CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN: Clause Confusion

Shirley called me a few days later to ask if there was any news about Marvin and Giselle being approved to buy the #house.  I distinctly remembered telling her that I probably wouldn’t hear anything for about a month. However, I restrained myself, very nicely told her not yet, and reiterated my promise to let her and Jerry know as soon as I knew.

Meanwhile, I was still awaiting the signed order from Judge Grazziano authorizing the #warrant for Charmayne’s #arrest.  I wrote to him and enclosed another copy in case he’d lost the first one. 

Two days later the City Clerk called me.  "Judge Grazziano has looked over your Order, and everything looks fine," she said.  "He just wanted me to tell you that before he can sign it, you have to include a clause about perjury."

This didn’t make any sense whatsoever. "Perjury? What do you mean?” I asked, confused.

"The judge said it’s standard language for Orders of this type," the Clerk replied. "As I said, it's about perjury."

This shed no more light on the matter.  "Can you tell me where to find this language?" I asked.

"I'm looking at an example right now."

"Can you read it to me?"

"No.  We're not allowed to give legal advice."

"Okay. Well, I did leave some room at the bottom of the Order in case the judge wanted to add anything," I said. "I've often seen judges do that with Supreme Court Orders.  Can't Judge Grazziano do that?"

"I don't know about Supreme Court, but it's different in this Court," was the reply.  "Again, it's not our job to give legal advice."

"But I still don't understand." I complained.  “Perjury means to lie under oath. It doesn't make ...”  

A thought suddenly struck me.  "Oh, do you mean purge?  Like the respondent has to have a chance to purge herself of the charges?"

" ‘swat I said.  Perjury."

I gave up.  "Okay, I'll add some language to the Order and resubmit it.  Are you sure everything else is all right?  Even the part about the respondent being arrested?"

"Everything's fine.  It's just that one phrase he needs."

With a slightly lighter heart, I turned to Friendly Lawyer Number Two for advice.  She actually called the Clerk’s Office to try to get some clarification but eventually hung up, none the wiser. When a spot of legal research failed to reveal any type of standard clause such as the Clerk had mentioned, Friendly Lawyer Number Two kindly drafted a few sentences herself. I added them to the Order and resubmitted it to Judge Grazziano for his signature. 

I received the signed Order back from the Judge two weeks later. Charmayne had until August 30th to purge herself of the contempt charge, at which point the Sheriff would be directed to arrest her. 

I served the Order upon Charmayne by unmarked mail, care of her mother, and filed an affidavit of service to that effect with the Clerk’s Office.  By this time, I didn’t even care about the money Charmayne owed me.  Rather, it was the principle of the thing.

My next project was to go after Diane for her unpaid #rent.  Lord, give me strength!

                                                             * * * * * * * *

My contract with Wally was due to expire on August 1st.  By then, the house at 51 Manson Street would have been on the market for four hundred and ninety-seven long days. 

Wally called to ask me if I wanted to renew the listing.

I listened to the obvious lack of enthusiasm in his voice.  “No, let’s drop it," I told him. "My #tenants are actually thinking of buying the house.”

“Oh.”  Wally’s voice perked up a little.  He was undoubtedly relieved to be ridding himself of such a hopeless listing.  “Well, thank you for your business . . .”

“. . . or lack thereof, don’t you mean?”

“Yeah, well . . . No, no, it’s tough being a #landlord.  I hope the deal with your #tenants works out.  If I can be of any assistance in the future, you know where to find me.”

“Sure do. Thanks.”

                                                             * * * * * * * *

That night, I received a phone call from Giselle.

"The bank called," she said in a belligerent tone.  "How come you told us you was in trouble wit your #mortgage?  They say your #loan is up to date and you ain't in no trouble.  Why'd you say dat?"

"Wh-what?”  I stammered, taken aback. Since when did banks divulge such confidential information to a third-party? Even though Giselle was trying to buy the house, it didn’t seem right. 

“I think I told you I would be in trouble if you didn't start paying rent again,” I protested.  “Why'd they call you, anyway?"

"They said we don't earn enough, 'specially with Marvin bein' out on disability. They said if Marvin gets a job, they'll consider us again in six months."

“Shit,” I swore glumly.  " I don't want to wait six months!  I wanna be rid of the house now."

