The Rehearsal Binder Opened Beneath A Lawyer's Reading Lamp

I stayed across the street and filmed the van being loaded.

Marlene carried out Moss in his padded travel crate. Nell followed. Aunt Slate's shell caught on the doorframe, and I felt the knock in my teeth.

The driver wore a plain gray shirt. He wasn't stealing anything that he knew of. I took a picture of his plate and called him through the open window.

"Those pieces are disputed company property. Who hired you?"

He handed me a pickup slip.

"Cobb Booking Services. Delivery to storage."

I photographed it and gave it back. I didn't stand in front of his wheels.

Twenty minutes later, Soren found me at the park with the blue binder under his coat.

"Fake well finally held water," he said.

The binder smelled of dust and stage paint. Our blocking notes came first, followed by insurance forms. Then came the signed agreement, its tabs cut from an old cereal box.

I found Schedule A. My drawings were attached, each page initialed by both of us.

Moss. Nell. Aunt Slate. Their stories, patterns, names, and designs.

"Read the sentence," Soren said.

I did.

"All listed character designs and licensing rights remain the sole property of Leah Rosen."

The company had permission to use them for approved live shows. Any license to someone else needed my written consent.

Marlene had called me an assistant. She had signed a paper saying I owned the things she was offering for sale.

Still, a sentence wasn't a key.

I called Ada Price, the lawyer who had drafted the agreement. Her office was in Berryville. She could see us at four.

"Bring the papers and don't argue through the window," she said.

I brought the binder, my bank screen, and Ruth's invoice. Soren brought the pickup photo I had sent him and a folder of old rehearsal emails.

Ada read before she talked.

"You own the character rights," she said. "The company owns the finished puppets listed on its equipment sheet. Those are separate issues. We will handle both."

She put a yellow slip beside another clause.

Any member who directed company receipts elsewhere had to return them within three business days of a written demand. If that member failed, the other member could remove their management and signing authority by written notice.

"Her forty percent doesn't disappear," Ada said. "But she can lose the power to run things."

"Can she sell my characters today?"

"She can make promises. That doesn't mean she can deliver what she promises. We need to tell the people relying on her."

We called the three schools whose payments were missing. Each sent a receipt and a cleared payment image. Together, they had paid $6,600 to an account ending in 4421.

That wasn't our company account.

Ruth's $6,000 had gone there too.

"We have proof of $12,600," Ada said. "We'll ask for a full accounting, not guess at the rest."

She charged an $1,800 retainer. I paid from my $3,900 savings balance and watched the number shrink.

"I need those puppets for a show," I said.

"Then the first request is narrow. Preserve the property. Preserve the money. Get access to the company records and equipment."

She prepared a demand with the payment images attached. It gave Marlene until five Friday afternoon to return diverted receipts and provide the records. A process server would deliver it that evening. Ada also sent it to every address listed in our agreement.

Then she drafted a court filing asking for quick relief.

I signed a sworn statement about the lock, the sale cards, and the van. My hand shook only when I wrote the value of the finished puppets: $18,400 in materials and paid labor on our books.

That number didn't include finding Nell's laugh.

Ada printed the photographs.

"Do you have proof you made these before the company existed?"

"Sketchbooks. Patterns. Some pictures at my mother's kitchen table."

"Good. Get copies from wherever you safely can."

My mother still had the pictures. In one, a young Moss wore a dish towel from her Passover cupboard. She sent it with a message asking whether I had eaten.

I said I would.

At seven, the server confirmed delivery. Marlene called two minutes later.

"You took a craft argument to court?"

"You took our receipts to another account."

"You have no idea what it costs to sell your little animals."

"Send the records to Ada."

I ended the call. That was new for me.

Soren set a wrapped cheese sandwich beside the binder. He had waited until my hands were free.

Then Ada forwarded the storage company's delivery receipt.

Under contents, someone had typed: THREE MASTER PUPPETS, TRANSFER PENDING.

Below that was a second pickup date: Thursday, 8:00 A.M.