CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Shocked by the Sheriff

Several cases were scheduled to be heard ahead of my case, so I decided that, while I was waiting, I would try to get the police report for last week's disturbance, in case Natasha tried to deny it all.

I slipped out the back door of the court room where a heated discussion was raging between the opposing parties as to whether a certain carpet had or had not been properly laid. 

The city court clerk let me use the phone in an adjacent office-cum-junk-room.  Perched amidst dusty, discarded file cabinets and unidentifiable pieces of dismantled office furniture, I called the police station.  When I eventually reached the appropriate department, the woman at the other end was at first reluctant to help me.

"We don’t give out incident reports over the phone," she told me.  "You will need to file a Freedom of Information request."

I explained the situation to her. 

"I'm at city court right now, waiting for my case to be heard.  If you could just give me the names of the #police officers who responded to the call, that would be something.  You see, my #tenant is probably going to deny everything, and I thought I should get some ammunition to prove my case to the #judge.”

The woman unbent a little as she sympathized with my plight. 

"I'd like to help," she said, "but . . .

"Oh well, seeing as you're about to go into court, I'll read the incident report to you over the phone." 

She proceeded to read the names of the officers who had responded and related that they had arrived at the #apartment and removed seven people from the #premises.  The name of the person allegedly responsible for holding the party meant nothing to me.  Natasha wasn’t even  mentioned.

I scribbled down the details on a scrap of paper and thanked the woman profusely.

When I returned to the courtroom, I didn’t have long to wait until the clerk was sonorously intoning the name of my case.

"Scuttlebutt v. Fluff?"

I walked sprightly up the aisle to stand before the judge by a table on the left of the aisle.  Natasha shuffled along behind and came to rest, lounging against a table on the right.

Judge Grazziano read aloud the clerk’s report and fixed Natasha with a disapproving frown. 

"I understand you have violated my Order," he said in a grave voice.

Natasha scowled. 

"I dunno what you talkin' about.  Theah was nutt'n goin' on.  I weren't even home."

"Your Honor," I ventured politely.  "I just got off the phone with the police station." 

I waved my scrap of paper at him. 

"It says that Officers Smith and Jones were called to fifty-one Manson Street at eleven p.m.  A loud party was in progress, and the police removed seven people from the premises.  My downstairs tenant says that shortly after the police left, the people all came back again and continued the party, though they did reduce the noise level somewhat.”

I shook my head in exasperation. 

“Judge, last week you told Natasha not to cause any more disturbances, and that very same night . . .

I gave a heavy sigh.

"I just want her out of my house, your Honor."

Judge Grazziano directed his gaze at the sullen Natasha. 

"I must say, I was hoping not to see you back in court again so soon."

"S’not fair!" Natasha protested.  "I weren't even there!"

"Whether you were or were not present at the time," said the judge, "is not important.  There were unauthorized persons in your apartment creating a disturbance.  This case is referred to the #Sheriff for a three-day #eviction of the respondent."

Bang went the gavel.

Natasha stormed out of the court room, muttering obscenities under her breath. 

"What do I do now?" I whispered to the judge's clerk, an ancient old biddy with a full head of white hair.

"You must prepare an order and warrant for the judge's signature.  Once he's signed them, you must deliver them to the Sheriff for service," the old biddy whispered back obligingly.

The Sheriff's office was located in the Schemmerhorn County Jail.  As I’d never had cause to visit a jail before, it was with some trepidation that a few days later, armed with a warrant signed by the judge, I pushed open the huge glass door and entered that lofty establishment.  I didn’t know quite what to expect – maybe rows of cells, with prisoners gazing despondently out through the bars, as in the movies?

The reality was disappointing.  Not one prisoner in sight.  The glass door simply opened onto a large, empty waiting room with a small glassed-in office to one side, labeled "Sheriff."

A woman with a blond rinse wrinkled plump, powdered cheeks at me through the glass above the counter.  Her disembodied voice floated hollowly from a speaker on my side of the glass.

"Can I help you?" she asked pleasantly.

"Yes," I answered.  "I have here a #warrant for eviction for the Sheriff to serve on my tenant." 

I pushed the form under the glass.

The woman checked that it had been signed by the judge. 

"There's a seventy-one dollar fee for the service of the warrant," she told me.

I gulped at the news.

"Will the warrant be served today or tomorrow?  There’s only ten days until the end of the month, and the warrant gives my tenant three days to move out.  I want her out by the end of this month."

"Oh, it'll probably be served tomorrow," the woman said with a nod, "but the Sheriff is very busy.  He won't be able to schedule the physical eviction until about the second week of December." 

She appeared to take pity at the sight of my crestfallen face. 