"I know," Giselle said.  "Diane's movin' out.  She's upstairs cleaning. Seein' as we ain't getting the house yet, a friend of mine wants to move in upstairs.  What’s the rent up there?"

"Four seventy-five," I told her. "Same as yours.”

"Okay.  Well, she can only afford four hundred a month to start with ‘til she gets on Social Services. Marvin and I plan to fix up the place an’ do some paintin'.  At least you'll have something coming in for upstairs but you'll have to wait ‘til September to get it."

“Hm,” I said, dubiously.  “You mean like retroactive rent?”

“Yeah. Just until she gets her benefits sorted out, though.  Then she’ll probably pay you more to make up for it.”

"I guess that would be okay.  How's it going to work? She pays you and then you pay me ..."

"Yeah.  She'll give me a hundred dollars each week. Then I'll send you the whole thing at the end of the month."

When I put down the phone, I turned to Mummy and told her the news.  She thought the whole arrangement sounded fishy. 

“You know, I really don't want to wait 'til Marvin's been employed six months,” I said.  “Even then, the mortgage company could turn him down again.  I think I’m going to tell Jerry he can buy the house.  I'm tired of being Mr. Nice Guy."

"Darn right," my mother agreed.

I called Shirley. She was pleased to hear the news.  I told her I would mail a set of forms to Jerry to start working on so that we could get a head start.  They were blank copies of the forms that the bank had sent to Giselle and Marvin.  Meanwhile, I needed Jerry to sign and return the letter I was mailing out to him, so that I could request another #assumption packet from the mortgage company.

To my relief -- albeit a few days late – the rent for August arrived from Giselle.  Her friend, who turned out to be Diane’s sister, moved in upstairs, but I was so busy that I never made it over to Manson Street to get a #lease signed.  I never even found out what her name was.  I guess this was a sign that I just didn’t have the energy to care anymore.  For better or for worse, I had a feeling that this unpleasant phase in my life was finally coming to an end.

Shirley called me mid-August.  "How long are Giselle and Co. gonna stay next door?" she demanded brusquely.

"I don't know," I said.  "I've no plans to evict them. Of course, when Jerry owns the house, he can do what he likes.  Why?"

"I shouldn't really be bothering you with this," Shirley started, apologetically, "but I thought you should know.  Giselle just threatened to kill me."

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX: Statistics Stink!

With no #rent coming in from upstairs and still no rent from Giselle, I was getting pretty desperate.  Seeing as her mother was dying or dead, I hated to do it but felt I just had to write a stern letter to Giselle, demanding that she pay the rent and either fill out the assumption papers, or I would be selling the #house to somebody else. 

“I just don’t have the energy for this anymore,” I complained to the ever-sympathetic Allen. We were sitting at the dining room table, which was littered with masses of papers covered in incomprehensible formulas.  “And," I continued, "on top of trying to get rid of the house,this summer statistics course is killing me!"

It was July 4th.  While others were outside in the warm sunshine, enjoying sociable barbecues, I was stuck indoors, sweating and straining feverishly over statistics problems.  I was pretty much clueless about what was going on in the course. To make matters worse, the statistics teacher was a Russian doctoral student named Yuri, who didn’t speak English very well and was incapable of explaining concepts in a way that his confused students could understand.  He only succeeded in confusing us more than ever. 

One night, while he was sternly berating the class for doing poorly on a quiz, I couldn't take it anymore. I leaped up out of my seat, stormed out of the room, and started crying in the hallway. 

Yuri hastily followed me.  “What’s the matter?” he asked in his Russian-accented English.

“I just can’t do it,” I sobbed. “It’s not fair, you shouting at us.  I spend hours every night doing the homework and trying my best, but I just don’t understand.  Lots of us don’t.  And I need to get at least a C in this class, or I won't be allowed to to transfer the credits.  I’m going to fail!”

“You won’t fail,” Yuri said.  “Come back inside and I’ll try to explain things better.”

Red-eyed and sniffing, I followed him back into the room. My fellow classmates, half of whom were more than a decade younger than I was, shot me smiles of sympathy. We were all wallowing in the same boat.

“Now,” Yuri addressed the class.  “Whenever there is something you don’t understand, please stop me and I’ll try to explain better.  Before we go on, are there any questions about what we’ve covered so far?”

