CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE: Arrest and Assumption

On June 1st, I received a call from Giselle.  "I'm sorry to do this to you, Stace, but I hafta move out."

I couldn't think of anything to say, except, "Why?" 

"It's not you," Giselle hastened to assure me.  "It's Wim.  The walls in my daughter's bedroom are cracking like crazy now, there's no insulation, and I just can't afford to pay the heating bills next winter like I did last winter.  I've told Wim over and over, but he don't do nutt'n about it."

"I didn't know about the walls in your daughter's bedroom," I said. 

"You see?  There you go.  Wim don't tell you nothin'.  He's supposed to look after this place, an' he doesn't.  I tell you, it's because of Wim I'm movin' out, not you."

 Giselle proceeded to rant and rave in my ear about Wim this and Wim that.  I could see there was no point in trying to talk her out of it.  She had made up her mind to go, and that was that.  I would be kind of sorry to lose her.  She was basically a good #tenant, albeit giving me a few hassles now and then.  Compared to the succession of upstairs tenants, however, she was an angel! 

I sank onto my couch in utter despair. 

The next day, I called her back.  "Giselle, I've been thinking.  I never told you this because I didn’t want to alarm you, but I’ve had the #house on the market for some time.  I was wondering … would you be interested in buying it?"

There was an astonished silence from Giselle.  "Uh, I couldn't afford it," she said after a moment.  "I mean, how could I pay the down-payment, to start with?  I ain't got money like that."

"Well, if you assumed my #mortgage, you wouldn't have to pay any money down," I told her.  "Except maybe some miscellaneous #assumption costs.  You'd also be making a few hundred dollars a month in rent from the upstairs #apartment because the mortgage isn’t much more than the rent you’re paying now."

Giselle was silent for another moment. “This is, like, a shock, you know?" she said finally.  "You've really caught me by surprise with this one.  Umm ... No. I really don't think I'm in a position to buy a house right now."

"Well," I said, "It's something to think about, at least. Why don't you talk it over with Marvin and let me know if you change your mind?"

The next day, Giselle called me back.  "We did think about it, Marvin and me, and we would like to try and buy the house, so long as we wouldn't have to make any down-payment or nutt'n.  What do we have to do?"

"I'll call the mortgage company and get back to you," I told her eagerly.

I put down the phone and skipped into my parents’ living room in gay abandon.  "Giselle wants to buy the house!" I yelled, dancing around the furniture. Mummy and Wim looked on in amusement.

I got right on to the mortgage company. They told me Giselle and I both needed to sign a letter requesting an assumption packet.  I sat down at my computer, there and then, and dashed off a short request for an assumption packet, with an extra signature line for Giselle.  I mailed it to her the next day with instructions to sign it and send it back to me as soon as possible.  When she returned the letter a few days later, I dated it and sent it off to the mortgage company.

                                                             * * * * * * * *

June 4th rolled around and, not surprisingly, Charmayne didn’t show up for #Court.  I was rather pleased at this because her absence meant she couldn’t complain to the #judge that I had served the information #subpoena on her via her mother, which the judge might deem invalid service.

My case was fourth in line that morning.  Judge Grazziano dispatched the first two matters quite quickly, but the third one dragged on and on.  After much watch-glancing and biting of nails, I was relieved when the judge called for a break.     

"This is going to take a while," he said to the room at large, then glanced at his clerk.  "Let's go through a couple of quick cases and get some of these people out of here.” 

The court clerk intoned the name of my case.

I stood up and smiled at Judge Grazziano.  "It’s me again, Judge.  You must be getting sick of seeing me in your court room every other minute."

He crinkled his luxuriant moustache at me in return.  "Hello, Ms. Scuttlebutt. I’m glad to be of help to you.  That's what we’re here for."  He frowned at the motion papers lying before him.  "Is the respondent here? Charmayne Brown?"

"Nope," I answered.  "Can I get a default?"

"Not yet. I'm afraid we have to wait til the hour’s up to give her a chance to appear," the judge said.

"Oh."  I sat down again, resigned to wait another half-hour or so and worrying about how much longer my employer was going to put up with my frequent absences.

Judge Grazziano dispensed a few more quickies before turning his attention back to the interrupted third case, whose parties appeared to be growing slightly restless.