"Usually the tenant doesn't know the Sheriff is too busy to actually throw them out at the three-day point.  It'll probably be all right."

I sighed. 

"Well, assuming the worst, what happens if she isn't gone by the time the Sheriff comes to evict her?  I mean, do you put all her furniture out on the street, or something?”

"If she hasn’t moved out, the landlord is responsible for transporting the tenant's furniture to a storage facility, where it can be stored for up to two months," came the reply.

"What!" I gasped.  "It's my responsibility?  And who pays for this?"

"You do."

"Let me check I've got this right," I said.  "Because I’m evicting my tenant for creating disturbances, infesting the house with cockroaches, and generally making my life and the neighbors' lives hell, I have to pay the Sheriff seventy-one dollars to serve the eviction papers? 

"And then, if she doesn't move out, I have to pay for her furniture to be removed and stored for two months?"

The woman shrugged.  "That's how it is."

"That's so unfair!" I exclaimed.  "Why should I have to pay to store her furniture if she refuses to obey the judge's Order and not move?  I mean, it looks as if she's got all the rights.  Where are my rights in all this?"

The woman just looked at me with pursed lips, and delicately nibbled on a red-painted fingernail.

I took a deep breath.  "Can I store the furniture myself?"

The woman paused mid-nibble.

"No, it has to be at an official storage facility.  We can't have angry #landlords storing their evicted tenants' furniture.  They might take their frustrations out on the furniture." 

Her voice began to sound a little impatient.  I’d had my moan.  She'd dispensed a modicum of sympathy.  There was nothing more she could do for me.  I must now get out of her face. 

She began patting at her blond rinse and looking over her shoulder, as if someone were calling her from a back room. 

I took the hint and left. 

After writing out a check, of course.

The $71.00 I paid to the Sheriff turned out to be a waste of money because Natasha moved out at the end of the month, and I called the Sheriff’s office to advise them of this fact.

I placed an advertisement in the Schemmerhorn Gazette -- #rent listed at $475.00 -- and implored Miz James to tell me if she knew of any friend or relative who might be looking to rent an apartment any time soon.

During the week, Mr. Catcher from #Social #Services came to inspect the upstairs apartment for my #damage #claim.  Wim and I had written up a list of the painting and repairs that needed to be done, and I was very happy to learn that I would be receiving the maximum amount allowed in the #security #agreement: two months rent! 

My happiness was short-lived, however, when I discovered that this would barely cover all of the #repair items and #labor fees.  Though greatly discounted, Wim needed to charge me for his labor.  For all the time he spent working at 51 Manson Street, he could be earning more money working for his own customers.

The next weekend, a man called about the apartment. 

CHAPTER TWENTY: Natasha No-Show

          The next morning, I dropped off the #eviction petition with the Schemmerhorn Court Clerk, and swung by the house to collect the letter from Miz James complaining about Natasha.  I left a curt note on Natasha's door, telling her the time and date that the pest-control people were coming.  She was nowhere to be seen. Probably avoiding Wim, who was at that moment fixing her front door.

As I was leaving, a young man in a pick-up truck pulled up next door.  I stopped and asked him if he was the witness to the gun-toting characters seen entering my house the other day.  He said he was indeed, introduced himself as Dave, and invited me in to where he was working on the upstairs #apartment. 

He then proceeded to tell me his life story.  Apparently, he had fathered a baby, and his ex-girlfriend was soaking him for child support. Although a self-proclaimed, brilliant but as-yet-undiscovered musician, he was currently penniless and was being paid for his work with time in his boss's recording studio. 

Dave was two inches shorter than I, closely resembled a weasel, and smoked incessantly.  Definitely not my type.  He also spent more time coming on to me than telling me anything really useful.  In between fending off his advances and surreptitiously trying to wave the cigarette smoke away without offending him, I did however manage to get the approximate date and time that he had spied the gun-toters, as well as his address and phone number, willingly given.  Then I turned down his request for a date and gladly escaped outside to cleaner air and my car.

The City Court Clerk called me at work on October 28^th to tell me that my court date was scheduled for November 10^th.  Miz James was glad to hear that we didn’t have to wait long.  She intended to come along to Court too. 

The call from the court stoked the fires smoldering in my brain, and after fuming for a while, I felt I had to vent my anger somehow. 

So I did. 

On paper. 

In the form of a letter to the #Social #Services Commissioner, with a carbon copy to a Mr. Catcher in #Fraud and #Investigations, the department responsible for paying #landlord damage claims against #D.S.S. #tenants.

The next thirteen days until the hearing dragged on as before, with regular complaints of noise blaring from Natasha's apartment being phoned in to the #police by both the downstairs and next-door #neighbors. 

