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 28th to tell me that
my court date was scheduled for November 10th. 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.
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