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!

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: Natasha No-Show

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I did. 

On paper. 

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

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

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

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

No sign of Natasha.

Our case was called about twenty minutes later. 

Still no Natasha. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah," Natasha drawled, eyes still averted.

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

Bang!  The gavel came down.

"Thank you, Your Honor," I said.

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

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

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

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

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

"Did Natasha show up?" she demanded.

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

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

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

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

Miz James gave one last huff and hung up.

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

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

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

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

Wim marched into one bedroom.  I marched into another.

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

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

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

One of them showed signs of coming to life. 

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

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

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

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

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