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.