No one put up their hand.  We all felt so confused that we didn’t even know what it was we didn’t understand, or what questions to ask.  Each night after class, I’d show Allen the chapter we’d covered that day, and he would teach it to me.

So, anyway, here I was on the 4th of July,  struggling as usual to comprehend the material. My brain felt sluggish, like I was floundering in a persistent fog that refused to clear. Only with the aid of my eminently-brilliant and amiable chemistry-professor-boyfriend, Allen, did an occasional ray of sunshine break through.  

Even with his help, however, it took me seven long hours to work through the latest chapter. Engulfed in a state of dismal despair, I alternated between torrents of sobs as I acknowledged how stupid I was, or jags of maniacal laughter as Allen patiently tried to explain to me yet another totally incomprehensible concept for the umpteenth time. 

I think it's called hysterics.

“When I’m a grad student, I’m going to do my thesis on math anxiety,” I declared.  “Been there, done that.”  

I sped home after the final exam and ceremonially burned my notes, vowing never again to take another statistics class.  Later that night, still rejoicing in the fact that the horrific six weeks of statistics was finally over, I jotted down a couple of poems in my journal:

            Mathematically Challenged

            If there were a hell on earth,

            it would be an endless statistics class

            A Builder’s View of Math

            You begin with the foundation

            A big, deep hole beneath level zero

            Where negative integers live like ants.

            Massive blocks of concrete obstruct your view.

            You climb endless scaffolds,

            Only to slip back down.

            Girders give way beneath your grasp.

            You slap mortar between bricks

            But it soon crumbles.

            A helpful crane occasionally boosts you up

            To the upper level where you can almost see . . .

            Until the wrecking ball smashes the inkling.

                                                             

I couldn't believe it when I received a B in the course. Yuri must have performed an immense curving of grades.

* * * * * * * * * *

Marvin and Giselle met with a lawyer and signed a contract, and I went over to Schemmerhorn that night to help them fill out the forms.  They wanted to start things moving as soon as possible and were full of ideas about things they wanted to do with the house and the upstairs apartment.  We worked on the forms for a bit, and I decided to type them up at the office, since their handwriting  -- Marvin’s especially – wasn’t very legible.  I also informed Giselle -- if she didn’t already know it -- that I was evicting Diane once and for all.  Although they were cousins, Giselle confided in me that she, herself, was growing tired of Diane's four bratty kids spoiling everything. Once she became Diane's landlord, she wasn't going to trust her to pay the rent either, especially since she was family. 

I typed out the forms and took them over to Schemmerhorn a few days later for Giselle and Marvin to sign.  We’d arranged to meet at 6:00 that evening but no one was home when I arrived at 51 Manson Street. Shirley was sitting on her porch next door watching her son playing, so I went over to sit with her and wait for Marvin and Giselle. I wanted so badly to sell the house and to get the hell out of the landlording business that I was prepared to wait.  They’d probably show up sooner or later.

"You sellin' the house to Giselle?" Shirley asked. 

“Yes, I am."

"Jerry's really interested in buying it if it doesn’t go through. Let us know, will you?"

"Sure," I said.  "I'm hopefully sending the papers to the mortgage company tomorrow. I guess it takes about a month to approve them. I'll let you know as soon as I know."

Shirley proceeded to bend my ear about all the goings-on next door: the noise, the terrible kids, the dogs, the trash, the language, on and on, until Marvin's old beaten-up brown car rattled up the street.

"Sorry to keep you wait'n," he called as he got out of the car.  Giselle and the kids erupted out the other side.

"You're half-an-hour late," I called back.  

Shirley gave me a meaningful look as I got up and followed Giselle and co. into their apartment.  Once inside, Giselle informed me that Diane had found another place to live just down the street. She'd be out of the apartment by July 31st.  Giselle and Marvin were looking forward to refurbishing and renting it out. 

"What happens if you do all the decorating and then the mortgage company doesn't approve you?" I asked.

Giselle gave me a reassuring smile.  "Don't worry, we'll still make it nice.  This house really doesn't need much done to it.  It won't take long to fix it up. There's nothing major needs doing."

I stifled an impulse to remind her of all her ranting and raving about cracking beams and walls and Wim’s apparently shoddy maintenance record.

