CHAPTER SIXTY: Criminals!

Giselle called me the next morning, shortly after I arrived at work.  “I’m on the corner, and I’ve just been talking to Wim on the phone," she said. "I thought you should know.  Someone’s been raped ... either in your #house, or behind it.”

“What!”

“Yeah. It happened last night.  The cops were  all over it.  You know, Stace, there’s probably crack dealers and dope dealers goin’ in and out all the time, now the house is empty.”

For a moment I was at a loss for words. “Shit, I left the back door open for the electric company to turn the gas back on so the pipes wouldn’t freeze.”

“Yeah, well, they're gonna get in anyways,” Giselle proclaimed, knowingly.

“And I was planning on going there tonight to turn the pilot lights on.”

“Don't go at night," Giselle warned. "Too dangerous.” 

“Believe me, I'd rather not," I said. "Hey, where are you living now? Can Wim get his stepladder back?"

“Yes he can. I told 'im he can fetch it any time.” Giselle rattled off her new address.

“Thanks. Well, er, goodbye then. Keep in touch,” I said, as people do without meaning it. I wouldn’t mind receiving a large overdue-rent check from her, though.

I called Shirley to get the neighbor’s eye view.  She told me that a naked girl had been seen running across the street to the house opposite mine, and someone had called the police. 

“They came and searched the area behind all the houses,” she told me. “Then the cops went into your house to take a look around.”

“My house? How did they get in?”

“The front window was wide open."

"Shit. Really?"

"Yeah. We told the police the house is supposed to be closed up, so they said they had to check it out.  They dove right in through the window.”

“Did they find anything?”

“To be honest, Stace, I don’t know.” Shirley sounded disappointed that she wasn't in the know.  “You’ll have to find that out from the police station.”

Feeling emotionally drained, I stifled a yawn. “Okay, Shirley. If anything else happens, keep me posted, will you?” 

“Okay,” she chirped brightly, thriving on being the bearer of bad news. 

I called Wim and he answered on the first ring.

“You spoke to Giselle?” I said.

“Yah. Some girl got raped, but I don’t know if it was in the house or not.  Whatever, it’s got nothing to do with you.  I’ll go up to there this afternoon and check things out.”

A little while later, a man called from the Electro utility company.  “We’re headed for 51 Manson Street now,” his gravelly voice informed me.  “Is anyone home?”

“It’s vacant,” I told him, “but I left the back door open for you.”  I neglected to warn him that the place might be swarming with cops.  I didn’t want to put him off, now I finally had a live utility worker on the phone.

“I’ll turn the pilot lights on too, okay?” the man said.

“Great. I was going to ask you if you could do that. Thanks so much.  I really appreciate it.”

The unexpected fervency of my gratitude prompted a kind of awkward silence, then the man grunted something and hung up.

An hour later, he called again.  “I’ve turned the gas on and lit all the pilots.  They’re on low.  Where’s the second water heater, though?”

“Up in the attic.”

“Oh. Well, did you know you’ve got a leak downstairs in the basement? I noticed one upstairs too, in one of the bedrooms.”

“Damn," I said glumly, visions of burst pipes and patches of mold dancing in my head. "I knew about the upstairs leak, but I didn’t know about the one in the basement.”  

“Yeah, you should get it checked out.  I’m just telling you.” The Electro man hung up before I could be over-effusive in my thanks again. At least he hadn’t mentioned cops.

That afternoon, Wim went over to Schemmerhorn, half-expecting to find a window broken. I couldn’t remember whether Shirley had said the police dove or stove through the front window.  Apparently, they dove because Wim found no evidence of breakage.  He checked the pilot lights, did a spot of soldering in the basement and upstairs bedroom, and locked the place up tight. This was probably a useless precaution since someone had almost certainly pocketed the keys Giselle claimed she had left on the kitchen counter but were nowhere to be found.

The next day, Wim and a burly African American worker from one of his other jobs went to the house and put all the remaining furniture and junk onto the street for the garbage man.  We planned to go back later in the week to blow the remaining water out of the pipes, turn off the gas again, and board up the first-floor windows.  Meanwhile, I called the #mortgage company to find out the status of things.

“Everything’s going as scheduled,” a woman told me.  “The papers have gone out to our attorneys. You'll be notified any day.” 

That day couldn’t come soon enough, as far as I was concerned.

Wim went back to Manson Street the next week to blow out the pipes and found that the locks had been changed.  A notice nailed to the front door stated that the building had been foreclosed and was the property of the bank.  When I called the mortgage company to tell them we'd been planning to blow out the pipes, a woman confirmed that the house did now belong to the bank and, what's more, had officially belonged to the bank for the past few weeks!  This meant that I, Wim, Wim's burly helper, even the man from the utility company, had, in effect, been trespassers! We were criminals!

“We appreciate your continued care of the property, though,” the woman hastened to assure me when I complained about not being notified. 

On December 10th, I cheerfully signed a bargain-and-sale deed to the effect that:

. . . Anastasia Scuttlebutt, party of the first part, and Attractive Mortgages, party of the second part, witnesseth, that the party of the first part, in consideration of Ten Dollars and other valuable consideration paid by the party of the second part, did hereby grant and release unto the party of the second part, the heirs or successors and assigns of the party of the second part forever, all that certain plot, piece or parcel of land, with the building and improvements thereon erected, situate, lying and being in the City of Schemmerhorn . . .

Of course, I never did receive the ten dollars.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT: Neighborly Nonsense

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

This statement rendered me temporarily speechless.  "Wh-what?" I finally managed.

"She threatened to kill me," Shirley repeated.  "Giselle and Diane's sister were outside with their bratty kids.  Giselle's son, Richard, got into a fight with my son, and then Giselle and them all got involved. They started threatening me and saying they was going to burn down my #house an’ stuff."

"Oh, wow!  I'm sure they wouldn't actually kill you, though."  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I couldn’t believe I’d said such a stupid thing.  “They were probably just trying to scare you, don’t you think?” I added.

Shirley didn’t appear to to have noticed my assinine statement.  "Maybe.  It is scary, though.  Jerry works nights now, so I'm here by myself.  I called the cops but they said they can't do anything.  Not until someone actually gets hurt."

“Isn't that ridiculous?” I sympathized. “I guess I don't know what to say, Shirley.  I'll have a word with Giselle, but I really can't afford to have her move out right now.  I need the rent."

"I understand," Shirley assured me. “I just thought you should know, seein' as it's your #property."

"Thanks," I said. "I appreciate it, and I will get in touch with Giselle and tell her to cool it.  By the way, did you get the stuff I sent you?"

"Yes we did.  Jerry's working on it now, gettin' all the papers an' everything."

"Good. I do need him to sign that letter requesting the assumption packet, so the bank can send me a new packet of forms.  Then I'll type them all out nicely, once you've filled in the copies you have now. They'll look more professional that way."

"Yeah," Shirley agreed.  "We'll put the letter in the mail to you tomorrow."

When I got home that night, I wrote to Giselle, asking her if she was making any progress with paying off the $1,100.00 she still owed me. I added the following paragraph: “I’ve had complaints from the next door neighbors that you threatened to kill Shirley!!!  Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?  Shirley obviously thinks so because she told me she called the cops on you.  What’s the deal?”

Giselle never replied.

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.