Selene looked at the photograph. The women in it were laughing in front of a brick wall, sleeves rolled up, hands covered in mortar. A toddler sat in an empty paint bucket, smiling as if the whole world had been built for her amusement.
“May I scan these?” Selene asked. “Not take them. Scan them, with your permission, and give you the copies.”
Rosa waved the spoon. “You may, after you finish your coffee.”
It took nearly an hour to establish the timeline. The women had not bought the entire property. The landlord had sold it to a holding company connected to the freight trade, which agreed to maintain the building in exchange for a long commercial arrangement. In return for the Harbor Circle's renovation contributions, the women negotiated a written right to use the ground floor as community space. Their lawyer had also sought notice and consultation if the building was ever sold.
“Did they register it?” Selene asked.
Pearl pulled out an old legal invoice. “We paid for recording. Here's the receipt. Whether the lawyer filed what he promised, I couldn't swear.”
The invoice was dated May 1987. Selene recorded its number. Proof of a payment to a lawyer was not proof of a valid property right, but it told them which records to request.
Rosa watched her write. “You don't look very excited.”
“I'm interested,” Selene said. “I want to be careful. If I tell people you own a room and it turns out the document was never recorded, I will have given them false hope.”
“Good,” Rosa said. “I've had enough false hope to furnish another building.”
They were interrupted by a knock. A young mother named Keisha Porter entered carrying her son on one hip and a white envelope in the other hand. She lived upstairs with her mother, who used oxygen at night. Keisha looked furious enough to cry.
“This came under my door,” she said. “They're offering money if we sign by Friday. It says if we wait, relocation assistance may be reduced.”
Maria took the envelope and read it while Keisha shifted the child against her shoulder. The document came from Talbot's relocation consultant. It called the offer voluntary but used phrases designed to make delay sound costly. It referred to construction that had not yet been approved and to a proposed closing that had not happened.
“Don't sign anything in this room,” Selene said, and immediately added, “Not because I get to decide. Because you deserve independent advice before anybody tells you what it means.”
Keisha gave a bitter laugh. “Independent advice costs money.”
“Sometimes,” Selene said. “I can give you the contact for a tenant legal clinic. They can tell you what services they're able to offer.”
Rosa put down her spoon. “We asked for a meeting. Their office sent us a picture of a nice courtyard and said we should be pleased the neighborhood's improving.”
“Did anybody ask what you wanted?” Selene said.
“Once,” Pearl answered. “A consultant came with a form already filled out.”
They all knew what that meant.
At noon Dante entered with Livia after Rosa waved him inside. His presence filled the small kitchen, but no one moved to give him the head of the table. Rosa assigned him the folding chair with the uneven leg. He sat on it without complaint.
“I approved a sale review for this property,” he told them. “I was given incomplete information. That doesn't excuse my signature. I want you to know what has happened, what I can do, and what I cannot promise.”
Maria crossed her arms. “We've heard rich men say that before.”
“I imagine you have.”