The Judge Asked Where Our Mushroom Money Had Gone

The demand gave me forty-eight hours to turn over every master tube, lab book, and customer list.

It called them company property.

I read it beside the pressure cooker while grain jars cooled. The clock on the wall made each minute sound like a small dropped nail.

"Don't answer it yourself," Tessa said when I called. "Keep doing the routine care. Keep a record of everything you use or move."

I counted the master tubes and photographed the locked cold cabinet. I made a care log, with temperatures at morning and evening checks.

I drew no moons on that sheet. I wanted even Paolo's lawyer to find it plain.

Tessa requested temporary orders in our divorce case. We needed money for household costs, rules for the business, and full records from Birch Quay.

The hearing took place on a gray morning in Worcester. I wore black pants that still had a pale patch where I had splashed cleaning fluid.

Paolo wore a navy suit.

He stood when I entered, the way he stood for bank managers. For one foolish second, I thought he might ask whether I had enough for lunch.

"This could still be contained," he told me.

Tessa moved beside me.

"Please speak through counsel."

Inside the courtroom, the benches were hard and the voices carried. A clerk called our names. I kept my folder on my knees until Tessa needed it.

Paolo's lawyer described me as a skilled grower with limited knowledge of the business side.

I had heard kinder versions of that sentence for years.

"The company collected licensing income and bore risk," he said. "Mrs. Moretti now seeks to disrupt its operations."

I had kept my own surname when we married. Hearing him use it after the word Mrs. felt like another form completed without asking me.

Tessa placed the royalty summary before the judge.

"Ten payments," she said. "$186,400 over three years. My client has statements from the licensees. She has no access to the receiving account."

The judge looked toward Paolo's table.

"Has that account been disclosed?"

"We're assembling a complete financial picture," his lawyer said.

"Then include it."

Tessa also submitted Esther's report and my sworn denial that I had signed the assignment. She explained that the claim to the cultures depended on that disputed page.

The judge did not decide the signature issue that morning.

She ordered both sides to preserve records and barred unusual transfers of the disputed funds. Neither of us could sell, destroy, or transfer the master cultures while the issue remained open. I could continue normal production and care.

Paolo had to provide the company records and account statements by the deadline in the order.

The judge also ordered temporary payments of $4,500 for household needs and $3,800 for documented operating bills. Those amounts would be accounted for in the case.

"These are temporary arrangements," she said. "They do not settle the final division."

I wrote that down too.

In the hall, Paolo stared at my folder.

"You brought a whole performance."

"I brought the statements you told me to throw away."

His lawyer touched his sleeve, and they walked off together.

I sat on a bench until my knees stopped trembling.

A woman beside me was sorting parking coins into her palm. Down the hall, someone called for an elevator. I had expected the world to feel different after a judge spoke. Instead, I still needed lunch and had four racks of jars waiting for a clean transfer.

"Did we win?" I asked.

"We got rules and access to records," Tessa said. "Today, that matters."

The $4,500 arrived two days later. I paid overdue household bills, bought food, and kept the balance recorded. The operating payment covered room rent, power, filters, and the grain bill I had left at the store.

The clerk there recognized me.

"Same order?" he asked.

"Same order."

He carried the grain out without mentioning my card.

Birch Quay's first records arrived the following week. There was a company filing naming Paolo as sole manager. There was no staff list, no growing-room lease, and no invoice for lab work.

There were also only four months of bank statements.

"We requested three years," Tessa said.

She sent a deficiency letter and prepared subpoenas for records from the bank and the licensees. I learned that paper could travel slowly and still arrive where it needed to go.

Meanwhile, Signe wrote from Norway. Her company would hold the proposal until July 31, but it needed clear authority before signing. After that, it would use its budget elsewhere.

I printed the message and put it in the license folder.

That afternoon, Tessa called again.

"One bank statement shows a $42,000 transfer," she said. "The receiving account isn't on Paolo's financial statement."