Another half-hour passed.  Okay, this was long enough; the hour was up.  The court clerk seemed to think so too because she loudly cleared her throat during an appropriate pause.  Judge Grazziano took the hint and had the third case take another break while he granted a judgment for default on my case. 

I left the court room with a spring in my step.  Now we were getting somewhere. 

Back at the office, yet another Friendly Lawyer helped me draft an Order for the judge to sign. It stated that if Charmayne failed to respond to the information subpoena within thirty days, a #warrant would be issued for her #arrest.  

Surely, when faced with arrest, she would pay up, rather than go to jail. 

                                                             * * * * * * * *

A week later, I received a large packet of forms from the mortgage company for Giselle and Marvin to fill out as prospective co-purchasers.  I made an extra copy for my file and sent the originals to Giselle.

Not surprisingly, Diane did not pay her rent for June, nor did she seem to be making any plans for moving out.  I wrote her a letter demanding rent and threatening to have the #Sheriff evict her.  I also hadn’t received any word or rent from Giselle, so I sent her a letter too, asking her to pay the rent and to contact me about filling out the forms I'd just sent her.  She called a few days later and informed me in a dull-sounding voice that she couldn’t even think about filling them out right now.

“My mother's real sick,” she went on to explain. “She lives an hour-and-a-half away, and she’s actually in the hospital there, dyin'.  I'm gonna be spending most of my time theah, so I can't be thinkin' about buying no house."

"Jeez, I'm sorry," I told her.  "Keep me posted, okay? I’ll be thinking of you."  

I put down the phone.  Damn, I’d forgotten to ask Giselle about the overdue rent!  I couldn’t very well do that now, could I?  Not after she'd told me her mother was dying.

The threat of imminent eviction prompted one of Diane's rare phone calls. 

"I sorted things out with Social Services," she announced.  "If you write to my #caseworker, tell her how much rent I owe, they'll pay you the whole amount.  They’re gonna start paying my rent from now on too."

"You're kidding!"  I exclaimed.  "Are you sure?  Why would they start paying now?"

" ‘cause they wasn't s'posed to drop me in the first place," Diane said. "They only dropped me ‘cause they thought I had a second job. But I don't. So they're gonna take me back again.”

"Hm."  I was still dubious.  "Okay, I'll write to your caseworker and see what happens."

I wrote to Diane’s caseworker the next day, telling her that Diane owed $1,250.00 in back-rent and enclosing a copy of the eviction petition to verify my claim.  How did I ever let Diane get so deep into debt, I mused as I penned the letter.  Intermittent reinforcement ... that was it:  promises and little payments every now and then to keep me pacified and hopeful.  Meanwhile, her debt to me had grown and grown. Had I also felt obliged to be more lenient with her because she was Giselle’s cousin? Maybe.

A week later, I received a standard form from the Department of Social Services. In big, bold letters, it stated baldly that Diane Tanner was not eligible for shelter assistance.

What a surprise. 

I called Diane at her job.  "What's going on, Diane?  I just got a notice from your caseworker that you are not eligible for any assistance."

"Er, I din't get my mail yet," Diane said.  "I'll look into it and find out what's goin' on."

"You'd better,” I told her. “I'm getting sick of this.  If you don't come up with some rent soon, I'm going to have to tell the Sheriff to throw your ass out on the street."

"Yeah ... uh," Diane stammered, sounding flustered. “I'll go see my caseworker tomorrow an' call you back."

For once, she stayed true to her word and called me back a couple days later.  I took the receiver from my mother, who’d answered the phone, and waited to hear what the excuse was now.

"I saw my caseworker," Diane began, "but she said D.S.S. can't help me after all. She told me to go see the Division of Human Rights.  Maybe they can help.  I went down there and got an appointment for the twenty-fourth."

"Hm," I muttered suspiciously.  I'd never heard of the Division of Human Rights helping people pay their rent. 

"What's the name of the person you're going to see there?" I asked.  "I want to call them, myself and find out what's going on."

"Uh, I have to look it up and call you back."

A few hours later, Diane called back with the name and phone number of the Human Rights caseworker.  I called the number the next day, but the worker was on vacation.  The woman who answered the phone, however, verified that Diane had indeed made an appointment.

"While I have you on the phone, could I get me some information?" I asked her.

"Sure."

