The Judge Asked for the Register Gerard Said Never Existed

I wore the navy coat I usually saved for funerals.

Outside the courthouse in Providence, Bruno handed me a paper cup of coffee. Ada carried a folder thick enough to prop open a fire door.

"No speeches," she said. "I practiced. Everything turned into a speech."

"Just answer what's asked," I said.

It was Ruth's advice. I had repeated it to myself on the drive down from Pawtucket.

Gerard arrived with his lawyer and a folded umbrella. He nodded to us as if we had met at a church supper.

"Ladies. Bruno."

Ada looked at his umbrella until he moved on.

Our case was heard by Judge Emory Salter. Ruth placed my certificate copy beside the filed charter. Gerard's lawyer placed the alleged payment receipt beside them.

"The shares were retired," he said. "Mr. Mott relied on the company's records."

"Which records?" the judge asked.

"The receipt before the court."

Ruth showed the seven statements denying payment and signature. Then she showed the stamp invoice. She explained its limits instead of claiming it solved the case.

The judge leaned toward Gerard's lawyer.

"Was this receipt recently reconstructed?"

"We need to consult with our client."

"Please do."

They stepped into the hall for eight minutes.

I watched the clock above the clerk's desk. I was used to waiting for machines to stop before reaching inside them. I held myself just as still.

When they returned, the lawyer called the receipt "a later memorial of an earlier event."

Ruth stood.

"It was supplied to us as an original record of payment. We requested the bank evidence. None has been provided."

I answered questions under oath. The $18,000 wage debt had been exchanged for stock. I had kept the certificate. I had never been paid to surrender it. I had never signed merger consent.

"Why did you keep the paper?" Gerard's lawyer asked.

"Because it said I owned something."

He moved on.

Owen told the court Harbor Span would extend its closing deadline while the dispute was reviewed. It would not close over a court order or accept an ownership schedule it knew was disputed.

The judge granted temporary relief. No merger closing or distribution to owners could occur pending a further hearing. The mill could keep operating and paying ordinary bills.

He also ordered prompt inspection and production of the ownership records. Paper files, backups, bank support, and documents behind the claimed cancellation.

"A missing book does not remove the need for an answer," he said.

Outside, Ada sat on the low stone wall.

"Does that mean we won?"

"It means the door stays open long enough to find out," Ruth said.

That afternoon, Gerard barred Leila from the records room.

She reported it through counsel, with a photo of the changed lock and the email denying her access. Ruth asked the court to enforce the production order.

By the next day, both sides agreed to an outside records firm collecting copies under a written process. Leila would help identify the accounts, but Gerard could not pick what the firm saw.

I spent those days at Ruth's spare desk, sorting my own old pay records. I found a picture of the mill picnic tucked between tax returns. Gerard stood at a grill. Behind him, half the people he had erased were carrying folding chairs.

I put the picture back. It proved nothing the case needed.

Bruno came by with sandwiches and asked whether the lawyers had found anything yet.

"They've found places to look," I said.

He spread a napkin across his knees.

"That's more than we had last month."

We ate without discussing the case for ten minutes. He told me about the ramp he was building at home. I needed to hear about a problem that could be measured, cut, and finished before dark.

Leila called on the fourth day.

"The pipe leak was real," she said.

"So the book was damaged?"

"The leak was in the break room. Two floors below the files. The cleanup company listed every box it moved."

I waited.

"Box fourteen went to Gerard's house for safekeeping. A courier signed for it. The contents list says corporate stock register."

Ruth sent the receipt to his lawyer before the end of the hour.

There was no angry call that night. No offer. The silence felt different from the old silence, when I had been the only person waiting for an answer.

Two days later, I was in Ruth's office when the receptionist brought in a sealed records carton.

Both lawyers had been told it was coming. Ruth called the collection firm so its staff could log and open it properly.

Inside lay a black cloth book with rubbed corners and a strip of purple ribbon.

On its cover, in gold letters, were the words Stock Register.