The Judge Asked My Husband Where The Missing Royalties Went

The courthouse bench was colder than the sidewalk outside.

I sat with my blue book on my knees. Nolan stood near the courtroom door, holding two cups of coffee.

For a second, I thought one might be for me.

He handed it to his lawyer.

“Tess,” he said, “we can still keep this private.”

Priya closed the folder she had been reading.

“She can speak with you through counsel.”

“I was talking to my wife.”

“I heard you,” I said.

Then the clerk called our case.

This hearing concerned the civil claims. Jo sat in the back with Ellen. My divorce had its own dates, its own stack of forms, and too many lines that asked us to agree on a value.

Nolan's lawyer said Pennon was a lawful sales company. He said the wire request was ordinary business. He said I had taken a working marriage and turned it into a licensing dispute.

Priya didn't answer the marriage part.

She gave the judge our signed agreement, the attached list of masters, Ruth's sworn statement, and the records behind her figures.

She asked for enough money to be held while the case went on. She also asked that the masters be returned and the use of my name stopped.

The judge turned to Nolan's lawyer.

“Does your client dispute his signature on the original agreement?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“The six percent provision?”

“No. We dispute which receipts it covers.”

That was smaller than saying I owned nothing.

I held that thought while Ruth explained her chart.

She had counted only rentals linked to the listed masters. She could point from a customer invoice to a pattern number, then to a payment.

Nolan shook his head through most of it.

When I took the witness chair, I closed one eye without meaning to. The edge of the desk looked crooked from that angle.

“Is something wrong?” the judge asked.

“I check symmetry that way. Habit.”

Priya placed Master 17 in front of me as a photograph. I explained the short middle bar and the changed elbow dart.

“Do the marks themselves give you ownership?” she asked.

“No. They tell me which paper I'm looking at. The agreement says what the shop was allowed to do.”

Nolan's lawyer asked why I hadn't sought royalty checks sooner.

“He said receipts were too low to cover expenses.”

“And you accepted that?”

“I believed my husband.”

Nobody spoke for a moment.

Then the lawyer asked about business mail, and I answered that too.

On Nolan's turn, he described all the meals he had brought me. He said I hated bookkeeping. He said Sloane understood the demands of touring clients.

The judge looked down at Ruth's chart.

“Where were the quarterly statements sent?”

Nolan glanced toward me.

“We discussed those at home.”

“Were written statements provided?”

“Not in that form.”

Priya asked about the $210,000 transfer.

Nolan said it was a reserve for future work.

“Whose account was to receive it?”

He took a long time to answer.

“Sloane's.”

His lawyer stood to explain. The judge let him finish, then called a short break to read the bank papers.

In the hall, my hands shook so badly that I couldn't fit my book into its case.

Ellen held the case open.

“You got through the questions,” she said.

“I keep thinking of better answers.”

“Those seemed to work.”

Back inside, the judge gave a narrow ruling. She wasn't deciding the whole case that morning. She ordered $190,000 held for the disputed royalties and possible costs, with the final amount still to be proved.

The tour advance would stay separate while its return was worked out. Large transfers required agreement or further court approval.

The forty-eight masters had to be delivered to Priya within three days. Pennon could not promise more of my services while the authority dispute was pending.

Priya asked the judge to make clear that I could take other grading work. The judge said the temporary order placed no such limit on me.

I wrote that sentence down.

For months, I had opened every new email with a pinch in my stomach, scared that doing my job might somehow break his deal. Now there was a court page I could point to when that fear came back.

Outside, Nolan stood in front of me.

“You froze money that could have paid you.”

“It can still pay me,” I said.

He moved aside when Jo approached.

Three days later, the masters arrived in a rented van. I counted them on Priya's conference table.

Forty-eight.

Each broken ladder matched my book.

The driver also carried an envelope from Nolan's lawyer. Inside was a copy of the supposed consent page, now described as proof that I had approved the tour.

A yellow note pointed to my signature.

“Original Signed Authority Available For Inspection,” it said.

Priya set down her tea.

“Then we'll inspect it.”