"What about the rent you owe me for June and July?" I asked.  "I'm really hurting financially, Giselle, what with no rent coming in from upstairs and none from you these past two months."

Marvin leaned back in his chair, awkwardly favoring his bad back.  "Yeah, we're sorry ‘bout that. Seeing as we're buyin' the house, we was thinking we don't need to pay rent no more.  I guess we forgot you still have to pay the mortgage while we're wait'n.  Giselle's mom dyin', havin' to go over there all the time … it's bin hard, you know."

“Sure,” I said with a nod and paused for a moment to express my sympathy before continuing. 

“You also still owe me rent from August two years ago.  Giselle worked off a hundred bucks cleaning the fridge and painting when Charmayne moved out, and I got an extra two hundred when D.S.S. upped your payment last August, but that still leaves a hundred and fifty dollars.  Add that to the outstanding rents for June and July, and you owe me eleven hundred dollars.”

"Sure adds up quick,” Giselle said. “We ain't got it right now, but we'll pay this August's rent on the first of the month. I'm goin' to see about gettin' a loan so we can pay you the eleven hundred dollars, plus have some extra money to fix this place up.  We figure about five thousand should do it."

                                                             * * * * * * * *

It was exasperating.  Giselle and Marvin signed the application forms for assuming the mortgage but didn’t have their other papers ready, such as tax returns and wage statements.  Also, for some reason, Marvin never did begin employment at the Post Office.  He was still on disability, which hardly paid anything.  This fact certainly wasn’t going to help their case any.  They also refused to fork out $40.00 for a credit report. Instead, they wanted to try and get a  free one, which would take time. 

It was like trying to get blood out of a stone, but the two of them eventually managed to come up with some reasonably-recent pay stubs, one tax return for Giselle, and copies of their licenses and social security cards.  I put everything in an envelope and sent it off to the #mortgage company.  In my cover letter, I explained that additional papers would be following under separate cover and expressed the hope that the mortgage company could get started on what I had sent them so far.

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-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 FIFTY-ONE: Debts and Debtors or "Just Pay the Frickin' Rent Already!"

It seemed like I was never going to hear from Charmayne regarding my judgment against her.  I sent the Sheriff the Transcript of Judgment form I’d obtained from the County Clerk, along with an  Income Execution for garnishing Charmayne's wages, and a check for the Sheriff’s fee of $22.75. 

About a month later, I was reading a notice from Greatest Pest Control about a $1.07 increase in their monthly maintenance fee, when Giselle called to report that the walls in the second bedroom were now beginning to crack.  An overworked Wim added it to his list.

By this time, my house had been on the market eight months, and I’d only received one measly inquiry which never amounted to anything. 

Giselle managed to find a job, and shortly afterwards Social Services sent me a notice that they were terminating her #rental assistance. 

“Great,” I muttered, remembering what had happened when they'd terminated Charmayne’s assistance: goodbye #security #deposit!  Giselle took over paying her own #rent, and although the money orders always arrived late, at least they arrived!

It had been a while since I’d sent Charmayne’s Income Execution to the Sheriff, so I gave him a call.  The Sheriff's office informed me that they’d been unable to serve it because Charmayne was on disability. 

When had they been planning on telling me that?

If I were to ever get anywhere with Charmayne, it seemed I needed to take a circuitous route. Working in a lawyer's office helped me figure it out.  The plan was to serve Charmayne with an Information Subpoena.  She would almost certainly ignore it as she had ignored everything else.  I would then serve a Summons upon her to appear in Court to explain her default.  If she failed to show up in Court, I could get a warrant issued for her arrest. 

These measures might sound rather severe and over the top, but I’d got the hell in and was determined to make her pay.  The Information Subpoena demanded Charmayne's current address and bank account information. It also asked about pending lawsuits and identification of attorneys.  I mailed the subpoena to the Sheriff and settled down to wait.  I knew it could take a while.

Finally, on November 15th, the Sheriff's Department very enterprisingly discovered that Charmayne had moved to a new address.  They served the Information Subpoena upon her and notified me of the address. A month went by with no response from Charmayne.  Being otherwise occupied with preparations for Christmas and visiting relatives, I didn’t have time to follow up on it just then.

Another dismal report arrived from Wally the #realtor.  The market was about the same.  In fact, #properties seemed to be selling for a little less.        

