The Missing Driver Called While Greer Filed His Claim Against Me

I found a lawyer through a customer who still trusted me.

Nora Vale read Greer's complaint in silence. Her office faced a parking lot where loose wheat had sprouted along the curb.

"Can you afford a $2,000 retainer?" she asked.

"In two pieces."

"We'll start with one. Bring every version of your service agreement."

Greer wanted his records returned, my copies destroyed, and a judge's order stopping further disclosure. He claimed I had taken private business data to force payment of my bill.

Nora tapped that sentence.

"Did you ever offer silence for money?"

"No."

"Good. Keep those subjects in separate envelopes."

I gave her my invoice notices and every message from Greer. All had asked for payment for completed work. None had offered a trade.

Outside her office, an unknown number called.

"Mr. Tso? You still do scales?"

The voice was thin and tired.

"Yes. Who's this?"

"Eli Dane. Don't hang up."

I sat in my van without shutting the door.

"Your sister thinks you're dead."

"I know."

His breath caught. For a moment, neither of us spoke.

"I saw the complaint against you," he said. "My sister sent the local news link to an old email. I finally opened it. You didn't sign for him."

"Where are you?"

"If I tell you, you have to tell somebody."

"I will. You need somebody who can help keep you safe."

I asked whether he could speak to his own lawyer and to Webb. I did not promise secrecy I couldn't keep.

"Will they listen about the truck?" he asked.

"They have its weight."

He started crying then. Quietly, like he didn't want anyone in the next room to hear.

He had been staying with a cousin outside Dodge City, doing fence work for cash. He said Wade had ordered him to cross the elevator deck empty that August night.

Then Greer had handed him a ticket for a full load.

"I asked where the grain was," Eli said. "He said I wasn't paid to own grain."

Eli had kept the duplicate dispatch slip. When Wade found out, he threatened Eli and said Greer would report $3,200 missing from the fuel account.

Eli left K-47 at a repair yard and fled.

"Running made me look guilty," he said.

"Then start putting the truth somewhere it can stay."

I called Nora from her parking lot. She found Eli a separate attorney. Webb arranged contact through that attorney, then a safe meeting. I never drove out to fetch him.

Two days later, I learned he had spoken with his sister and given investigators his dispatch slip and phone messages.

His attorney sent me one line, with Eli's permission: He is somewhere safe tonight. I printed it and put it outside the evidence binder. Some papers belonged where I could see them without having to prove anything about a scale.

His story still needed checking. Webb said so before I could ask.

That same week, I attended my licensing review with Nora.

The lab report showed the three standards had been opened and bored out from beneath. Their copied seals did not match my supplier's stock. The witnessed test showed M-12 had been sound before the visit caught on my camera.

I had not used those standards on a customer job between that test and my discovery. My calendar, mileage log, and work sheets supported that.

The reviewer turned to Greer's photograph.

"Who took this?"

His lawyer said the client had supplied it.

"Then we need the original file and an explanation of access."

My license remained in good standing. The office issued a written finding that the evidence did not support Greer's complaint.

I sent the finding to the three customers who had paused work. One booked me that afternoon.

For the first time in weeks, I breathed without counting dollars first.

Celia called that evening.

"My transfer is complete," she said. "Webb has the case. My supervisor has the disclosure. I won't discuss evidence with you."

"What can we discuss?"

"Whether you put ketchup on eggs. I need to know before this goes further."

"Only on bad eggs."

"A careful answer. Saturday breakfast? My treat this time."

I accepted. We were both quiet for a few seconds after that.

On Friday, Nora asked me to bring the original recorder lease to court Monday. Greer's lawyer argued that everything the box had recorded belonged to the elevator.

I opened my fire box and took out the agreement. Beneath it lay my archive register, with a receipt for each sealed monthly export.

The August export predated our dispute.

I had almost forgotten how much an ordinary receipt could hold.

As I set it beside the lease, Webb called.

"We searched Greer's repair shed under a warrant," he said. "We found your old case key in Jonah Pike's locker."