"Does the Division of Human Rights really help people pay their #rent?  I never heard of that before."

"We do, but only a limited amount," the woman answered.

"What's the maximum you will pay?"

"Up to one month's rent, but only if the person shows us a check or money order for the balance of the overdue rent."

"Jeepers!" I exclaimed.  "One month's rent is four hundred and seventy-five dollars.  As of July first, my tenant will owe me two thousand and twenty-five dollars.  She's never going to come up with the balance!"

            After hanging up from the Division of Human Rights, I typed out yet another #eviction notice, ordering Diane to move out by July 31st. 

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR: Head Honcho Say, "No Go."

The next day, I left my troubles behind and flew down to Florida to embark on a cruise to the Bahamas with Allen. 

We set out with some trepidation, however. 

Snagged by a telemarketer, I’d signed up for a flower-delivery service in exchange for a free trip to the Bahamas and Florida.  All I had to pay was airfare, port taxes, and food. Knowing my luck, it would probably turn out to be a scam like you see on 20/20 or Dateline, where the “luxury” hotel is revealed to be a seedy motel in a bad part of town, miles from the ocean.  

When we tried to check into our hotel in Florida, it was late at night and their computers were down. We waited for several hours, jockeying for couch space with a large group of disgruntled fellow cruisers. When we got to the docks the next morning, the ship's agent did not have a ticket on file for Allen, so we had to pay $100 to buy him one. Not an auspicious start to our vacation. The cruise to the Bahamas was fun, however, and the food was good. We heaved sighs of relief when the hotel limo delivered us to a four-star hotel in the middle of an upscale tourist district, right by the ocean. 

After unpacking, Allen went downstairs to explore the bar -- it reputedly made great Bahama Mamas -- and I went over to the visitors’ desk to sign up for a sightseeing tour, a day trip to a neighboring desert island, complete with snorkeling and beach barbecue, and a magic/comedy dinner theater.

The sightseeing tour was great.  We started out with a banana-bread breakfast on a deserted beach, were bussed around the rich part of town to gawk at celebrity mansions, and ended up at a local street market where Allen tried conch.  Would it live up to its reputation as an aphrodisiac?  

The comic magician was amusing and clever.  I tried unsuccessfully to catch him out as he performed fantastic tricks right before our eyes at our dinner table. Allen laughed loudly and frequently at his jokes.

I enjoyed our snorkeling trip to the desert island, but Allen’s mask didn’t fit tight enough because of his beard. He nauseously called it quits after swallowing sea water one time too many. We were just sitting down to the beach barbecue, when a fellow barbecuer from a neighboring tour boat took one look at me and asked, “Is your name Scuttlebutt?” 

“Yes!” I exclaimed.  “How did you know?”

“You look just like my friend back in the States,” she said.  “Her name is Donna Scuttlebutt.”

She and I excitedly compared family histories, trying to make a connection between Donna and I and uncover some new ancestors.  When it was time to leave, we exchanged contact information and parted ways to our separate boats.

Four days later, sporting some beaded braids in my hair and a mauve coral ankle bracelet, I sadly bid farewell to the white sands and warm turquoise waters, not to mention a substantial number of Bahama Mamas. With Allen valiantly lugging a humongous bottle of rum, we flew back to a chilly St. Albans, filled with a new zest for living. It had been a great trip.

I did write to Donna Scuttlebutt, but she never wrote back.  Oh, well. It was probably just one of those freaky coincidences.

Two days after my return to the States, my spirits sank slightly when Diane failed to show up for Court.  Judge Grazziano duly granted me a #default, and I returned to the office where I wrote up the #judgment and #warrant and sent them off to the judge to be signed.  When they came back by return mail, a process server served the judgment upon Diane.  I decided to hold off for now on giving the warrant to the Sheriff. Why spend the $71.00 charge until I needed to?  When faced with the judgment, Diane would probably move out on her own.

Meanwhile, responses began coming in from Schemmerhornian banks in response to my information #subpoenas.  I eagerly opened each envelope, hoping that this one would be the one. Unfortunately, none of the twelve banks had any record of Charmayne Brown. 

What now?

I thought for a bit.  When I was down at the legal supply store picking out the information subpoena, I seemed to remember noticing a form for motion for contempt for failing to answer an information subpoena.  I determined to go down to the store the next day to investigate.  They opened early, so I could go before work. 

