The Court Entered His Plea And The Clock Struck Noon

At the plea hearing, Wade wore a dark suit I had never seen at the tower. His hands rested flat on the table.

The judge asked whether he understood the agreement and the rights he was giving up. He answered each question in a voice meant to carry only as far as it had to.

Then the prosecutor set out what the records showed.

Wade had collected public restoration parts under his inspection authority. He had used false disposal papers to send them to auction. When contractors asked about missing parts or payment, he had blamed them and used their suspensions to stop further questions.

The proceeds had reached his account.

My weights had been stopped before sale. The two completed sales, traced from the auction ledger to his bank, supported the money part of the case. The altered records tied him to the rest.

"Is that account accurate?" the judge asked him.

"Yes."

I had expected the word to feel larger.

It sounded like a small part falling into a tray.

The judge accepted his guilty pleas to theft, forgery, and official misconduct. Sentencing came six weeks later, after the loss figures and reports were complete.

At that hearing, Leona sat beside me. Bernice sat on my other side. Joel, Tessa, and Calvin occupied the row behind us.

I had written a statement on one sheet.

"He didn't just stop a clock," I read. "He made every customer ask whether I could be trusted inside a locked room. I had to pay to answer a question he knew was false. The records let me answer it. Other workers did not have my receipt."

That was all I said.

The judge imposed a three-year sentence, with one year to serve and two on probation. The order required $8,700 in restitution for the two buyers' refunds and freight costs, which the auction house had paid. Money recovered from Wade's account covered that amount. Our contract payments were handled separately by the city.

Wade no longer held his job or any place in the city's grant program. His false reports were part of the case record, beside the documents that disproved them.

As he left the courtroom with an officer, he looked toward our row.

I did not try to read his face.

Outside, Joel asked whether we wanted lunch.

"Somewhere with good chairs," Bernice said.

We ate sandwiches at a small cafe near the square. Tessa spread a copy of her payment notice beside her plate, then moved it before the pickle juice could reach it.

The city had completed the three reopened contract reviews. Their missing-property findings were withdrawn. Joel received $7,900, Tessa received $6,200, and Calvin received $4,750, the full withheld balances under their approved closeouts.

Their corrections had gone to the same lists as their original notices. Copies also went into the grant files so a future clerk would find both sides together.

"I got a call about another railing," Tessa said.

"Take a receipt," I told her.

"I'm taking a printer."

We laughed hard enough that the server looked over.

My own clock acceptance was set for the following Tuesday. The county had approved the returned parts, and an independent restorer had checked the lifting work. The city inspector had checked the contract items. Each signed only for the work within their role.

I climbed the tower early. Terre Haute lay below in pale summer light. A breeze came from the Wabash, carrying damp air through the louvers.

Bernice followed at her own pace.

I had placed a chair on the wide landing for her. She sat for a minute and looked through the narrow window.

"You can go ahead," she said.

"I have time."

She gave me a small nod. Below us, someone pushed a delivery cart toward the north freight door. Its wheels crossed the sill without catching.

"You could have stayed downstairs," I said.

"And miss seeing what all that paper bought?"

The weights hung on their new supports. Their old star marks faced the access walk. No one would need to move them to read the marks again.

I placed the dowel against the bearing block.

The beat was even. The strike train waited with its warning pin clear. There was room between the teeth, just enough daylight for the wheels to move freely.

At noon, the bell sounded over the square.

Bernice counted every stroke. She did not hurry the last one.

The acceptance sheet released my final $19,600. The separate $9,400 settlement had already cleared my bank. My tools were home, my name was corrected, and every part in Wade's six-lot consignment had reached its rightful owner.

I put the acceptance sheet in a flat case.

Downstairs, the new inspector handed me an envelope before she left. It held a request for an estimate on a small library clock, with the owner's name and contact number filled in.

I set it beside my wooden dowel while the courthouse clock kept its quiet beat above us.