Story code: ST-001103
Part 3: The Suspended License
My husband Mark was still at the hardware store when I took the next step. The green photocopy of the permit was still taped to the window, a physical lie facing our quiet street. I sat at our makeshift dining table-a sheet of plywood balanced on two sawhorses-and pulled up the state licensing board’s database on my phone.
I typed in Greg’s full name and his business registration. The page loaded slowly in the poorly receptioned corner of our house. When the profile finally appeared, a red banner stretched across the top of the screen: LICENSE STATUS: SUSPENDED.
I clicked the history tab. The suspension wasn’t a recent administrative mix-up. It had been handed down six months ago for failure to maintain general liability insurance and for performing structural work without municipal authorization. He had been operating illegally the entire time he was in our home, carrying no insurance to cover the exposed wires or the structural framing he had cut into.
The headlights of Mark’s SUV swept across the bare studs as he pulled into the driveway. A minute later, he walked through the back door, carrying a plastic bag of LED work bulbs.
“Look at this,” I said, holding out my phone.
Mark set the bag on the plywood table. “Sarah, I told you, let’s just wait until-”
“Look at the screen, Mark.”
He squinted at the phone. I watched his eyes scan the red banner. His brow furrowed, and he reached out to scroll down the page himself, reading the suspension details. He swallowed, his throat clicking in the quiet room.
“This has to be a mistake,” Mark said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Greg has been licensed for ten years.”
“Six months ago, they took it away,” I said. “And that green tag on the window? It’s a photocopy of a commercial roofing permit from an industrial park across town. There is no inspector backlog, Mark. There is no inspector coming at all, because the city doesn’t even know we are doing this work.”
Mark stared at the green paper on the glass. He walked over, peeled the tape back with a sharp scrape of his fingernail, and held the waxy paper up to the work light. The pixelated edges of the city seal were unmistakable in the bright glare.
Without a word, Mark pulled out his phone and dialed. He put it on speaker.
“Greg,” Mark said when the line clicked open.
“Hey, man,” Greg’s voice came through, loud and casual. “Toby just got back with the bag. What’s up?”
“Sarah looked up the permit number, Greg. And your license.” Mark’s voice was flat, devoid of its usual defensive edge.
There was a long silence on the other end. The background noise of Greg’s truck engine hummed through the speaker.
“I can explain that,” Greg said, his tone shifting to a low, soothing murmur. “The city has some outdated info on the portal. It’s just a clerical delay. Don’t worry about the tag, it’s just to keep code enforcement off our backs while we get the formal approval.”
“You forged a municipal document on our window,” I said, leaning closer to the phone. “And you sent your teenage son to lie to us.”
“Sarah, come on,” Greg said, his voice carrying a strained, polite warmth. “We’re family. I was trying to save you guys three thousand dollars in municipal fees. I’ll be over in ten minutes. We’ll sit down and talk.”
The line went dead. Mark set his phone on the table. He didn’t look at me. He just looked at the exposed copper wires hanging from our ceiling. Ten minutes later, Greg’s truck pulled into the driveway.