The Judge Asked For Originals And Her Story Lost Its Shape

The courthouse floors shone like old piano keys.

I wore my only dark suit. The left cuff carried a pale spot from hide glue that no cleaner had removed. June told me to leave it alone.

"You're here to tell the truth," she said. "You don't need a new costume."

Our first hearing concerned the organ. The divorce case would have its own hearing and its own orders. Until then, June wanted one clear rule: nobody could sell, strip, or damage the instrument while the court sorted out the claims.

Vanessa sat beside her attorney, Paul Keene. She did not look at me.

The hall had hired separate counsel. Dorian sat behind him, back straight, hands folded.

Paul said the organ had been a gift to our shared cause. He said my wife had spent years raising money while I now tried to hold the project hostage.

The judge looked at our purchase agreement.

"Then why does this document set a price?"

"The parties' understanding changed," Paul said.

"Where is that change recorded?"

He offered the waiver.

June stood.

"My client disputes that signature. We've requested the original and the records showing how this copy was made. We also have a second purported authorization with the same disputed signature."

The judge studied both pages.

"Do you have the originals today?" she asked Paul.

"Not today."

"Then I am not resolving their authenticity today."

It was a small sentence. I felt my shoulders drop an inch.

Vanessa had always made the first spoken version sound like the final one. Here, a claim could remain a claim.

June gave the court our filing receipts, the unpaid balance, and the disposal quote. The hall's lawyer said its board supported keeping the organ safe until the dispute was settled.

"We have canceled the crew," he said.

"The seller also requests reasonable inspection access," June said. "Humidity and heat affect this instrument."

Paul objected.

"My client's husband has threatened to remove it."

"I haven't," I said, too softly.

June touched my sleeve.

When the judge called me forward, I explained how the blower fed air through leather valves and into the chests. Without heat checks, leather could crack. Without care, a small leak could grow.

"Can you inspect without taking anything?" she asked.

"Yes, Your Honor. Dorian can stay with me."

"Mr. Price," she said, "is that acceptable to the hall?"

"Very much so."

His voice was a perfect fifth. Open and steady.

The order barred disposal, sale, and alteration of the organ while the case continued. It allowed scheduled inspections with a trustee present and required the parties to preserve the disputed documents and related records.

It did not decide ownership. It kept Monday from destroying the evidence and thirty years of useful music.

The clerk gave us copies before we left. I checked the instrument list attached to the order. The little wooden pipes behind the case were there, along with the blower in the basement.

"Why that look?" June asked.

"People forget the parts they can't see."

"Then it's good you checked."

I folded my copy without bending the seal. It was the first paper in months that seemed to leave room for me to breathe.

In the corridor, Vanessa stepped close enough that I could smell her orange hand cream.

"You embarrassed me."

"They asked for papers."

"You could have called me."

"I did. You told me to read my mail."

Her lawyer asked her to come with him.

She left without another word.

Two weeks later, at the temporary divorce hearing, we dealt with the joint accounts. The bank confirmed that Vanessa had reported disputed transactions and requested a restriction. The judge ordered a full accounting and set rules for paying ordinary bills while the case went on.

The order also stopped either of us from moving marital funds outside those rules.

I regained access to statements. I moved into a small apartment near Elm Park and paid a $1,350 deposit from my business savings. I bought two plates and a kettle.

The quiet felt strange. I kept waiting for someone to tell me where the cups belonged.

That Saturday, Dorian met me at the hall for our first inspection.

A strip of blue wool had fallen from one pipe. He picked it up before I could bend.

"What does this mean?"

"That I checked its voice."

He tied it loosely around the pipe's foot.

"Then let's make sure it keeps one."

We found no new damage. I logged the heat, humidity, and blower pressure. Dorian signed beneath me.

At home that evening, I opened the bank records released under the temporary order.

Our savings account should have held $91,200.

It held $4,800.

The missing $86,400 had gone out in six transfers. The last statement named the receiving account: Morrow Arts Fund.