I got up rather late the next morning, so I drove to the legal supply store in a big hurry, quickly picked out the forms -- again, the store only sold them in triplicate – paid, and dashed off to the office.  But … “Haste makes waste,” as my grandmother used to say, and for once she was right.  Later that day, I discovered I’d bought the wrong forms and would have to waste another day, swapping them for the right ones. 

The thing was, the form contained an #affirmation that an attorney had to sign.  I approached my office manager and explained the situation to him.  He advised me to speak to one of the head honchos of the firm.  Said head honcho happened to be on vacation, so I asked my old Friendly Lawyer Number Two for advice, and she offered to speak to another head honcho for me. She came back with the sad news that a conflict of interest still existed, and the firm could not help me.

I called another law firm I’d once temped for over the Christmas period to see if one of the lawyers there would sign the affirmation for me.  

Not surprisingly, the one lawyer in the office at the time didn’t feel comfortable signing the affirmation, but he did have a suggestion: “Recreate the form on the computer and change the affirmation to an #affidavit signed by you,” he said. 

“I can do that?”

“Don’t see why not.”

“Great. Thanks.”

That night, I stayed late at work and typed out the notice of motion, converting the affirmation into an affidavit.  The next day I signed it, one of the secretaries notarized it, and I mailed it to the Clerk’s Office, requesting a hearing date of May 17th.  

I then asked my process servers to serve a copy on Charmayne. "If she doesn't live at the address on Main Street, serve her mother," was my instruction to them.

The next day, process server Ally called me at work.

"I went to Main Street," she said, "but the girl who answered the door said Charmayne doesn’t live there, so I went to the mother's address on Knife Street.  She lives on the second floor.  I gave the papers to her when she answered the door, but she threw them right back in my face and screamed at me, 'You can't serve me!' 'I ain't takin' them!’ "

"What did you do?" I asked.

"Just handed them back and told her, ‘You can't give them back to me, Ma’am.  You're served.'  Then I walked down the stairs.  I'd just gotten into my car, when she leaned over the balcony and threw the papers in through my sun roof, yelling and screaming.  I got out the car, threw the papers back onto the balcony, and shouted, “Madam, you are served.'  Then I drove quickly away before she could throw them back again."

"Phew," I said.  "I'm not surprised, though.  They don't like me, that family. You'll send me an affidavit of service, right? That you served Charmayne's mother?"

"I'll put it in the mail, today," Ally promised.

I groaned when the affidavit of service arrived the next day.  It was the wrong one.  I needed one that stated that the individual who'd been served (Charmayne's mom) was a responsible person, capable of accepting service on behalf of the intended party (Charmayne). Ally's affidavit did not say that.  I discussed the problem with Friendly Lawyer Number Two. She expressed some doubt that the Court would accept service on Charmayne’s mother as being valid service on Charmayne.

"The problem being," she explained, "that when another party is served on behalf of the party for whom the subpoena is intended, it’s presumed they both live at the same address."

I had just a couple of days in which to file an affidavit of service with the Court, so I drafted one for Ally to sign.  It stated that she had attempted to serve the motion papers on Charmayne but was told that she had moved.  She had then served the papers upon Charmayne's mother, who lived at one of the two addresses listed on the original information subpoena that the Sheriff had previously served on Charmayne. 

I hoped this would prove acceptable to the Court.

The next morning, I delivered the affidavit of service to the process servers’ offices.  I also included a copy of the information subpoena to satisfy Ally that the statement she was signing was true.  I picked up her signed affidavit of service in my lunch hour and dashed over to Schemmerhorn to file it with the Clerk. 

* * * * * * * * * *

Meanwhile, property values were still dropping. 

I was getting desperate.  “I can’t take this anymore,” I moaned on the phone to Wally.  “I seem to spend all my time in and out of Court and trying to get money out of my tenants, both past and present.  Drop the price another five thousand, will you?”

“I’ll get right on it,” Wally promised.

The sale price of the house sank to forty thousand dollars the next day.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO: Service and Subpoenas

YEAR FIVE

House Account:  $1,970.95

#Mortgage: $565.26

Why was I not surprised when Diane ignored my #eviction notice? At the beginning of April, I drew up a #petition, got a court date assigned for April 22nd, and had a process server serve the petition upon Diane.  To Diane's surprise, the process server went to her place of employment, talked his way into the inner sanctum of the office, and duly served the petition on her.

