The Judge Asked Who Had Signed The Transfer Register

I took Douglas's demand to Ana on Tuesday morning.

"Do I give him the book?"

"We can arrange for inspection and a proper copy," she said. "We aren't handing disputed evidence to the person who signed it."

She put his letter in a clear sleeve.

"And you won't sign that statement."

"I'd already decided that."

We learned by noon that the district's lawyer had asked Douglas for the transfer records. He had supplied a blank inventory screen and said my book had never been approved.

Ana sent back page three of the board's donation agreement. It named me as custodian of the original movement register.

No one answered that email right away.

The auction manager did answer. He said the instruments were consigned by Nettle Storage under a signed surplus release. His seller disputed my claim. Without a joint instruction or court order, the sale remained scheduled.

"Then we ask a judge," Ana said.

She explained the cost. I authorized the filing and put $1,000 aside for a bond if the court required one. The spindle at work would have to keep turning a while longer.

That afternoon, the district board chair finally called me. Her name was Marsha Pike.

"Mr. Shen, why didn't you bring this to the board?"

"I brought it to your administrator. He took my badge."

She was quiet.

"Our lawyer has your documents now."

"Then please read the signatures."

I had no grand speech ready. By then I had repeated the same dates so often they sounded like grit in my mouth.

The court set a hearing for Wednesday morning on the urgent request to stop a sale. Ana notified everyone. The district joined the request after its lawyer reviewed the donation agreement. That gave me my first full night's sleep since the letter arrived.

Douglas came to the courthouse with a separate lawyer. He nodded as though we were two men waiting for a bus.

"This escalation was unnecessary," he said.

"So was your complaint."

Inside, I laid the register on the witness table. My hands shook. I slipped them beneath the table and pressed the three blue stitches between my fingers.

Ana asked how the book had been kept.

"In date order. No pages removed. Each move signed before loading."

"Who signed page fourteen?"

"Mr. Nettle and me."

Douglas's lawyer stood.

"The document may reflect preliminary handling discussions."

The judge looked down at the page.

"Does your client deny this is his signature?"

They spoke together in low voices.

"No, Your Honor. He disputes the meaning assigned to it."

"What meaning does he assign to 'destination'?"

I kept my eyes on the table. I did not trust my face.

Ana showed the pickup photographs and the carrier's signed cover sheet. She did not claim that a photograph proved every part of the case. She said it showed six cases leaving the school under the load number on the signed order.

The district lawyer said she had found no board vote approving a sale.

Then she held up the release sent to the auction house. It bore Douglas's signature beneath the words AUTHORIZED SURPLUS OFFICER.

"That title does not grant him authority to sell donated property on his own," she said.

The judge issued a temporary order holding the instruments and barring their sale or movement except as the order allowed. A further hearing would address ownership and return. My $1,000 bond was required and posted.

Douglas stared straight ahead.

In the hall, Marsha Pike told me his purchasing and property duties were suspended while the board reviewed them.

"Your volunteer status is also being reviewed," she added.

"I heard you," I said.

An order stopping a sale was not yet a clean name. But it was something we could serve.

The warehouse owner, Douglas's brother Russell, had not attended. His lawyer accepted the order and agreed to arrange an inspection that afternoon. The district sent its facilities manager. Ana came with me.

Bay C stood in a low block building in Taylor, close enough to the rail line that the door shook when a train passed.

Russell was waiting with a key. He had thick wrists and a red work jacket. He looked at my little tool roll.

"You won't need that."

"I'll decide when I see the glass."

He opened the door.

There were pallet marks in the dust. There were scraps of black foam and a broken strip of packing wood.

There were no telescopes.

Russell handed the facilities manager a folded sheet.

"They went out Monday," he said. "My brother told me the school had cleared it."