Page 3 of A Walking Shadow

“Funny you should say that. When I said I only take U.S. currency, he told me this thing was a valid instrument under the U.C.C. What even is that?”

“The U.C.C. is the Universal Commercial Code. And, while it’s been a long time since I studied it in law school, I assure you there’s no such thing as a negotiable redemption note.”

“Right. And then it got weird. He started spouting how U.S. currency wasn’t even real because it’s not backed by the gold standard and?—”

She groaned. “You’re dealing with a sovereign citizen.”

“The newest iteration,” he told her with a heavy sigh. “They call themselves Citizens to End Oppression. They have this whole thing about maritime law somehow meaning they don’t need driver’s licenses. I looked it up later. But at the time, I didn’t know any of this. I threw his monopoly money back on his desk and left.”

“You just left?”

He gave her a steady look. “What does my dad always say?”

“The surest way to win a fight is to walk away from it,” she parroted dutifully.

“There were thirty of them and one of me. It didn’t make sense to escalate. A few weeks later, when I was doing my bills for the month, I sent him an invoice. He sent me back the pretend note. I mailed it back to him, then called to offer him a discount. You know, some money’s better than no money. He wouldn’t take my calls or return my calls. I sent him two past due invoices thirty days apart. By then he was ninety days overdue, and it started to piss me off. I worked hard that weekend. I sent him a certified letter notifying him that if I didn’t get paid by the end of the month, I’d file in small claims court.”

“Let me guess, he sent you the negotiable redemption note and then used that as his defense to your filing?”

“You’re partially right. He sent me back the note but didn’t bother to answer the complaint. So I got a default judgment. I don’t know how I’m supposed to collect on it, but I have it. Then I got served with this federal complaint last week. I can’t even make heads or tails of it. Neither could my dad, not really.”

“I’m not surprised,” Sasha said. “Most people who represent themselves will likely make a mess of it. But these sovereign citizen arguments are next-level tortured logic.”

“Oh, he has an attorney, but the complaint is definitely gibberish.”

“He does?”

She’d assumed Boone would have filed pro se. Who would represent someone who didn’t deal in U.S. currency? She flipped to the end of the document and scanned the signature block. Gray Simmons.

“Never heard of him,” she said.

“Neither has my dad. He looked him up and said he practices out of a firm in Peters Township, in McMurray. Boone’s compound is near there.”

“Compound?” She didn’t like the sound of that.

“He has a big rural property. It’s not really a farm, it’s more of a compound than anything.”

“Okay, I really do have to run. But I’ll call you tomorrow with a plan. I’ll get this complaint dismissed, Daniel. Don’t worry about it.”

“I appreciate it. I should’ve just written off the money. I knew I’d never collect, but it was the principle of the thing.”

“You did the right thing. You provided him a service and your expertise, and he’s going to pay you for it—with real money.”

“I owe you one.”

“And I’ll collect in the form of private sessions.”

“Great. That’s a win-win. Why don’t we also get together with our better halves for dinner one night soon?”

“Definitely,” she said.

“We’ll host. You can even bring the rug rats. Chris will make them his famous homemade flatbread pizza.”

She almost said yes. Then, the image of Daniel and Chris’s immaculate all-white and glass apartment popped into her head. Instantly, the image dissolved, replaced by one where the couch was sticky, the carpet was stained, and every glass surface was smudged with small, greasy fingerprints.

“How about we do it at our place?” she said.

“Okay, I’ll talk to Chris and get some dates. We’ll still bring the flatbread.”

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