The Lease Assignment Reached My Lawyer With A Borrowed Signature

I stared at the signature until my eyes hurt.

My real signature had a crooked loop in the C. This one had it too. It also had a tiny gray mark just below the final a.

"I know that mark," I told June.

"From where?"

"A scan of an old supply authorization. There was pencil dust on the glass."

"Let's find the source. Don't make a claim beyond what we can show."

I found my copy in a folder from the previous winter. The same gray dot sat under the same letter.

June placed the pages side by side. She asked for the original electronic files and warned Foster in writing to preserve the company computer and email account.

The assignment itself had another problem.

Celia's consent line was empty.

Our lease required her written approval before any assignment. She had never approved one, and I had never signed this one.

"It doesn't become valid because he attached your name," June said.

I wished all the rest could be settled that easily.

Foster still owned half the company. He still controlled its main email account. He had started calling customers and saying I had suffered a breakdown after a pay dispute.

One longtime pilot called to ask whether I was all right.

"I'm sitting with an attorney and twenty-three work orders," I said. "I'm tired. I'm also available to discuss your records."

He asked for a copy of our customer notice.

I sent it. No speech. No account of the locked door.

June filed a civil complaint seeking to end the company, settle its accounts, and address the false documents and interference with my property. She also asked the court to preserve records and stop either member from selling disputed assets while the case was heard.

Our first hearing was five days away.

"Five days is a long time around a paper shredder," I said.

"I've asked for preservation now. We document any violation. We don't break into accounts."

I supplied the company records I already had permission to access. Then we hired a bookkeeper named Elsie Tran to review the bank statements and open invoices.

Her first bill was $900.

She arrived at June's office with a small calculator and a pencil sharpened almost to nothing.

"Start with what came in," she said.

Foster handled collections. I had thought that meant he disliked fabric dust less than I disliked chasing checks.

It had also meant I let him explain money I should have checked myself.

Three customers had paid $12,600 for completed, properly approved jobs from before my Denver trip. Their invoices carried our company name. Their payment instructions led to a new account under Ames Lift Services, Foster's separate business.

The company ledger marked those invoices unpaid.

"Customers have transfer receipts," Elsie said. "We need the receiving records through the proper process, but this is a clear place to look."

That was why he had told me we couldn't afford the machine hire.

I rubbed the edge of an orange fabric sample while she added the amounts. My thumb found a crease and worked it flat.

"He kept telling me to be patient."

Elsie turned the calculator toward me.

"Patience isn't a bank entry."

June added the payment evidence to our court papers. We separated the debts owed to me from the money owed to the company. Owning half did not make all its losses mine to collect.

That distinction annoyed me until I thought about Foster claiming everything on the strength of a title.

I could follow the rules I wanted him held to.

The next morning, he offered me $2,000 to sign a departure agreement.

The agreement said I gave up my company share, equipment claims, and complaints about prior records. It called me a former sewing contractor.

I sent it to June.

She replied with a formal rejection and a demand that he stop describing me that way to customers.

Foster called before lunch.

"You're going to spend more fighting than you'll ever get back."

"Maybe."

"Machines get old. Patterns can be copied. You're making this personal."

"You put my name on work I didn't approve."

"You keep saying that like it's some magic word."

"It's my name."

I ended the call and wrote down the time and what we had said. I had started a plain notebook for conversations. I kept guesses out of it.

At three, Celia called from the property.

"There's a flatbed outside your unit. Man says he's buying sewing equipment."

I looked at the hire agreement on my table.

"Has anything been loaded?"

"No. I told him to wait."

Then another voice came through her phone.

"I've got a bill of sale from Foster Ames. Where do you want the $9,400?"