The Judge Asked For Signatures While Fletcher Held Up His Key

Fletcher wore his dock jacket into the courtroom. Melted snow made dark spots under his boots.

He had come without a lawyer.

"This is a landlord matter," he said before Ruth finished laying out the request.

The judge asked him to wait.

I kept my hands on my knees. One thumbnail still held a little brown stain from cleaning a culture screen. I had scrubbed it that morning before I knew a clean nail would be the least useful thing I could bring.

Ruth had told me to answer the question asked, then stop. I practiced that while we waited. My whole working life felt crowded behind my teeth. The judge needed dates and facts. I could give her those without asking her to like me or understand every long night in that shed.

Ruth showed the judge the equipment schedule first.

Fletcher leaned forward. "I have the harbor lease."

"We'll get to the space," the judge said. "Who purchased these listed items?"

"She put some money in."

"Forty-six thousand eight hundred dollars," Ruth said. "The schedule identifies Ms. Darden as owner. Mr. Ames signed it."

"We were partners then."

"And this is the later sale agreement," Ruth said.

She placed the escrow statement beside it.

Fletcher reached into his pocket and brought out the new key.

"Everything's behind my lock."

The judge looked at it without reaching for it.

"That tells me who can open the gate. It doesn't settle who owns what's inside."

My shoulders dropped half an inch.

We were not asking the court to settle every claim that day. Ruth said that twice. We needed to preserve property and living stock while the larger dispute was heard.

The judge read the bridge agreement. Then she asked about the heat.

Fletcher said I had trained everyone to waste power.

Ruth offered Anika's statement and the last tank readings. She also showed the early delivery promises and the photograph of the truck.

"Were spools removed today?" the judge asked.

"Some orders went out."

"Whose orders?"

"Customers."

He suddenly studied the floor.

The judge asked him to identify those customers before the hearing ended. Ruth wrote the names as he spoke: Cora Pike and Daniel Winn, two growers I had never supplied.

"Forty spools total," Fletcher said. "I was bringing in fresh business."

"Where is the money?" Ruth asked.

He said he would have to check.

I counted four breaths while the judge wrote.

The order gave me and a licensed electrician access to inspect, restore safe heat, and care for the stock. Fletcher had to provide a working key. Neither side could sell, move, or discard disputed nursery property outside the order.

There would be a further hearing in two days. We had to keep an inventory and account for necessary work. The dock lease itself remained unresolved.

I posted the $2,000 bond Ruth had warned me about.

In the hall, Fletcher stopped beside the water fountain.

"You spent two grand to get through a gate?"

"I posted a bond."

"Same money gone."

I had once done all our customer calls because he said he hated explaining things. I stopped explaining then.

A deputy served him with the signed order and came to the dock while access was arranged. Anika was already there, walking short loops beside her van.

"I brought a spare circulation pump," she said. "And dry gloves. You look like you forgot gloves."

I had.

Fletcher opened the gate. The deputy watched him hand me a key.

"Doesn't change the lease," Fletcher said.

"I read the order," I told him.

Inside, the nursery smelled wrong. Not rotten. Just still. The usual warm, damp air had gone sharp at the edges.

Our wall clock had stopped because it shared an unplugged power strip with the router.

Anika checked the electrical panel before touching the heat controls.

I went tank to tank with a clean thermometer and my log sheet.

Two-point-nine. Three-point-one. Two-point-eight.

The water had not frozen. On the north wall, however, a pink wool cover wore a hard little beard of ice.

"Here," I said.

Anika crouched beside the elbow. "Nobody turns this on yet."

She closed the feed valve and checked the fitting under its insulation. A small split had opened in the outer section of the heat loop.

The pink cover had caught the first drops. I put it in a clean tray instead of squeezing it out.

We photographed the damage. Then I photographed the racks.

One rack held empty rods where forty spools should have been.

My stock cards still hung from the shelf. Those spools had been grown for Mae's group of four farms.

Near the packing bench, a yellow shipping copy stuck out of the trash. I lifted it by one dry corner.

Below the forty-spool count sat a price of $4,800 and payment instructions for Fletcher Ames.