The Judge Ordered Our Racks And Records Kept In Place

Mara told me to send the truck photograph to her and stay away from the shop.

“A fight at the loading door won't help the glass,” she said.

“He could empty it tonight.”

“Then we need an order that speaks to that.”

She contacted the society's lawyer. They sent the new evidence to Corbin's counsel and asked the court to hear the request as soon as possible.

Until then, Corbin's lawyer obtained his written promise that nothing would leave.

I hated how thin an email felt beside a truck.

I stayed home anyway.

The next day, I wore my only suit to the courthouse in Dover. The knees had shiny places from a cousin's wedding. My tin stayed in my coat pocket, wrapped so it wouldn't click.

Corbin arrived with a smooth leather folder.

He nodded at me like we were meeting a customer together.

Inside the courtroom, his lawyer called the dispute a failed working relationship. He said I was trying to use society goods to take control of the company.

Mara stood.

“Mr. Redbird seeks access to records and protection of assets. He does not claim the society's windows as his own.”

The judge looked at the blue schedules.

“Who claims to own these pieces?”

The society's lawyer answered, “The society does.”

“And Mr. Voss signed this acknowledgment?”

Corbin's lawyer said the signature appeared to be his client's.

There was that word, appeared. It had room to crawl around in.

Tessa gave sworn testimony about the collection and its restrictions. She brought the donor register and the signed custody agreement, not just her memory.

“Could Mr. Redbird sell the chapel window on his own?” the judge asked.

“No.”

“Could Mr. Voss?”

“No.”

Corbin leaned toward his lawyer.

The judge also had Elin's receipt and her written agreement to hold the crate. Her ownership rights would be sorted out with notice to her. For now, nobody would move the window or alter it.

The judge said the urgent hearing wasn't the final trial. There were facts to establish and records to produce.

Still, the order had weight where an email had felt thin.

No shop inventory could leave except under an agreed written process. Records had to be preserved. I would get supervised access for a full count and for work on existing customer jobs.

A neutral bookkeeper would review the company accounts and the disputed sales records. Corbin remained an owner while the case went on, but neither of us could make unusual withdrawals alone.

The society's twenty-three panels would move to approved secure storage after a documented handover. The empty slot would stay empty until it was photographed one last time.

Outside, Corbin waited until the lawyers were several steps ahead.

“Congratulations,” he said. “Now we both get legal bills.”

“You could have opened the door.”

“You could have trusted me.”

I thought of the false release with my name on it.

“I did.”

The next morning, the bookkeeper met us at the shop. Her name was June Pell. She carried a plain calculator and asked where we kept the bank statements.

Corbin pointed at three boxes.

“It's all there.”

June checked the month labels.

“The most recent four months aren't.”

He said the bank had changed its system.

“We'll request duplicates through the process in the order,” she said.

There was no sharp tone. Somehow that made his face tighter.

I counted company stock with June while Tessa oversaw the society's packing. We used separate sheets. Every crate got a number, two signatures, and a photograph before its lid went on.

Thirty-eight company panels sat in their white-tag slots.

Our purchase records called for forty-one.

Three more gaps.

I checked the purchase photographs before I said anything else. A panel could look smaller lying flat than standing in a rack. June waited while I compared the corners and borders. Each missing lot had a clear number and a paid purchase invoice.

“Could these have sold through the register?” June asked.

“They should have,” I said.

She wrote down the numbers. She didn't write theft. She wrote no matching entry found.

I learned something from that.

Beth's stair pieces were all present. So were Ken's porch lights. I laid them on separate covered benches, with their receipts above them.

“I can finish these,” I told June.

She checked the order and cleared the recorded work hours. Our account still held enough for the supplies, though almost nothing beyond them.

By evening, the society truck pulled away with twenty-three pieces and twenty-three signed handover forms.

Corbin watched from the office doorway.

“There goes our best inventory.”

“It never was our inventory,” I said.

Four days later, June called us to the shop for a records meeting.

She placed four bank deposit lines beside four photographs.

“I've matched $28,000 in sales,” she said. “None of it went into the company account.”