The Judge Asked Who Had Ever Spoken To Me

I wore my blue jacket to the DeKalb County courthouse. Its inside pocket held a list of the twelve receivers.

"You won't have to remember every number," Vivienne said as we waited.

"I know. That's why I wrote them down."

Across the hall, Solomon brushed something from his lawyer's sleeve. He looked like a man attending an award lunch.

Lydia Voss stood beside him.

She had a cream handbag and the same pale scarf she wore at supper. When she saw me looking, she stepped half a pace away from my husband.

Bellweather's lawyer arrived with Amos. They had agreed to keep the remaining sale money untouched while the court set the rules.

The hearing concerned property and records. No one had filed a guardianship case. Vivienne had checked.

Still, the letter sat in our folder.

When our case was called, Solomon's lawyer said the collection had been sold for my benefit.

"The family had concerns about Mrs. Mulugeta's judgment."

Vivienne stood.

"Which family members? And what authority does the defendant claim?"

The lawyer offered the authorization.

Vivienne offered the original, its date, and the roofer's email copy.

The judge studied both pages.

"This document concerned roof estimates," she said. "I see no authority here to sell radios or redirect funds."

Solomon leaned toward his lawyer. I could hear his whisper but not the words.

Amos testified that his company had agreed to require my written release and payment into my designated account. He admitted that neither condition had been met.

"Why did you proceed?" the judge asked.

"Mr. Bekele said his wife couldn't manage the calls."

"Did you speak with her?"

"No, Your Honor."

The judge looked toward Solomon's table.

There was nothing grand in that look. It was the look I gave a loose wire after someone promised the connection was sound.

I took the witness chair. Vivienne asked about my tickets, my purchases, and the account attachment.

I answered in order.

Solomon's lawyer asked whether I sometimes forgot where I put tools.

"Yes," I said. "I label drawers because I sometimes do."

"So your memory is not perfect."

"Neither is my eyesight. I use glasses."

He asked if Solomon had helped pay household bills for forty-one years.

"We both paid them," I said. "That didn't let either of us sign the other's name."

Vivienne did not look proud or pleased. She listened as if my answers deserved ordinary attention. I found that more useful.

Then Lydia was called to explain the consultancy payments. Her business had been named in the request for records because it had received the advances.

She said she offered home-care planning, not medical care.

"What services did you provide Mrs. Mulugeta?" Vivienne asked.

"Family consultation."

"With whom?"

"Solomon. Mr. Bekele."

"Did I hire you?" I heard myself ask.

Vivienne touched the table. I stopped. Questions had a proper path here, and she knew it.

"Did my client hire you?" she asked.

"Her husband arranged it."

"Did you meet her to assess her needs?"

"We knew each other socially."

"Did you assess her needs?"

"No."

The invoice described a home assessment. Lydia said that wording was a standard package description.

Vivienne asked about Solomon's claim that Lydia was simply an independent service provider.

"Are you in a romantic relationship with him?"

Lydia's lawyer objected. Vivienne explained that the relationship mattered to the purpose of the payments and the request to preserve records.

The judge allowed the question.

Lydia looked at Solomon.

"Yes," she said.

The room did not gasp. A clerk kept typing. Someone shifted a chair. My marriage lost its last cover in a room that still had other work to do.

I folded my hands over the receiver list.

Solomon had told me Lydia understood the strain of looking after someone. I had brought food to her supper table. I had asked after her sick aunt. Remembering those small kindnesses hurt more than the word romantic. I looked at the red stitch on my jacket cuff and counted four slow breaths. Then I listened to the next question. I wanted every answer in the record.

The judge ordered the disputed funds preserved and relevant records produced. Bellweather would keep contacting buyers about voluntary returns and refunds. Nobody was to sell or transfer the disputed receivers while the case continued.

She made no final ruling about damages that day.

Outside, Solomon caught up with me near the elevators.

"You wanted that question asked," he said.

"I wanted to know where my money went."

"You have no idea what this will cost."

Vivienne stepped beside me.

"Put financial proposals through counsel."

At the courthouse door, Amos handed her a newly printed buyer report. Four buyers had agreed to return their sets.

Beside number 112, someone had written: Never Shipped. Released To Lydia Voss.