I, meanwhile, continued to gather ammunition by filing a Freedom of Information request for copies of police records for 51 Manson Street, dating back to when I bought the house.  The records were ready the day before the hearing, and Wim picked them up from City Hall for me.

On November 10th, armed and ready, I stalked into the courtroom at ten o'clock in the morning. Wim and Miz James stalked along behind me.

No sign of Natasha.

Our case was called about twenty minutes later. 

Still no Natasha. 

The #judge, a portly, middle-aged Giuseppe Grazziano, wrinkled his swarthy brow, twirled one end of his luxuriant moustache with a fat finger, and pondered the matter. 

"I'll hear your case last," he declared.  "If the respondent hasn't appeared by then, I'll grant a default."

We sat through a few more cases, and then Miz James had to leave, disappointed that she hadn't got to see any action.  It must have been hell for her.

Just as the judge was banging his gavel at the end of the last case, his clerk received a phone call and whispered something in the judge's ear.  

Judge Grazziano slapped his large, ham-like hands on his desk top and heaved himself to his feet. 

"We've found your tenant," he announced.  "She couldn't appear here because she's currently being held across the street in Police Court."

He conferred for a moment with the stenographer and then turned back to us. 

"We'll go over to Police Court.  They'll lend us a courtroom there."

We trailed across the street after Judge Grazziano's flapping black robes, the stenographer trudging along behind, lugging her stenograph machine.  Thus, we descended on the police station, wherein was situated Police Court.  We were shown into a small courtroom. 

A few minutes later Natasha appeared, escorted by a policewoman, who stayed watchfully nearby.

Judge Grazziano seated himself on his borrowed throne and read my petition out loud.  Then he turned to Natasha. 

"Well?  What have you got to say for yourself?"

"It’s not all true," Natasha mumbled sullenly, eyes averted.  "I got no place to go.  I got me three keeds."

"Your Honor?" I broke in - I’d always wanted to say that line, like they do in my favorite T.V. lawyer shows - "Natasha’s children have been taken away from her by Child Protective.  She doesn't have them with her anymore."

"Hmm.  Can you find an apartment by the end of the month?" the judge asked Natasha.

"Yeah, s'pose," she admitted in a resigned tone.

Judge Grazziano looked to me.  "Will you agree to let her stay until the end of the month?"

"Yeah, I suppose," I said in turn.  "But that's three weeks away.  She's going to keep on having loud parties and upsetting the neighbors, and –"

"Okay, okay," the judge broke in.  "Natasha, I'm ordering you to refrain from causing any further disturbances at your apartment from now until you move.  Is that clear?"

"Yeah," Natasha drawled, eyes still averted.

"Right.  Respondent ordered to be out by November thirtieth.  Petitioner to compose an Order to that effect for my signature." 

Bang!  The gavel came down.

"Thank you, Your Honor," I said.

As Natasha passed by with her escort, I asked her about paying me her share of the rent for November.

"Yo wan' it, yo come git it," she growled, glowering at me from under her brows.

"Fine," I said, fully intending to stay away from Manson Street until Natasha had moved out. 

"Oh, well, it's only a few bucks," I sighed to Wim as we drove home.

We were just getting ready for bed that night, when Miz James rang. 

"Did Natasha show up?" she demanded.

I told her what had transpired that morning after she left the courtroom. 

"I think Natasha's in jail right now," I assured her, "so it should be peaceful for a while."

"What’s that?" Miz James panted.  "Then there's a whole lotta people partyin' upstairs without her."

"What!" I exclaimed.  "I don't believe it!  Call the cops and let me know what happens."

Miz James gave one last huff and hung up.

The next day, I called Judge Grazziano's chambers and told the clerk that Natasha had instantly disobeyed the judge's Order.  The clerk promised to relay this to the judge and told me she would take care of setting up another court date for Natasha's eviction.

Just about every other day or night, Miz James called to report that a bunch of people were raising hell overhead, with or without Natasha. 

One morning, I decided to go up there to see for myself what was going on.

My trusty Dutch bodyguard at my side, I entered Natasha's apartment at about nine a.m.  The stench of garbage was still overpowering, and cockroaches were still crawling everywhere.  In each of the three bedrooms, someone was sleeping on a mattress on the floor, beer and pot fumes providing ample explanation for their late rising. 

Wim marched into one bedroom.  I marched into another.

"Get out!" I yelled, ignominiously waking the slumberer from sleep.  "This is my house, and you have no right to be here.  I want you out.  Right now!"

Wim could also be heard saying words to that effect as he rousted out the occupants of the two back bedrooms.

Eventually, three dopey-eyed girls were blinking blearily in the hallway in various stages of undress. 

One of them showed signs of coming to life. 

