His Late Night Threat Became the First Exhibit Next Morning

I forwarded the email to Ruth without replying.

Then I called her emergency number.

"Is the portable drive at the studio?" she asked.

"No. I haven't seen it."

"Don't go looking for him. Keep your devices as they are. I'm contacting their counsel and seeking further relief."

I sat on the floor of Asha's spare room while Ruth worked. The bed felt too soft for how alert I was.

Asha placed a bowl of rice beside me.

"Your body has received no court order to stop eating."

"He has eighteen people's voices in a bag somewhere."

"And he just put his plan in writing. Eat three bites."

I managed four.

Near midnight, Nolan's lawyer confirmed he had told his client to make no further transfers. Fernwake's lawyer confirmed the closing agent had frozen the deposit.

I slept for two hours with my clothes on.

The next morning, Ruth filed a sworn account attaching the threat, the sale packet, the performer rider, and the existing order. She gave notice to the other lawyers and sought an urgent hearing.

The court heard us that afternoon.

Nolan arrived without Celia. For the first time, he did not ask whether I needed help carrying something.

His lawyer said the email had been written in frustration.

Ruth read it aloud.

"The remaining source package goes out."

Then she showed the judge the sale sheet. Eighteen voices. $180,000. Rights claimed in broad terms we had never been given by the performers.

Nolan called them old studio files when he took the stand.

"Unused material. My wife hoards everything."

Ruth asked whether old material could still belong to someone.

"It's company property."

"Which company?"

He looked toward his lawyer.

Ruth placed the performer rider in front of him. It had his initials beside the clause he had once complained about. He had initialed it as the manager who received a copy, not as an owner of the voice.

"Did you receive this?"

"I didn't think it applied to a new product."

"It says no use of raw sessions to create new speech. What did you think that meant?"

He said nothing for long enough that I heard the ventilation fan stop.

The judge required delivery of the portable drive to a neutral examiner. She expanded the order to bar use or sale of the source recordings, voice models, and related rights pending further hearing. Nolan and Hollow Finch had to identify every recipient and preserve the records.

Ruth had asked for specific things. The order named those things.

Outside, Nolan stood near the elevator.

"You've made me sound like a thief."

"You offered to sell Luis's voice."

"He was paid to read."

"He wasn't paid to say anything you wanted forever."

The elevator opened. I let him take it alone.

The examiner received the portable drive through Nolan's lawyer the next morning. Its label was one I had written for our old travel kit. Nolan had once carried it for me through a sudden storm, holding his coat over the case. I could remember that kindness and still insist on the receipt proving he had surrendered it.

Over the next week, the examiner worked from preserved copies. All eighteen performers had now been reached. Each confirmed they had given no consent to generated speech.

Fernwake supplied its full incoming package through counsel. Its test team had built only one trial model, from Luis's recording. It had not launched a public service or sold access.

They still had to show that through records. Their assurances alone were not enough for Luis.

"I want someone to count," he told me.

"So do I."

The examiner matched Luis's supplied raw file to our backup. The file carried the same twelve seconds of room tone and the same session data. The other seventeen source files matched our archive too.

More useful still were the messages Fernwake preserved. Nolan had promised clean rights. Celia had sent a shorter license schedule and called the missing performer rider an obsolete production form.

Their own records connected the files to the sale.

At the studio, I put a fresh sheet in the binder. I listed what had been found and what still needed proof.

There were fewer unknowns now. They still kept me awake.

Late Friday, a courier brought a small envelope from Celia's new lawyer. Celia and Nolan no longer had the same counsel.

Inside was an amended copy of her $24,920 invoice, with a note asking that it be added to the case record.

The original label had said Catalog Preparation Fee.

The detailed version said Voice Inventory, Sample Development, And Rights Schedule Revision.

At the bottom, beside the payment date, Celia had written: Nolan asked me to remove the restriction. I agreed.