The City Map Drew A Line Through His Sales

The city email was short.

The six marked trees were on public land. Their removal had already been assigned. No private cutting or removal of timber was approved.

Travis had replied, Received, thanks.

Fatima read those two words twice.

"He can't say he missed the attachment," she said.

On Wednesday, Nora sent the city contact the six contracts and my statement. She asked for a written check of the tree numbers and property line. She copied Travis's lawyer.

"No speeches," she told me. "Give them something they can check."

We met a city field worker named Ellen Voss at the drainage strip on Thursday. June joined us at her back fence.

The ground was soft. Fallen cottonwood leaves stuck to our boots. Farther off, traffic crossed a bridge over the Cedar River.

Ellen carried a map in a clear sleeve.

"This pin is the corner," she said. "The fence isn't the boundary."

She pointed to a metal survey marker near the grass.

June stared at the strip beyond it.

"That's what I told him."

Ellen checked the orange tag on the nearest tree against her list.

"This one's ash."

June looked at me.

"He wrote walnut."

"I saw that," I said.

"Would you have known?"

"From a fresh cut, ash has a mild, plain smell. Walnut has a sharp, earthy smell. But I wouldn't sell either before checking who owned it."

We did not touch the tree. Ellen photographed its tag and the view back toward June's house.

Two of the six trees were walnut. The others were ash and elm. The sales contracts called all six walnut.

That meant the promised timber credit had been built on a lie before a blade ever reached bark.

Ellen gave Nora a written confirmation the next day. None of the six sites had approval for Travis's work. The city would contact the residents about the proper removal schedule.

June called me that evening.

"The city crew is coming in three weeks," she said. "They aren't charging me."

"I'm glad."

"I still need that deposit."

"I know."

On Monday, Fatima finished a first pass through the books. The business bank account held $7,400 of the $29,400 in customer deposits.

The missing $22,000 had gone to Travis.

One transfer of $14,800 was labeled site preparation. Another $7,200 was labeled sales draw.

"Did you approve either?" she asked.

"No."

"Any site-prep invoice?"

"I haven't seen one."

"Neither have I. We ask before we call it anything else."

The three valid jobs also needed answers. I called those customers with Fatima listening. I explained that Two Banks had a dispute over its equipment and could not promise their booked dates.

All three asked for their $3,600 deposits back.

We put those requests with the other six.

Meanwhile, Fatima matched Wade's time sheets to $6,600 in unpaid invoices for work already completed. Nora arranged for those payments to go into a separate account controlled under a written agreement between the lawyers.

Travis signed that narrow agreement after Wade sent him his hours. The crew received its full $4,800. The remaining $1,800 was held for business costs.

I met Wade outside the bank after his check cleared.

"Now I can wait for the rest of your fight," he said.

"You shouldn't have had to wait for wages."

"No," he said. "I shouldn't."

At five that Monday, the lease cure period ended. Travis had paid nothing. He had refused to give me access or set a return date.

Nora sent the termination and return demand with the three serial numbers on the first page.

Mae also confirmed that Cress Hollow would not close while ownership remained disputed. No expansion money had changed hands.

Travis left me a voice message that night.

"You don't get to pull the engine out of a business because your feelings got hurt."

I saved it without answering.

My feelings were not listed in the lease. The mill was.

Tuesday morning, I was sorting blade boxes at home when an unknown number sent me a text.

Are you the equipment contact? Need gate access tomorrow at 5:30 a.m.

There was a hauling order attached. It called for the mill, loader, and edger to be taken to an auction storage yard.

The shipper was Mott Yard Services.

I called the number and gave only my name.

"Mr. Mott said to load before the regular crew shows up," the driver said.

I asked him to forward the full dispatch sheet to Nora.

Ten minutes later, she called me.

"Put on a clean shirt," she said. "We're asking the court to stop that truck."