CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR: Head Honcho Say, "No Go."

The next day, I left my troubles behind and flew down to Florida to embark on a cruise to the Bahamas with Allen. 

We set out with some trepidation, however. 

Snagged by a telemarketer, I’d signed up for a flower-delivery service in exchange for a free trip to the Bahamas and Florida.  All I had to pay was airfare, port taxes, and food. Knowing my luck, it would probably turn out to be a scam like you see on 20/20 or Dateline, where the “luxury” hotel is revealed to be a seedy motel in a bad part of town, miles from the ocean.  

When we tried to check into our hotel in Florida, it was late at night and their computers were down. We waited for several hours, jockeying for couch space with a large group of disgruntled fellow cruisers. When we got to the docks the next morning, the ship's agent did not have a ticket on file for Allen, so we had to pay $100 to buy him one. Not an auspicious start to our vacation. The cruise to the Bahamas was fun, however, and the food was good. We heaved sighs of relief when the hotel limo delivered us to a four-star hotel in the middle of an upscale tourist district, right by the ocean. 

After unpacking, Allen went downstairs to explore the bar -- it reputedly made great Bahama Mamas -- and I went over to the visitors’ desk to sign up for a sightseeing tour, a day trip to a neighboring desert island, complete with snorkeling and beach barbecue, and a magic/comedy dinner theater.

The sightseeing tour was great.  We started out with a banana-bread breakfast on a deserted beach, were bussed around the rich part of town to gawk at celebrity mansions, and ended up at a local street market where Allen tried conch.  Would it live up to its reputation as an aphrodisiac?  

The comic magician was amusing and clever.  I tried unsuccessfully to catch him out as he performed fantastic tricks right before our eyes at our dinner table. Allen laughed loudly and frequently at his jokes.

I enjoyed our snorkeling trip to the desert island, but Allen’s mask didn’t fit tight enough because of his beard. He nauseously called it quits after swallowing sea water one time too many. We were just sitting down to the beach barbecue, when a fellow barbecuer from a neighboring tour boat took one look at me and asked, “Is your name Scuttlebutt?” 

“Yes!” I exclaimed.  “How did you know?”

“You look just like my friend back in the States,” she said.  “Her name is Donna Scuttlebutt.”

She and I excitedly compared family histories, trying to make a connection between Donna and I and uncover some new ancestors.  When it was time to leave, we exchanged contact information and parted ways to our separate boats.

Four days later, sporting some beaded braids in my hair and a mauve coral ankle bracelet, I sadly bid farewell to the white sands and warm turquoise waters, not to mention a substantial number of Bahama Mamas. With Allen valiantly lugging a humongous bottle of rum, we flew back to a chilly St. Albans, filled with a new zest for living. It had been a great trip.

I did write to Donna Scuttlebutt, but she never wrote back.  Oh, well. It was probably just one of those freaky coincidences.

Two days after my return to the States, my spirits sank slightly when Diane failed to show up for Court.  Judge Grazziano duly granted me a #default, and I returned to the office where I wrote up the #judgment and #warrant and sent them off to the judge to be signed.  When they came back by return mail, a process server served the judgment upon Diane.  I decided to hold off for now on giving the warrant to the Sheriff. Why spend the $71.00 charge until I needed to?  When faced with the judgment, Diane would probably move out on her own.

Meanwhile, responses began coming in from Schemmerhornian banks in response to my information #subpoenas.  I eagerly opened each envelope, hoping that this one would be the one. Unfortunately, none of the twelve banks had any record of Charmayne Brown. 

What now?

I thought for a bit.  When I was down at the legal supply store picking out the information subpoena, I seemed to remember noticing a form for motion for contempt for failing to answer an information subpoena.  I determined to go down to the store the next day to investigate.  They opened early, so I could go before work. 

