Chapter 18 - The Littleton Docket
By eight-forty-five, the courtroom in Littleton was packed to capacity.
Word had spread through the valley with the speed of a brushfire. Over seventy mill hands, sawyers, and local shopkeepers filled the wooden benches, their wool coats steaming in the overheated radiator warmth of the historic stone courthouse.
Judge Evelyn Harrison, a woman of sixty-five with steel-gray hair and a reputation for tolerating no nonsense from out-of-state corporate litigators, sat behind the raised mahogany bench, reviewing the emergency docket.
At the plaintiff’s table sat the senior partners of Mercer Capital’s legal division, surrounded by stacked bankers' boxes of corporate filings. Harlan Vance sat with them, nervously checking his wristwatch every thirty seconds.
The defense table was entirely empty.
“Case number forty-eight-twelve,” the bailiff announced. “Mercer Capital vs. The Bridger Trust and the Estate of David Finch. Motion for default judgment and transfer of deed.”
Mercer’s lead attorney stood smoothly, buttoning his jacket. “Your Honor, as the defendants have failed to appear and failed to file a responsive pleading within the statutory deadline, we respectfully request the immediate execution of the foreclosure order against Blackwood Ridge.”
Judge Harrison adjusted her glasses, frowning down at the paperwork. “The court received an informal notification that an emergency ledger had been recovered last night. Does the defense have representation present?”
Silence fell over the courtroom. Vance allowed himself a slight, satisfied smirk.
“Your Honor,” the Mercer attorney pressed, “it is eight-fifty-five. The statutory window is closed. Without a certified filing, this matter is closed.”
Judge Harrison lifted her gavel. “In the absence of appearance by the defendants, this court finds—”
The heavy oak doors at the back of the courtroom swung open with a resounding thud.
Every eye in the room pivoted.
Marlow Finch walked down the center aisle. Her wool coat was dusted with fresh snow; her hands, raw from the sub-zero iron auger on the bridge, were wrapped around a thick, leather-bound volume stamped in gold. Beside her walked James Bridger, carrying a rolled parchment tied with green baling twine.
Behind them, walking with quiet dignity, was Pippa, holding the hand of Arthur Miller, the retired probate clerk who held a permanent license to practice before the county bench.
“We apologize for the delay, Your Honor,” Marlow said, her voice ringing clear and steady off the high plaster ceiling. “The mountain road was delayed by an unscheduled timber inspection.”
Old Frank and thirty sawyers in the gallery let out a low, collective chuckle.
Judge Harrison set her gavel down, her sharp eyes studying Marlow’s unyielding posture.
May you like
“Mrs. Finch,” the judge said. “You’d better have something extraordinary in that book.”
***
