"You can't say what caused the emergency."

"I never claimed I could."

He laid the inspection card in front of me.

"This says serviceable. Doesn't that mean there was no defect?"

"After the repair. Read the date above it."

He looked down.

"The card proves the completed work," I said. "The defect report explains why we did it. We're still waiting for that copy."

Ruth did not smile. I liked her for that.

Eli gave his testimony the following week. He described helping issue the repaired gear and checking the number on his set. He did not claim he had watched every stitch.

When asked who had directed the crew out of the aircraft, he said Duncan had.

"He did that job," Eli said. "Mrs. Xiong did hers."

The lawyer tried the question twice. Eli gave the same answer.

Noor brought the museum's original donation register. She explained that the reserve had been displayed with its numbered harness since the association received it. There was no recorded swap.

"Could someone have changed it without writing it down?" the lawyer asked.

"Someone could also have put it on the moon," Noor said. "My finding concerns the records and the object we actually have."

The court reporter paused.

Noor apologized for speaking too fast.

By April, Duncan had produced only a flat image of my supposed release. He said he had discarded the source papers after scanning them.

The museum's project agreement required him to retain the signed originals for seven years. That period had not ended when Noor first asked for mine.

His lawyer then supplied a batch of emails from the paid project.

One was to the association's volunteer who had assembled the exhibit panels.

Duncan had attached the false release. Beneath it, he had written: Use this signature version. Choua won't take part. We need all twelve boxes checked for payment.

I read it at Ruth's desk.

"So he knew," I said.

"That's what we're going to ask him."

In his sworn interview, Duncan called it a harmless shortcut.

"I had verbal consent," he said.

"From whom?" Ruth asked.

"She wasn't opposed back then."

"That's not a name."

He asked for a break.

I went into the hall and tested the buckle on my bag. Click. My thumb pressed the cold metal until it left a pale square in my skin.

Pao stood beside the water fountain.

"Now?" he asked.

I knew what he meant. A plain conversation, brother to man, about what Duncan had done.

"After the judge," I said.

Pao nodded.

That evening, Ruth forwarded a message from the records office. The second search had found an equipment recovery folder. They were sending a certified copy of its contents.

An attached preview showed the first page.

My name was on the prepared-by line.

Duncan's handwriting crossed the routing box beneath it.