Over the next two weeks, I continued to stew over what to do about my previous non-paying tenant, Charmayne.  Should I just give up and forget about getting any money out of her?  Before I even finished that thought, however, I sternly told myself, “No! Stick to your guns. Charmayne should be made to face the consequences of her actions . . . or lack thereof.” I filled in the restraining notices to garnishee.

During lunch, I drove to the Clerk’s Office in Schemmerhorn to look in Charmayne's personal injury court case file.  To my dismay, the folder now contained a Release and Stipulation of Discontinuance.  Charmayne and her pal had settled their case for $25,000.00 each!  I was too late.

In disgust, I tore up the restraining notices. Because of my hesitation to serve my own law firm employer with a restraining notice, I'd lost out.  Now I couldn’t serve the defendant, either. What a bummer!

Time for Plan B?

If I had $25,000.00, what would I do with it?  Maybe I could send information #subpoenas and restraining notices to all the banks in Schemmerhorn in the hope that Charmayne had deposited her settlement money in one of them.  She may not have had a bank account in the past but now with $25,000.00 burning a hole in her pocket, she had to put it somewhere.  I didn’t know then that the Department of Social Services would likely take a large chunk of it.  Public assistance is actually considered a loan, and #D.S.S. is always the first to be reimbursed, should one of their recipients receive a large settlement.  Come to think of it, that was probably what had happened to the $14,000.00 paid to my previous #tenant, Mamie.

I still had some restraining notices left over that I could use, and I bought some information subpoenas from the legal supply store. They only sold triplicates, and I made more copies at the office.  After dinner, I paged through the Yellow Pages and found twelve banks that had branches in Schemmerhorn.  I set to at once, filling out the information subpoenas and restraining notices in my best handwriting. My typewriter was still broken, and Rita's old typewriter, which I'd kept from my previous job, wasn't the most reliable of machines.

At the office the next day, I told another friendly lawyer about Plan B.  She agreed it was a good idea to explore the banks but suggested I call the Clerk’s office to check whether or not the information subpoenas had to be stamped by the Clerk before mailing them out.  I was glad for this advice because when I called the Clerk’s Office, they advised me that the Small Claims Department had its own information subpoenas, and some banks did require the Clerk's stamp.  As it happened,  my eviction proceeding with Diane was the next day.  I could kill two birds with one stone. 

I arrived at City Hall a little early and sat down in the court room to await the morning's proceedings.  To my amazement, Diane actually showed up a few minutes later.  I don’t think she recognized me because she herded two young children over to where I was sitting and sat down right next to me.

"Diane," I said.  She jumped and turned to look at me, surprised.

"Do you have any #rent for me?" I asked bluntly.

She looked a little sheepish and began rummaging in the depths of her capacious purse.  "I sent you a money order a few weeks ago,” she said. “Three hunnerd dollars.  Din't you get it?"

“No. I only got the one for February."

"Oh, gawd. I got the receipt here somewhere."  She rummaged some more and finally produced a grubby yellow carbon copy of a money order.  She peered at it shortsightedly.  "If this bin lost, what can ah do?"

"Aren't there instructions in the small print?"  I joined her in peering at the smudged form.  "Yes, there."  I pointed at the appropriate phrase.

"Oh, yeah," Diane said.  "Okay, I'm gonna git down theah fust thing in the mornin' and complain.”

"Okay."

Diane's dark face took on an earnest expression.  "I can give you another four hunnerd on May first.  I'm workin' extra hours, an' I'm going on a interview next week.  Gawd, ah hope ah git da job.  Then I'll be able to pay you some more."

"You have to do something, Diane," I said. “I can't wait forever, and you never answer my letters or phone calls.  What am I supposed to think?  It seems the only way I can communicate with you is by taking you to Court.  It’s a waste of my time and yours, but it's the only way I can actually talk to you."

"Yeah, yeah.  I know," My errant tenant flashed a sheepish grin.  "I had to take time off work to come ‘ere today too.  Is hard, you know?

"Tell me about it!"

She patted my knee, conspiratorially.  "I sure hope I get dat job.  I really wanna pay you what I owe you."

