Marcus grabbed his coat and started toward the exit, his face burning with humiliation. I caught his arm and told him to sit down. Then I finished my overly sweet punch, stood up, and addressed the owner. “Mr. Prescott, may I ask you one question?”
Curtis laughed into the microphone, inviting everyone to watch me defend my son. Instead, I asked whether he knew who had signed the original loan that established Prescott Fabrication in 1996. He confidently answered that his father had. I explained that Walter Prescott had been rejected by four banks before receiving another refusal. He had a business plan, a welding truck, and no collateral. A woman working at the bank had eventually risked her own home to help him. I reached into my purse and pulled out an old photocopy. Walter had given that woman something in return, and the document was still legally significant.
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