The Freight Truck That Came For Tools He Could Not Sell

The freight truck arrived at eleven on Friday morning.

I was across the road in my pickup. Ruth sat beside me with a signed court order in a blue folder.

We had spent the days before that truck arrived doing things I had once thought only happened to other people.

Ruth filed a civil case asking for company records, an accounting, protection of my equipment, and the separation process our agreement allowed. My sworn statement included pictures, receipts, the lease, and Everett's sale listing.

The listing offered my forms and jigs for $28,000.

"Motivated seller," it said.

That morning, a judge heard both lawyers by video. Everett had finally hired counsel. His lawyer said the company owned the tools because they had been used there for years.

Ruth held up the lease.

"Then why did the company agree to rent them from Mr. Beck?"

The judge asked for the equipment schedule. Every item offered for sale was on it.

The temporary order barred either owner from selling or moving the listed equipment. It also required access for an agreed inspector and delivery of the company records. I posted the $1,500 bond the judge required.

The order didn't give me the building or decide the whole lawsuit. It kept the things we were fighting over in place.

That distinction mattered when the truck backed into the drive.

"Stay here until it's served," Ruth said.

A process server walked toward Everett, who stood by the open bay door waving the driver back.

I watched him take the papers.

He turned the first page. Then the second.

His arm stopped waving.

The buyer had driven down from farther north to inspect the tools before paying. His name was Walt. He wore a quilted vest and carried a tape measure.

"You told me these were yours," Walt said.

"A partner's causing trouble," Everett answered.

Ruth and I crossed the drive after the server stepped away.

She gave Walt a copy of the order and the equipment schedule. He checked the numbers stamped into the strongbacks.

"I haven't paid anything," he told me. "Glad I didn't."

He canceled the purchase. The driver charged Everett $460 for the wasted trip.

Everett signed that slip hard enough to tear it.

"Enjoy your victory," he told me. "You still don't have a shop."

He was right about that much.

Our next inspection took place under the order, with both lawyers' approval. I couldn't start making boats or load the truck with tools. I could document what was there.

Celia carried a clipboard. Tessa checked the expedition hulls. Everett followed us with his phone raised.

"Don't touch anything," he said.

I pointed to a split rib lying beside the steam box.

"How long was that in steam?"

"Long enough."

The inner face had torn where he bent it against the jig. He had forced it cold.

Tessa photographed the break and checked the next ribs. She made no speech about it. She marked eleven pieces for replacement.

Three canoe shells were still sound. The other three forms were empty. June first was possible, but the margin had grown small.

At my bench, I found the center marks I had scratched into the slings. My river stone was in my pocket. I wanted to set it down and begin.

Instead, I counted clamps.

Two were missing. So was a new roll of fiberglass cloth.

"Sold with a scrap lot," Everett said.

"To whom?" Celia asked.

He looked at her clipboard.

"I'll find the receipt."

By the steam box stood five crates marked for the expedition. Tessa opened one with permission from both lawyers. It held shop sweepings and short cedar ends.

"What's this?" she asked.

"Packing material."

"Your progress email said those crates held completed seats."

Nobody spoke for several seconds.

Then Celia asked for the email.

I looked toward the rack where my lunch tin sat. There was a new label on it, written in Everett's neat block letters.

NOLAN'S PERSONAL ITEMS.

For some reason, that small label hurt more than the lock.

"Can I take that?" I asked Ruth.

She checked with his lawyer. I carried the tin out under my arm.

That evening, Celia sent her first written report. The missing clamps and cloth had brought $380, paid into the company account. That money was already included in the balance we had seen. At least one loose end had a plain answer.

Below it was a new page: Birchline's only known work product was the same sign our company had bought two years earlier for $240.

The report ended with an attachment from Everett's lawyer.

It was a consent form bearing my name, supposedly approving all three transfers.