I stifled a dubious grunt.  "Hm, well, our case is the first on the list this morning, so as soon as the judge shows up, we can get started."

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT: Chasin' Charmayne

About a month later, I decided it was time to take Charmayne to #Court to try and #collect the #rent she still owed me from October through February.  The total sum only amounted to $116.02, but I'd also spent about $500.00 in repairs, so I was determined to get what I could. Charmayne had been ignoring all my letters and phone calls, so I went ahead and filed a #petition in Small Claims Court. The City Clerk mailed it to Charmayne's mother's house on Knife Street, which was the only Charmayne-related address I had. I soon received a frantic phone call from said mother.

"What's this petition thing come in the mail?" she demanded.

"Overdue rent,” I told her. “It's all explained in the petition."

"Why's my name on it, though?” she practically screamed in my ear. “I have to go to court too?  I don't owe you no rent. You ain’t gett'n nutt'n from me. I've never even met you."

"Don't worry," I assured her. "Your name's only included on the petition because you're the ‘care of’ address. You don't have to go to court. Just Charmayne."

"Humph," Ma grunted and slammed the phone down in my ear.

Charmayne called soon afterwards.  "Why're you taking me to Court?  I said I'd pay you when I can."

"You did say that,” I agreed, “but that was ages ago and nothing's happened. You've been ignoring all my letters and phone calls. The only option I have is to take you to court."

"I never got no letters from you," Charmayne protested.

"Oh yes you did," I told her. "I sent it certified mail, care of your mother, and she signed for it."

"Oh."

"lf you want, I can send you a copy of the return receipt," I offered. "If you pay me before the tenth of the month, you won't have to to go court. But if you don't pay me, then I have to go to court to protect my interests."

Charmayne spluttered loudly into the phone, then, like her parent before her, hung up loudly in my ear.

I sent her a copy of the return receipt, signed by her mother. As expected, no payment was forthcoming.  I kind of hoped Charmayne wouldn't show up in Court so I could get a default judgment against her, but when the day arrived, the #Judge was delayed, and Charmayne slipped into the courtroom a minute later.

After sitting through the first few cases, it was my turn to be heard. Charmayne and her Ma, a hard-bitten, young-old woman, followed me up the aisle to the front of the courtroom to stand before none other than the mustachioed Judge Grazziano.

He recited my petition out loud. Then, eyeing Charmayne over the tops of his spectacles, her asked her if, in her opinion, the dollar amount stated in the petition was accurate.

"I guess," she reluctantly conceded.

"And do you intend to pay this amount?" 

"I told her I'll pay her when I can," Charmayne answered.

"Your Honor," I broke in. "She's been promising that for months but it never materializes."

Judge Grazziano looked back at Charmayne.  "Do you have a job?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Fun World."

"She's been there since last November," I put in.

"Address?" the Judge asked. Charmayne remained stoically silent.

"Worthington Street Extension," I answered in her stead. "I've tried contacting them but they won't take my calls and they return all my letters."

Judge Grazziano frowned.  "Where do you live now, Charmayne?"

"Main Street."

"Number?"

"One one one one."

"Apartment number?"

"Two."

The Judge raised his gavel.  "Judgment for the #claimant."

"Your Honor," I said quickly.  "She's got a lawsuit pending for personal injury.  Can I at least get her social security number?"

"Very well," the jurist agreed. "What's your social security number, Charmayne?"

"It's on the lease," was her answer.

"No it's not," I said.

"What is your social security number?" Judge Grazziano repeated, a little testily.

Charmayne gabbled something and was made to repeat her answer, which she did in slightly slower gabbles.

I scribbled the social security number down on my file folder next to where I'd written her equally-garbled response as to her current address.

The Judge looked at me. "We done here?"

I nodded.

"Rule for the #petitioner."  Bang went the gavel.

Driving back to my office, I felt emboldened by my small victory and decided to stop by 51 Manson Street to see if Giselle could pay me the two months' rent I was also owed by her.  The background to this circumstance was as follows: 

Claiming that Social Services was late in paying her check to her, Giselle had promised to send me a money order as soon as the check arrived. Some days later, she apparently mailed me the money order but when it failed to arrive, opined that the post office must have lost it and that she would investigate. Two days later, she called to say that she’d erroneously mailed the money order to her sister in Florida instead of to me, but that her sister was returning it by return post, and as soon as it arrived, Giselle would mail it on to me. A week later, when it still failed to materialize, I called Giselle to find out what was going on. She apologized profusely for forgetting to mail it and assured me that she would mail it the next day. To date, no money order. 