I got up rather late the next morning, so I drove to the legal supply store in a big hurry, quickly picked out the forms -- again, the store only sold them in triplicate – paid, and dashed off to the office.  But … “Haste makes waste,” as my grandmother used to say, and for once she was right.  Later that day, I discovered I’d bought the wrong forms and would have to waste another day, swapping them for the right ones. 

The thing was, the form contained an #affirmation that an attorney had to sign.  I approached my office manager and explained the situation to him.  He advised me to speak to one of the head honchos of the firm.  Said head honcho happened to be on vacation, so I asked my old Friendly Lawyer Number Two for advice, and she offered to speak to another head honcho for me. She came back with the sad news that a conflict of interest still existed, and the firm could not help me.

I called another law firm I’d once temped for over the Christmas period to see if one of the lawyers there would sign the affirmation for me.  

Not surprisingly, the one lawyer in the office at the time didn’t feel comfortable signing the affirmation, but he did have a suggestion: “Recreate the form on the computer and change the affirmation to an #affidavit signed by you,” he said. 

“I can do that?”

“Don’t see why not.”

“Great. Thanks.”

That night, I stayed late at work and typed out the notice of motion, converting the affirmation into an affidavit.  The next day I signed it, one of the secretaries notarized it, and I mailed it to the Clerk’s Office, requesting a hearing date of May 17th.  

I then asked my process servers to serve a copy on Charmayne. "If she doesn't live at the address on Main Street, serve her mother," was my instruction to them.

The next day, process server Ally called me at work.

"I went to Main Street," she said, "but the girl who answered the door said Charmayne doesn’t live there, so I went to the mother's address on Knife Street.  She lives on the second floor.  I gave the papers to her when she answered the door, but she threw them right back in my face and screamed at me, 'You can't serve me!' 'I ain't takin' them!’ "

"What did you do?" I asked.

"Just handed them back and told her, ‘You can't give them back to me, Ma’am.  You're served.'  Then I walked down the stairs.  I'd just gotten into my car, when she leaned over the balcony and threw the papers in through my sun roof, yelling and screaming.  I got out the car, threw the papers back onto the balcony, and shouted, “Madam, you are served.'  Then I drove quickly away before she could throw them back again."

"Phew," I said.  "I'm not surprised, though.  They don't like me, that family. You'll send me an affidavit of service, right? That you served Charmayne's mother?"

"I'll put it in the mail, today," Ally promised.

I groaned when the affidavit of service arrived the next day.  It was the wrong one.  I needed one that stated that the individual who'd been served (Charmayne's mom) was a responsible person, capable of accepting service on behalf of the intended party (Charmayne). Ally's affidavit did not say that.  I discussed the problem with Friendly Lawyer Number Two. She expressed some doubt that the Court would accept service on Charmayne’s mother as being valid service on Charmayne.

"The problem being," she explained, "that when another party is served on behalf of the party for whom the subpoena is intended, it’s presumed they both live at the same address."

I had just a couple of days in which to file an affidavit of service with the Court, so I drafted one for Ally to sign.  It stated that she had attempted to serve the motion papers on Charmayne but was told that she had moved.  She had then served the papers upon Charmayne's mother, who lived at one of the two addresses listed on the original information subpoena that the Sheriff had previously served on Charmayne. 

I hoped this would prove acceptable to the Court.

The next morning, I delivered the affidavit of service to the process servers’ offices.  I also included a copy of the information subpoena to satisfy Ally that the statement she was signing was true.  I picked up her signed affidavit of service in my lunch hour and dashed over to Schemmerhorn to file it with the Clerk. 

* * * * * * * * * *

Meanwhile, property values were still dropping. 

I was getting desperate.  “I can’t take this anymore,” I moaned on the phone to Wally.  “I seem to spend all my time in and out of Court and trying to get money out of my tenants, both past and present.  Drop the price another five thousand, will you?”

“I’ll get right on it,” Wally promised.

The sale price of the house sank to forty thousand dollars the next day.

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!