He called me at the end of November. “It’s bin three months.  You wanna renew?”

‘Will it cost me another hundred and fifty?” I asked.

“Nope.  From now on, renewals are free.  You wanna drop another five thousand to forty-nine-nine?”

“Sure, whatever.  Go ahead.”

                                                              * * * * * * *

            It had been a while and I'd seen neither hide nor hair of Diane. However, in October, November, and December, the Department of Social Services had been sending me notices that they were either terminating or reducing her rental payments.  These had been quickly followed by more notices stating that she had been reinstated.  Clearly, something was going on with Diane’s case but at least #D.S.S. was still sending me the full rent.

In January, however, Social Services paid only $300.00 of Diane’s rent. I had the feeling this did not bode well for the future.  Indeed, I soon received another notice advising me that, as of February first, D.S.S. would be closing Diane's case, once and for all.  

Goodbye security deposit. Yet again. 

Without much hope,  I wrote Diane a letter, asking her to pay the balance of January's rent.

February was fast approaching, and Diane still hadn’t responded to my letter. I sent her a second letter requesting the rent and asking her to get in touch with me.  On February 9th, I sent a third letter, advising her that if she didn’t pay up by February 16th, I would have to serve eviction papers on her.  I sent Giselle a copy of the letter in the hope that she might have some influence over her errant cousin.  Maybe it worked because Diane called soon afterwards. She told me her sister had just died and that she would try to pay me the balance of her rent as soon as she could.  

Funny ... Giselle never mentioned anything about a cousin dying.

Meanwhile, I had to do something about Charmayne.  I asked one of the lawyers at work for advice.  

"I believe my #tenant has a personal injury lawsuit on the go," I told him.  "Is there some way I can put a #lien on any #settlement she might receive?"

Friendly Lawyer scratched his chin, thoughtfully.  "Hm, let me think.  Yes, I think you can serve her lawyer with a Restraining Notice to Garnishee.  Then, if she receives a settlement check, your judgment and his fees will come out of that first before she gets any money."

"Okay," I nodded.  "I've got some of those forms."

"First, you need to look in the file at the court house to see what papers have been filed," Friendly Lawyer reminded me.

"Will do.  Thanks." 

That evening, I drafted a letter to the Schemmerhorn County Clerk, asking if there was any action on file brought by Charmayne Brown.  A few days later, the answer came back.  Yes, there was an action pending but the Clerk’s Office required $5.00 to make copies for me.  I duly sent the money and received a copy of the Summons and Complaint.  Charmayne and another girl were suing the driver and the manufacturer of the car for personal injury damages caused by the motor vehicle accident.  

Great.  Now I had something to go on.   

I called the attorney listed for the plaintiff, Charmayne Brown.  A woman answered the phone. 

"Can I speak to Mr. Pecker?"

"He's not in at the moment.  Can I help you with something?"

"I'm calling about Brown vs. Monster Bins Motors." 

"Where are you calling from?" 

I gave her the name of my employer, thinking it might get me a bit further. You know. Like in a legal-secretary-buddy-network-we're-all-in-this-funny-law-business-together kind of thing.  I did add, however, that this matter was personal. 

"Can you tell me the name of the attorney for the defendant?" I asked.

Sounding somewhat suspicious, the woman gave me the name of some outfit located south of St. Albans.

"And the co-defendants?" I asked.

"Why, you are," the woman answered, sounding surprised that I didn’t know this. 

"Oh … um … okay.  Well, this is a very large firm. It's probably in another department."  I thanked her quickly and hung up.

"Gawd," as Diane would say.  Now what should I do?  I had a feeling that my firm wouldn’t be able to help me now – conflict of interest, and all that.  When I told Friendly Lawyer what I’d learned, he was surprised too.  Ours was a very large firm, though, employing more than twenty attorneys.

"Sorry I can't help you," he said, ruefully.  "You'll have to handle it on your own."

"I hate to serve my own employer with a restraining notice," I said. "They might fire me. Maybe I could just go after the defendant and leave the co-defendants alone?” 

"I think you can go ahead,” said Friendly Lawyer. “Don’t worry about being fired. You can't help it that you work here.  It ‘s just a conflict of interest if I help you. You're not allowed to peek in the file, of course."

