The Lawyer Filed My Papers While Delia Sent Her Price

June Mercer met me with a sandwich still wrapped on her desk.

"Howard said you have a short week," she said.

I put down the envelope from Delia, the bank printouts, and my company records.

"Shorter every hour."

June handled business disputes above a print shop near downtown. She read quickly, but she stopped me whenever I guessed.

"Did Nolan tell you he and your wife were together?"

"No."

"Then we know he's receiving money. We can prove that. Start there."

She checked the company file and the recorded deed. The company still owned the building. No sale had closed. The paper Delia had handed me was a contract for a future closing, with early entry under a separate agreement.

"She hasn't sold it yet," June said. "She's promised something she may have no right to deliver."

"May have?"

"I believe you. The judge needs evidence."

My operating agreement required my written approval to name a manager or sell the building. June put that beside the supposed consent from the bank file.

"You didn't issue this?"

"I didn't write it, sign it, or agree to it."

She wrote down those exact words for my sworn statement.

The emergency court filing asked for access to company property and an order stopping anyone from selling, clearing, or damaging it while the case was heard. It also asked for the records Delia held.

June had me check every line of my statement before I signed it. Then she filed the papers and saved the court's receipt. My name appeared beside the word plaintiff. It took me a moment to recognize it as mine.

"Will a filing stop a bulldozer?"

"An order will. We need to reach the judge and notify the other side."

She sent notices to Delia, Nolan, and the buyer, Wade Rusk. A process server took copies out that afternoon. June also notified the demolition contractor named in my envelope.

I paid her $2,500 from my personal savings. That left me $1,106 outside the business.

"Keep the receipt," she said.

"I planned to."

At home, I made a list of every customer instrument inside the shop. Six grand actions. One upright action. Four sets of keys. Howard's was number seven on the list because I had written the paying jobs first.

I crossed out the numbers. They all belonged to someone.

Then I called the concert halls.

At River Lantern Hall, the director began to cry.

"We thought you were leaving town. Delia told us you couldn't manage your schedule anymore."

"I'm here," I said. "May I have your paid invoice and the image of your canceled check?"

She emailed them in six minutes.

The check named Doyle Action Works. On its back was the bank's lockbox stamp. It had reached the right bank before the money took the wrong turn.

I made a folder for each hall. Deposit, invoice, promised work, parts ordered. Eleven checks went into seven folders. I did the work on our kitchen table, where Delia had once laid out bills and asked me how I expected her to sleep.

At eight, my phone lit up with her name.

"You called my customers."

"Our customers."

"Don't start getting grand because Howard held your hand at a bank."

"I need the shop keys."

"You need to calm down. Wade paid for a clean site."

"He paid whom?"

"His $45,000 is in the closing lawyer's escrow. Nobody stole it."

"Then why is our $186,400 somewhere else?"

For several seconds, I heard only her breathing.

"Operating expenses," she said.

"For a company I never hired?"

"Nolan helped when you wouldn't."

"Helped with what?"

"Building a life that doesn't smell like old glue."

There it was, said as if I had forced her to say it.

I looked down at the company check she had signed for her own salary. She had been paid every other Friday while I had skipped six draws.

"Send the records to June," I said.

"I bought your winter coat. I sat through your mother's surgery. I kept you fed when you started that place. You don't get to count money now."

"Your salary is in the records too. Send all of them."

She ended the call.

June texted at nine. The judge would hear our emergency request Thursday at one. She told me not to enter by force and to preserve every message.

I copied the customer files onto a drive and put my original agreement back in its folder. My hands wanted a flange to ease, a screw to turn. Paper gave no feel when it was tight enough.

At ten, Wade Rusk called.

"Your wife's paperwork says she can sign," he said. "My crew stays booked. Meet me tomorrow, Doyle. Bring something better than a marriage complaint."