A Lawyer Asked Who Held the Original Approval Master

The consent sheet said I had agreed to move River Lantern's contract to Switchyard for no payment.

It also said I gave up my right to approve changes and released Celia from any related claim.

"That's tidy," Noreen said. "A whole robbery with margins."

I knew my signature. The low loop in the F, the short tail on Malik. Seeing it under those words made me feel as if someone had worn my face into a room.

"I didn't sign this."

"Then we need a lawyer today."

She referred me to June Bell, who handled business disputes from an office near the Tulsa County courthouse. June could meet us Thursday morning. Until then, she told me to send a short written objection to the trust, copied to her.

I wrote only what I knew: I had not signed or approved the transfer. I disputed the consent. I asked the trust to preserve its records and hold further payment while its counsel reviewed them.

Mara replied that evening. The trust would hold the $147,000 milestone payment. Nobody would receive it yet.

Celia called within two minutes.

"You stopped payroll money."

"Our assistants haven't been paid. Were you sending it to them?"

"You're asking questions you don't understand."

"Then send the answers in writing."

I ended the call. My hand shook so badly I had to set the phone on the bedspread.

At June's office, I expected a speech about betrayal. She asked for our operating agreement.

I had brought the signed original.

She read the section on major contracts and tapped one line. Both members had to approve a transfer like this. Celia could run billing and ordinary purchases. She couldn't give away the main business by herself.

"This is why they needed your consent," June said. "Now show me the client contract."

We spread River Lantern's papers across her conference table. Schedule D named me keeper of the approval master. It required a numbered release certificate bearing my signature before another shop could change the approved model or take over delivery.

The disputed consent claimed to waive that protection, too.

"Who has the master now?" June asked.

"I do. At the workshop, in my locked sample cabinet."

"And its issue record?"

I showed her my bound bench book. No release had been issued. The last entry was a stair test, with a client witness's initials.

June nodded.

"Your control isn't a magic veto. But those records give us something solid to compare against their story."

That helped. I didn't want magic. I wanted the floor to stop moving.

June took a $4,000 retainer from my savings. She prepared a petition to challenge the transfer, seek an accounting, and recover money owed to the studio. She also asked the court for urgent limits on moving business assets.

"We have to protect the company," she said. "That includes its workers and creditors. This isn't a box of money for either spouse."

I signed the verified statement after reading each page.

Then I went to the shop with June's legal assistant, Luis, to inventory the master and my records. June had arranged the visit with Celia in writing. Luis photographed the cabinet before I opened it.

Celia stood by the loading door. Owen leaned against our panel saw.

He had brought a tape measure.

"Taking inventory?" I asked.

"Looking at options," he said.

The shop smelled of basswood and warm glue. It had smelled that way through eleven years of marriage, three roof leaks, and the first month we could afford help.

Celia looked at Luis.

"Now strangers get to watch us?"

"He's making a record," I said.

"You could have talked to me."

I almost answered that I had. Instead, I opened the sample cabinet.

Inside were the signed panel board, the model's base plan, and a small practice door I used to test the hinges. On its back I had penciled the project number: RL-40.

Luis photographed each item. We placed the master set in a sealed case and signed an inventory. Celia received a copy.

"That belongs here," Owen said.

"Its storage is covered in counsel's email," Luis replied.

Owen stopped leaning on the saw.

As I closed my bench book, I found a thin receipt clipped to an old page. Nine hundred thirty dollars for a custom hinge kit. I had signed the receipt when the courier brought it in April.

I put it beside the false consent on my phone.

The signature matched every bend. So did a small stray dot above the final k.

On the paper receipt, the dot was a drop of glue that had caught pencil dust.

I turned to Luis.

"Please photograph this before anyone touches it."

Under his camera lay my real signature, on the receipt from which someone had stolen it.