Ninety days.
The lease has a clause — my mother’s — that lets me terminate if a court finds you made a false statement about the injury of anyone working on the premises.
Judge Winfield found that Wednesday.
It’s in her order.
Page two.”
“You can’t — this is my — twenty years — “
“You said in court I was a pack mule.
You were right.
I carried it.
All of it.
The dough, the produce, the menu, the mixer, and the lie you told a nurse while I was on the table.”
“I’m done carrying.
You’ve got ninety days to carry it out.”
I looked at Brianna.
“He’ll tell you it’s a technicality.
Ask him what he told the hospital.
Then ask him who owns the floor you’re standing on.”
Then I picked up the notebook — my mother’s — and handed the basket back to Rosalie, and we walked out under the banner, and behind us the room did not applaud, because rooms don’t, but Halvorsen — I heard this — said to the table nearest him, “I’m going to have to run a correction.