"Of course."

"If the action just started,” he continued, “there'll be depositions and discovery going on. You know how long those can take.  I’d say you've got some time."

* * * * * * *

Around the middle of February, Wally called and told me that another realtor had a client who was expressing interest in the house. “I’ll call you when I have more info,” he said.

The next day he called back.  “Sorry, they decided the house was too small.  The client has three grandchildren and a sister living with her.”

I sighed. “I’m beginning to think I’m never going to sell this damn place.”

“You might want to consider . . .” Wally began.

“I know, I know … dropping it another five thousand.  If nothing happens by the end of March, why don’t we make it forty-five?  Sounds like a nice round figure.”

                                                             * * * * * * * *

I still had not heard from Diane, and since she still didn’t have a phone, I called Giselle.  She told me that Diane had found a job at the same place where she herself was working.  She also told me Social Services shouldn't have cut her off from rental assistance, since she had four children to support. Giselle had only two.  She promised to tell Diane to phone me as soon as possible. 

“Of course she didn't,” I reported to Allen, later that Friday evening, “but after I served her with a three-day eviction notice, she did send me a money order for three hundred dollars and promised to pay more soon.”

We were on our way to the skating rink where Allen played ice hockey with a team from the local university’s Biology Department.  This left me several hours in which to amuse myself before going to the rink to watch him play the last half-hour or so.  Usually, I went to see a movie that Allen didn’t care to see — horror or suspense – at the old, run-down theater complex where Allen and I had seen Wayne’s World on our first date. The air conditioning sometimes didn’t work, and you never knew which seats were going to be covered with plastic because the roof had leaked. All the movies had been playing on the circuit for a while before ending up at the old complex, and the film was sometimes rather scratched as a result. But, they only cost $2.99, which suited my stingy pocket just fine.  Afterwards, I’d go to my nearby gym, or go to the gym first and then see the movie if the timing worked out that way.

That Friday I saw the 6:35 p.m. showing of Deep Impact and thoroughly enjoyed it.  Another movie I wanted to see was starting soon after Deep Impact ended, and I was tempted to make it a double-feature and forget about working out. I dutifully got into my car and pointed it in the direction of the gym. Once I got there, I’d feel virtuous at having resisted temptation.  When I realized my gym shorts weren’t in my bag, it didn’t take me long to decide that this must be an omen.  Obviously I was meant to return to the theater. With good intentions of making it to the gym the next day, I watched Disturbing Behavior about a wicked psychiatrist implanting things in rebellious teenagers’ brains to make them “good.”

Afterwards, I went to the ice rink to watch the last of the hockey game.  I should really go at the beginning if I wanted to catch Allen making enthusiastic saves and goals.  By the last half-hour, he was usually so tired, he could hardly drag himself around the ice. 

Seated on the top row of the uncomfortable metal bleachers beneath a feeble heat lamp, I couldn’t help wondering at how much the team had improved.  Of course, there were the young guys who’d played hockey in school and were good and fast, but the rest of the players were a mix of students and professors, most of whom had never played hockey before until forming the Lab Rats league. 

Indeed, when they first started playing a year-and-a-half ago, they were pretty awful.  Half of them couldn’t skate forwards very well, so skating backwards was out of the question.  Instead, some of them would skate forwards while looking over their shoulder at the approaching puck, then swipe vigorously at it as it slid past them. Half the time the puck would sail on by, untouched, and the skater would land on his or her butt on the ice.  Being a college-hockey fan, and thus used to a higher level of play, I found it very funny watching this lot and was reduced to giggles a lot of the time.  I guess they would have laughed too if they’d had occasion to observe my geriatric ballet classes.

                                                                * * * * * *

March arrived but Diane’s rent did not.  As the middle of the month approached, I sent her a letter requesting the rent for March and reminding her of her promise to pay more for January and February.  

She didn’t respond.  

At the end of March, I asked Friendly Lawyer to sign an official-looking letter on the firm's letterhead, demanding rent pursuant to Real Property Action and Proceeding Law, Section 711(2).  Then I served another three-day #eviction notice on her via process server. 

When I spoke to Giselle about it, she claimed that Diane could definitely afford the rent because she was now receiving monthly disability checks for one of her children.

            I’d had enough.  Just pay the frickin’ rent already!