Marvin opened the door to my knock and asked me to wait whilst he rummaged through Giselle's dresser for the money order.  To my relief, he came back with two money orders for two months' rent.

As I turned to leave, Marvin called me back. "You see what Shirley and Jerry put up?" he asked, indicating a tall wooden fence separating the neighbors' #property from mine. "Giselle was wonderin' if you could put a fence up on the other side of the yard? The fence we have now is all loose an' everything, and the dog can get out. Giselle wants to let him run loose in the back yard."

"Let's take a look," I offered.  We tramped up the alley to the back yard where the chain-link fence was indeed looking very sorry for itself.

"Jerry got his wood real cheap," Marvin continued.  "If you buy the wood, I can put the fence up for you.  No charge."

I thought for a moment.  "The thing is, even though I just got two months' worth of back rent from Giselle, she still owes me three hundred and seventy-five dollars from last August. I really don't want to spend any more of my own money til that's paid that off too."

"I don't know about that," Marvin said.  "I’m jes tellin' you about the fence, and the labor will be free."

"Why don't you get me an estimate?" I suggested, "and I'll think about it."

Marvin nodded. "Okay, an’ there's another thing.  We need recycle bins. The City's changed the rules. They're not going to pick up bags no more. We need a container."

"You don’t have your own garbage cans?"

"Yeah, but we need another one for recyclin'.  The landlord's supposed to provide those."

I sighed. "Anything else?"

Marvin pointed to a hole at the edge of the sidewalk in front of the house. "That there needs fixin'. I tried fillin’ it wit’ rocks and stuff, but the kids from upstairs ... they keep pickin' at it an' makin' it bigger."

"All right,” I said. “I'll find out about that, too.” 

At that moment, Diane popped her head over the balcony above our heads. “Diane?" I yelled to her. "You keep your kids away from that hole, you hear? I don't want someone suing me because they've broken their ankle." She giggled and disappeared back inside.

When I got back to the office, I called the City and learned that, yes, fixing the #sidewalk in front of the #house was indeed my responsibility. They also told me I could purchase any kind of garbage can for recyclables, so long as I put stickers on it, which the City would send to me.

I wrote to Giselle to let her know I'd be delivering a #recycling bin as soon as the stickers arrived.  As an afterthought, I added that she was welcome to pay off her debt to me by purchasing the wood.
No stickers arrived, but my father did, accompanied by his fourth wife, Brenda. She was a six-foot-tall Amazon-of-a-woman, with a weather-beaten face and a no-nonsense manner, but she had a fun, kind personality. Following Frederica's death, our family was drawing together.

They stayed with us for two weeks, and Daddy was barely moody at all. He particularly enjoyed getting reacquainted with Andrea and Bronwyn, who had grown quite a bit since he'd seen them last.  Bronwyn kept him entertained for hours with her endless chatter and funny impressions, while Andrea demonstrated the gymnastics prowess she'd undoubtedly inherited from her athletic grandpa. “These granddaughters of mine are quite delightful,” Daddy was heard to declare one day in a proud voice.  

In between Daddy and Brenda's sightseeing trips, I also enjoyed spending some quality time with my father. He was into New Age music, and one night we sat together in the living room watching my new Yanni video.  I remember sharing a glance of silent appreciation with him as the music surged to a crescendo at the end of a track. We both had tears in our eyes at the beauty of the soaring violins.  It was a special moment.  Mummy, Wim, and Brenda were outside on the back deck, no doubt wincing at the noise but they managed to endure the whole length of the music video without making any snide comments, which was very public-spirited of them.

Toward the end of Daddy’s stay, I asked him if he knew what time it was that Frederica had woken up from her semi-comatose state and spoken to Janie for the last time. I was amazed to learn that it was just about the exact moment that I’d been trying to connect with her via ESP, holding her hand in my mind and sending her my strength. I looked down at my sister's favorite cameo ring that Daddy had brought me from South Africa, and my heart swelled as I twisted it around on my finger.

I was having such a nice time with my father, that I forgot all about buying the recycling bin.

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.