“Go clean Bay Two.”
Jory hated media attention more.
Reporters photographed Baxter’s Garage.
Customers either disappeared or arrived out of curiosity.
One man called asking if she repaired motorcycles “from the crime story.”
Jory hung up.
Clare handled press.
Short statements.
No speculation.
No attacks.
Devo’s lawyers did the opposite.
They described the case as an opportunistic attempt to interfere with legitimate development.
They emphasized that Lawrence Devo had never been at Baxter’s Garage the morning Gerald was injured.
That was true.
The prosecution did not claim he was.
They attacked Gloria’s memory.
Gerald’s impairment.
Jory’s notebooks.
The motorcycle club connection.
They suggested Iron Pines had commercial motives.
Clare expected all of it.
“Do not react.”
Jory asked:
“How many times are you going to tell me that?”
“Until you stop looking like you want to throw something.”
“I repair things.”
“You also own wrenches.”
“Fair.”
The hardest moment came in April.
A municipal planning official resigned after internal records showed he had allowed Devo’s preliminary application to move farther than normal despite unresolved ownership issues.
No bribery charge followed.
That disappointed the public.
Clare explained:
“Bad process is not automatically criminal corruption.”
Jory nodded.
Another lesson.
The case grew less dramatic and more credible.
Some allegations fell away.
Others strengthened.
The charge directly relating to Gerald was amended after medical experts disagreed about whether the stroke itself could be causally attributed to the encounter.
Prosecutors narrowed the allegation to assault causing bodily harm and related conduct supported by physical and circumstantial evidence, rather than pretending medicine could establish more than it could.
Jory was furious at first.
“They’re reducing it.”
Clare shook her head.
“They’re strengthening it.”
“How?”
“By only asking a court to decide what evidence can support.”
“But Dad almost died.”
“I know.”
“That matters.”
“It matters enormously.”
Clare leaned forward.
“But a courtroom is not allowed to fill gaps because something terrible happened.”
Jory sat back.
She understood.
Did not like it.
Understanding and liking were separate jobs.
In June, Calvin offered her a permanent position.
This time he had paperwork.
MECHANICAL DIAGNOSTICS LEAD.
Jory read the title.
“That sounds made up.”
“It is.”
“Why?”
“Because ‘mechanic who fixes what Tommy can’t’ was too long.”
Tommy shouted from across the shop:
“I heard that.”
Jory looked at the wage.
Higher than expected.
“Too much.”
Calvin stared.
“Nobody has ever said that in this office.”
“My shop.”
“Still yours.”
“I can’t work full-time here and run Baxter’s.”
“You don’t have to.”
“What?”
“Three fixed days. Benefits proportional. Baxter’s gets your other time.”
“You designed a job around me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because we need you.”
That answer mattered more than if he had said he wanted to help.
Jory signed.
She remained owner-operator of Baxter’s Garage.
Three days a week Iron Pines.
Three days Baxter’s.
Sunday usually with Gerald.
The schedule was still stupid.
Less stupid.
Gerald returned to the garage in July.
First time since the stroke.
Jory drove him.
He stood outside with his cane.
Looked at the faded BAXTER’S GARAGE sign.
The open bay.
The oil stains.
Tool chest.
For several seconds, he could not move.
Jory stood beside him.
“You okay?”
Gerald nodded.
Then:
“Home.”
One word.
Enough.
Inside, he touched everything.
Workbench.
Vice.
Parts cabinet.
Old radio.
He inspected Jory’s organization.
Frowned.
“You moved... carb.”
“Top shelf.”
“Wrong.”
“It’s better.”