Our Lawyer Put Seven Machine Numbers Into An Emergency Court Filing

Ada Vale's office overlooked an alley full of wet cottonwood leaves.

She charged $250 for our first meeting. I set my savings statement beside the partnership articles before she asked about money.

"I can pay for help," I said. "I can't pay for a long war."

"Then we need a clear account of what happened."

June handed her a page with dates down the left side and document numbers down the right.

Ada looked at it, then at June.

"You just saved him part of an hour."

"Put that on the bill," June said.

Ada read the articles, receipts, tax records, and both loan schedules. She did not smile when she reached Hollis's false answers.

"The first question is whether you're an owner," she said. "These papers give us strong proof. The next is what either lender can claim. Those are separate questions."

"He couldn't borrow without my signature."

"Under your agreement with him. The second lender may argue that he appeared to have power to act for the business. We have to address that. A judge won't erase a loan just because your partner lied to you."

That was the first thing she said that made me trust her.

She searched the public filing records while we watched. Cottonwood had filed under our partnership's correct name in March. Basin's August filing used Hollis's shortened business name and named him as the debtor.

"Does that settle it?" I asked.

"It gives Basin another problem. It doesn't settle anything today."

She made copies. My originals went back into the brown envelope.

"You keep these somewhere safe. Bring them when I ask."

My phone rang before we left her office.

Hollis.

Ada pointed to the speaker button.

"June's been calling people," he said.

"June found the auction notice."

"That's a finance matter. You wouldn't understand it."

"I understand twelve days."

"Look, I can make that goodbye money $4,800. Sign a release. Take the winter off."

Ada wrote something on her pad.

"Send the offer to my lawyer," I said.

The line went quiet.

"Your what?"

"Ada Vale."

"You want strangers eating everything we've built?"

He had found the word we again.

"Send her the papers," I said.

He hung up.

Ada turned her pad around. It said: NO DIRECT DEALS.

By late afternoon, she had prepared a sworn statement for me. I read each sentence slowly. I corrected the purchase date of the drum sander and changed one line about who held the building lease.

The lease was in Hollis's name. I would not claim otherwise just because he had lied first.

"Good," Ada said. "Accuracy helps us more than anger."

I had brought the maple cantle in my coat pocket. While her assistant made copies, I rested it on my wrist without tapping it.

"Something from the shop?" Ada asked.

"Part of a saddle tree. I check wood by its sound."

"And this one?"

"Sound wood. I keep checking it anyway."

She nodded toward the documents.

"We'll check these the same way. One item at a time."

Her filing asked the court to confirm my partnership interest, require an accounting, restore access, and stop any sale while the ownership and loan rights were sorted out.

We attached the articles as Exhibit A.

The installment receipts became Exhibit B.

June's draw records and our tax forms came next. After those were the two sets of machine numbers.

Ada called both lenders' lawyers. Cottonwood wanted its balance protected. Basin wanted proof that Hollis had lied before it agreed to halt its sale.

"We've sent that proof," Ada said. "Now we're asking for a short pause and an inventory."

Basin agreed to hold off on the auction until the emergency hearing, set for Friday. Its sale notice stayed posted. If we failed at the hearing, the original auction date would still stand.

"That's three days," I said after the call.

"Three days to make sure the court has what it needs."

Outside, the Crazy Mountains showed white above a low bank of cloud. I usually checked that view to guess whether the next lumber load would arrive dry.

That evening, I only saw the hours left.

A customer called about a $900 deposit. Hollis had stopped answering him.

"I'm sorting access to the shop," I said. "Your order is on my list. I'll give you a real date when I can."

"Should I file against you?"

"Keep your receipt. I'm not asking you to trust a promise."

After supper, Ada forwarded the release Hollis had finally sent. For $4,800, I would deny ever owning any part of the business and take on responsibility for unfinished customer orders.

I read that line twice.

Then another message arrived from Ada.

A freight company had asked Basin whether it approved a scheduled pickup at our address.

The load was our duplicator, serial number 4418.

Pickup was at seven the next morning.