The Judge Asked Franklin To Show Where I Gave Consent

The medical note was about my hands.

It said I needed more time to fill out forms and might benefit from help with paperwork. Franklin's statement called it proof that I could not manage business decisions.

"That's a long walk from a sore thumb," Ruth said.

Lila asked me to get the full visit record. I signed the request myself, slowly. The clinic sent it directly to her office. It showed that I had discussed my treatment choices and made my own plan.

"Pain doesn't make him your owner," Lila said.

I still felt sick walking into the New London courthouse.

Franklin waited by the courtroom door in his good charcoal suit. When he saw me, he held out his elbow.

"There's a step, sweetheart."

There was no step.

I walked past him with my cane.

June sat behind us. So did Ruth, Eli, Celia, and Nessa. Their coats filled a whole row. I had spent years believing there was nobody left to call.

Franklin's lawyer began by saying this was a family misunderstanding.

Lila stood.

"There's a signed sale for $180,000, Your Honor. My client received no notice, no copy, and no proceeds."

The judge asked for the documents.

We had not come for a final trial that day. Lila had explained that several times. We needed orders to keep the situation from getting worse while the records were gathered.

Still, when Ruth took the witness seat, my chest tightened.

She identified her deposit agreement and explained the reel list. She had stored the tapes. I had kept the rights. Franklin had never been a party to that agreement.

"Why did you keep the original?" the judge asked.

"Because people remember things in ways that suit them," Ruth said.

Next came Celia's limited cassette license. Then the buyer's version, with the replaced first page.

Franklin leaned toward his lawyer. Their whispering stopped when the judge looked up.

"We dispute the history of that document," his lawyer said.

"Then preserve every version," the judge replied.

My turn came after a short break.

I said my name. I explained my work. Bass pedals under my feet. Chords in my left hand. Melody in my right. I had watched the floor guard while I played so children could hear when it was time to slow down.

"Did your husband write these pieces?" Lila asked.

"No."

"Did he finance the sessions?"

"I paid from my rink wages. We made them before we met."

"What was his job later?"

"He booked live appearances."

We had found that contract in my apartment folder. It gave him ten percent of live performance fees. A schedule, signed by us both, said he had no authority over recording rights.

Lila handed it to the clerk.

Franklin's lawyer asked whether I had relied on my husband for years.

"Yes."

"For transportation? Bills? Taxes?"

"Yes."

"And now you say he had no authority?"

"He had the authority I gave him. I never gave him this."

My cane rested against the witness stand. I kept my hands on my knees so nobody could turn their shaking into another story.

The lawyer asked about my memory.

"I forgot where I put my keys last Tuesday," I said. "I remember whether I sold twelve reels of my life's work."

The judge asked Franklin's lawyer one plain question.

"Where is her consent to this sale?"

He referred again to the disputed release.

"And the limit in his booking contract?" the judge asked.

His lawyer said the couple's long practice had been broader than that page suggested.

Lila pointed to the payment forms. Franklin had put my name in the owner's box even while asking the collector to send the money elsewhere.

I watched him study the table. He had known whose permission was needed. He had simply supplied it himself, the way he had supplied answers about my friends.

The judge marked the limits of the day's ruling carefully. The sale could not go forward. Franklin and his company could not make new deals involving my catalog or direct its income while the case continued. They had to preserve records and provide an accounting under the court's schedule.

The tapes would stay in storage. The buyer had already agreed to hold the remaining price.

There was no ruling that an aching hand made me unable to speak for myself.

In the hallway, Franklin stepped close.

"You'll need me when these people get tired of you."

I tapped my cane. Twice, a rest, once.

"You booked my jobs," I said. "You never owned my music."

For once, he had nothing ready.

Two weeks later, the first bank records came through the lawyers. Lila called me to her office.

"The company still has $68,500," she said. "And we found where the rest went."

She turned a statement toward me. Franklin had moved money into a certificate of deposit held in his name alone.

Its balance was $90,000.