work.”
That should have been the end of it.
It wasn’t.
Because that afternoon, Daniel called us.
“Frank. Emily. You should come by my office.
I did some digging on the Hales this morning.
You’re not their first carpenter.”
PART 3
Daniel’s office had a whiteboard, and by the time we arrived, the whiteboard had names on it.
“Tom Reyes. Landscaping. Finished their backyard in April — stiffed for $4,100.
Same speech, almost word for word. ‘We went over budget.’
Callahan Stone. Did the patio and the fireplace surround — stiffed for $7,800.
They told Mr. Callahan that if he pushed it, they’d flood his business with one-star reviews.
He has a kid with medical bills. He let it go.”
I felt sick.
“They do this to everyone?” I asked.
“They do this to everyone small,” Daniel said.
“Solo operators. Guys without lawyers.
People who can’t afford to fight for
six months over six thousand dollars.
And here’s the part that makes it art.”
He pulled up a property record.
“The Hales are mortgaged to the eyebrows.
The renovation, the cars, the watch, the purse — it’s all borrowed.
They’ve got a refinance application in right now to consolidate everything.
That refinance was scheduled to close in three weeks.”
“Was,” Grandpa said.
“Was,” Daniel agreed.
“A lien on the title freezes the whole thing.
Underwriters see a mechanic’s lien, they don’t walk away — they run.
Your six thousand dollars just became the pin holding up their entire house of cards.”
Grandpa was quiet for a long moment.
I expected satisfaction on his face.
Instead he looked tired.
“Tom Reyes has four kids,” he said.
“And Callahan poured my sister’s porch steps in 1998.
Call them, Daniel.
If we’re doing this, everybody gets paid.
Not just me.”
That’s my grandfather in one
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