"Why don't you do somethin' 'bout dem roaches?” She grunted.  “It's disgustin'.  What kind of landlor' are you?"

"Did I put those garbage bags there?" I screamed, gesturing wildly at the oozing black bags advancing ever further into the kitchen. 

"Now, get your stuff together, and get out!"

They snatched up a few belongings, and I shepherded the girls to the front door where they sullenly took their leave, grumbling to one another as they traipsed down the stairs.

A week later, Natasha and I were back in court.

CHAPTER NINETEEN: Undertaker Fakery

Over dinner with Allen that night, I let it all out. 

“It’s just one thing after another,” I complained, chewing on a hangnail.  “This #house and my #tenants are, like, running my life now.  I can’t think about anything else.  And it’s so hard trying to concentrate on studying when I’m just worrying all the time about what else is going to go wrong.  You know me.  If I don’t get all A’s, I get depressed.”

 Allen smiled at my moody expression and reached across the table for my hand. 

“You poor thing.  You do seem to be going through a tough spell right now.  But look on the bright side.  Miz James seems to be a good tenant at least. Natasha will hopefully soon be gone.  We’ll make the place nice again.  And you can find a better tenant.  You know I’m getting really good at cleaning ovens.”

“I suppose so,” I grudgingly agreed.  “You should have seen the fridge, though.  It was worse than yours!”

Allen’s refrigerator presently contained seven cartons of milk in various stages of decay.  Every other weekend, when my daughters stayed at their father's house and I stayed at Allen’s place, he would buy a carton of milk for me to have with my tea and cereal.  But he never threw out the old ones.  Since he didn’t drink milk himself, the cartons had been steadily increasing in number.

“You know,” I added, before he could get a word in to defend himself, “I know it’s gross talking about this over dinner, but I've never smelled anything as bad as those garbage bags.  It was like there were dead, rotting animals in them, and this yucky stuff was oozing out all over the floor.  And to think that I wanted to be a pathologist when I grew up. Quincy was one of my favorite T.V. shows when I was little.”

“Does sound pretty gross,” Allen agreed, patting my butt as we left the restaurant.  “But I don’t think I’d really enjoy going out with a girl whose job consisted of working with dead people.”

“No, seriously,” I said as we walked to the car.  “From this #writing course I’ve been taking, I actually do know a bit about what undertakers do to make corpses presentable for viewing.”

Allen opened the car door for me, ever the gentleman.  “What type of writing course is that?”

On the drive home, I regaled him with the details. 

To my delight, our English Composition class had been required to read an excerpt called The Embalming of Mr. Jones from The American Way of Death, by Jessica Mitford.  Being a bloodthirsty ghoul at heart, a characteristic which frequently caused disagreement with the more squeamish Allen at the movie theater, my interest was instantly piqued.  Suddenly, I felt I had always wanted to know about how one embalms a dead body.  And now I was about to find out.

With relish, I read about how the blood is drained from the body and replaced by embalming fluid, and how each operator has their own favorite injection and drainage points. 

Apparently, there are several kinds of embalming fluids.  One of them, called Flextone, produces a “mild, flexible rigidity,” the resulting velvety feel of the skin making it ideal for women and children.  Then there’s a cosmetic called Suntone, which comes in several shades – pink being “especially indicated for young female subjects.”

This had actually started getting quite boring, but I perked up at the next paragraph which described how the mouth is sewn together with a needle passing through the upper lip and gum and out through the left nostril, with the corners raised slightly “for a more pleasant expression.” 

If the deceased is buck-toothed, the teeth are cleaned and coated with clear nail polish.  And, should the corpse be missing a limb, an artificial one can easily be made from plaster of Paris.  In the case of a missing hand, sometimes the back of the hand is all that is required.  If the corpse has suffered the misfortune of being decapitated, the ragged edges of the head and neck are trimmed, and the head is joined to the body with splints, wires and sutures. 

“Of course, it’s good to tie a scarf or something around the neck to hide the embalmer’s handiwork,” I proclaimed.

“Well, of course,” Allen agreed, mashing the gears and almost stalling the car.

Undaunted, I continued reciting as best I could from memory.

“Finally, massage cream is injected to smooth out sunken areas, even in the hands, and the lips are positioned properly, ‘lip drift’ being remedied by the insertion of pins cemented into place with denture replacer. 

"For an especially stubborn pair of lips, the lower jaw can actually be dislocated and held in position with wires running through holes drilled through the upper jaws.

“Naturally, the book created some outrage amongst funeral directors,” I finished, “But this is all taught in the Mortuary Science program.  I must admit I’m rather tempted to change careers.”

“I sincerely hope you don’t,” Allen said feebly, looking a little green around the gills.  “Psychology is a much more respectable profession, in my opinion.”