Ruthie Spread Her Receipts Across The Lawyer's Empty Conference Table

Ruthie put a jar of coins beside her papers.

"For your lawyer," she said.

"I'm not taking your tip money."

"Then consider it a very ugly vase."

I pushed the jar back. She left the papers.

Her layaway agreement listed two machines for the cafe's planned back room. One had blue ribs around its glass. The other had a yellow crescent above the song cards. Their shop numbers were C11 and C12.

The price was $8,400. Ruthie had paid three installments of $2,100. Her final payment was due July 20.

The agreement said the pair would be held for her while payments stayed current.

"Why did you get another customer's delivery slip?" I asked.

"Nolan gave me an envelope when I went to check on my repair. Said it held the auction details. That slip was in there too."

Her old cafe jukebox was one of two customer repairs still in our shop. The other belonged to a retired bus driver.

The slip named Leon Rusk. He had paid $7,200 for a blue-ribbed machine and a yellow-crescent machine. Delivery was set for July 18.

Both stock numbers matched Ruthie's agreement.

"Maybe Leon canceled," I said.

"Then why was Nolan telling me bargains go fast?"

I called the number on the slip. Leon answered from a lunch counter he was fixing up outside town.

"I'm waiting on two jukeboxes," he said. "Paid in full. Why?"

I asked him to save his papers. I told him there was a dispute over the inventory. I did not call Nolan a thief. I had enough work without adding words I could not yet prove.

By afternoon, Ruthie and I sat across from Della Voss, a lawyer whose office overlooked a brick alley near the courthouse.

Her fee to begin was $2,500.

I wrote the check from my personal savings. My hand felt stiff, but it stayed steady.

"First, separate the problems," Della said. "Who owns the cabinets? What did customers pay? What authority did your partner have to shut you out?"

I opened our company agreement.

Exhibit B listed six machines as my personal property, placed in the shop for storage, display, and possible sale with my written approval. It said they were not my contribution to company capital.

Nolan had initialed every page.

"He says the missing plates make that useless," I said.

Della looked up. "Can you identify them another way?"

I showed her my restoration book.

Every machine I finished carried my tiny maker's stamp beneath its turntable: an open diamond, one dot at its lower right corner, and a number.

The mark meant I had done the work. It did not mean I owned the machine.

My book linked each stamp to its old serial number, photographs, purchase papers, and work dates. The six personal machines carried numbers 101 through 106.

The company pair Ruthie wanted carried 219 and 220. Their stock numbers, C11 and C12, appeared beside those marks in the book.

"So the stamp identifies the machine," Della said. "Then the receipt and agreement establish whose machine it was."

"Exactly."

"That's much better than a speech about what everyone understood."

She copied the records and asked me to keep the originals safe.

My company bank access still worked in view-only mode. On Della's screen, we pulled the monthly statements and saved them without changing anything.

The balance was $487.26.

"There should be more," I said.

Ruthie's three payments had gone into that account. A later transfer for $6,300 carried the note CUSTOMER REFUND.

"Did you receive a refund?" Della asked her.

Ruthie laughed once, without any joy.

"I would have saved that receipt too."

The transfer went to an account ending in 8841. I did not know whose account it was.

Della wrote down the number.

She sent a notice to Nolan and the auction company demanding that they preserve the machines and records. She requested access for an inspection and warned them that six auction lots were claimed personal property.

Wes Hanley, the auctioneer, called while we were still there.

"Mr. Greer signed a seller's statement," he said. "He claims clear authority over all twelve lots."

"Two are customer repairs," I said.

The silence lasted long enough for me to hear a cart rattle down the alley.

"Send me those repair tickets," Wes said.

Della did. She also filed papers asking the court to stop any sale or removal while ownership could be checked.

That evening, an email from Nolan arrived in my personal inbox.

Attached was a sheet titled Inventory Contribution.

Under my typed name, someone had placed a signature that looked almost like mine.