The Judge Asked For The Accounts He Said Did Not Matter

Dana printed the email with its full header.

"Forwarding it to yourself was sensible," she said. "Now preserve the original message in the shared account. We'll request the whole record."

"Should I tell him I saw it?"

"We'll tell him through the filing."

I signed the divorce papers on Monday. My pen snagged on the last letter of Sutter. I had kept Hartley at work, but my marriage certificate still used his name.

Dana filed a sworn statement with the seven labels and the email. She asked for records to be preserved, a pause on disputed inventory transfers, and financial disclosure.

The judge set a short hearing. While we waited, Dana sent formal notices to Nolan and Tallgrass to keep their emails, books, and shipment records.

Nolan called me eleven times that evening.

On the twelfth, I answered.

"You brought a lawyer into my business?"

"Our business."

"You took scraps off your paint bench and made a story."

"Then the accounts should clear it up."

His voice softened.

"Willie, come home. We'll get supper. You always feel better after you eat."

I looked at the motel microwave and my paper bowl of soup.

"Send anything about the case to Dana."

He hung up before I finished.

The hearing was the following week in Pennington County. Outside the courthouse, wind tugged at my coat sleeves. I wore plain black shoes and socks that did not match. I had almost changed them. Then I decided I had already given up enough small things.

Nolan arrived with a lawyer and a navy tie I had bought him for $34. He gave me his softest smile.

"We can still keep this friendly," he said.

Dana stepped beside me.

"Good morning, counsel," she said to his lawyer.

Inside, Nolan described Tallgrass as a struggling little shop.

"My wife is a gifted painter," he said. "But she doesn't understand how much it costs to sell these things."

His lawyer called Unit 18 overflow storage. The seven machines, he said, had no settled buyers when they left our shop.

Dana agreed that a freight label alone did not prove a sale.

Then she put the email beside the current inventory list.

"We have a proposed write-off of identified property," she said. "We also have a separate company managed by Mr. Sutter. We need the records before the entries change again."

The judge looked at Nolan.

"Does Spur Ledger Trading have a bank account?"

Nolan shifted in his chair.

"It's a separate venture."

"That wasn't my question."

"Yes."

The answer was small. I heard it anyway.

The judge ordered Nolan to produce financial records for Tallgrass and the entities he controlled. He also ordered preservation of the books and emails, and no transfer of the listed machines or the Night Orchard cabinet without agreement or further order.

That was not a ruling that Nolan had stolen anything. Dana made sure I understood.

It was a locked door in front of the next move he had planned.

When the clerk handed Dana the stamped order, I reached for it too quickly.

"We get a copy," she said.

I wanted something solid in my hand. At the shop, I could press a loose corner and feel whether the glue had taken. Here, the seal and the judge's signature were the only things I knew how to check.

Outside, Nolan caught up with us near the stairs.

"You think you'll run the shop without me?"

"I think the bills need to be paid."

"There won't be a shop after your lawyer gets done."

Dana held out her hand for the copy his lawyer was carrying.

"Then let's preserve what's there," she said.

Over the next two weeks, some records arrived and others did not. Tallgrass had $1,946 in checking and $12,480 in overdue vendor bills. Nolan supplied a spreadsheet showing no completed sales for the seven yellow-tag machines.

He supplied no Spur Ledger bank statements.

His lawyer said he was gathering them.

Dana requested them again, then began the process to obtain records directly from the bank. She also sought the warehouse lease and delivery files.

"Paper takes time," she told me.

I spent that time painting a pantry door for a landlord. I earned $320. I bought groceries, paid another week at the motel, and moved the paint cards into plastic sleeves.

On each card, the little blue dot sat beside a date.

They were not scraps anymore. They were things I could point to without raising my voice.

On Friday, I returned to the shop for a scheduled inventory visit with Dana's assistant. Celia stood at the counter with her arms crossed.

Before she could speak, the front door opened behind us.

A woman in a green coat held a folder against her chest.

"I'm Mara Bell," she said. "I drove from Cheyenne for my Night Orchard cabinet. I paid the deposit six weeks ago."