CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE: Arrest and Assumption

On June 1st, I received a call from Giselle.  "I'm sorry to do this to you, Stace, but I hafta move out."

I couldn't think of anything to say, except, "Why?" 

"It's not you," Giselle hastened to assure me.  "It's Wim.  The walls in my daughter's bedroom are cracking like crazy now, there's no insulation, and I just can't afford to pay the heating bills next winter like I did last winter.  I've told Wim over and over, but he don't do nutt'n about it."

"I didn't know about the walls in your daughter's bedroom," I said. 

"You see?  There you go.  Wim don't tell you nothin'.  He's supposed to look after this place, an' he doesn't.  I tell you, it's because of Wim I'm movin' out, not you."

 Giselle proceeded to rant and rave in my ear about Wim this and Wim that.  I could see there was no point in trying to talk her out of it.  She had made up her mind to go, and that was that.  I would be kind of sorry to lose her.  She was basically a good #tenant, albeit giving me a few hassles now and then.  Compared to the succession of upstairs tenants, however, she was an angel! 

I sank onto my couch in utter despair. 

The next day, I called her back.  "Giselle, I've been thinking.  I never told you this because I didn’t want to alarm you, but I’ve had the #house on the market for some time.  I was wondering … would you be interested in buying it?"

There was an astonished silence from Giselle.  "Uh, I couldn't afford it," she said after a moment.  "I mean, how could I pay the down-payment, to start with?  I ain't got money like that."

"Well, if you assumed my #mortgage, you wouldn't have to pay any money down," I told her.  "Except maybe some miscellaneous #assumption costs.  You'd also be making a few hundred dollars a month in rent from the upstairs #apartment because the mortgage isn’t much more than the rent you’re paying now."

Giselle was silent for another moment. “This is, like, a shock, you know?" she said finally.  "You've really caught me by surprise with this one.  Umm ... No. I really don't think I'm in a position to buy a house right now."

"Well," I said, "It's something to think about, at least. Why don't you talk it over with Marvin and let me know if you change your mind?"

The next day, Giselle called me back.  "We did think about it, Marvin and me, and we would like to try and buy the house, so long as we wouldn't have to make any down-payment or nutt'n.  What do we have to do?"

"I'll call the mortgage company and get back to you," I told her eagerly.

I put down the phone and skipped into my parents’ living room in gay abandon.  "Giselle wants to buy the house!" I yelled, dancing around the furniture. Mummy and Wim looked on in amusement.

I got right on to the mortgage company. They told me Giselle and I both needed to sign a letter requesting an assumption packet.  I sat down at my computer, there and then, and dashed off a short request for an assumption packet, with an extra signature line for Giselle.  I mailed it to her the next day with instructions to sign it and send it back to me as soon as possible.  When she returned the letter a few days later, I dated it and sent it off to the mortgage company.

                                                             * * * * * * * *

June 4th rolled around and, not surprisingly, Charmayne didn’t show up for #Court.  I was rather pleased at this because her absence meant she couldn’t complain to the #judge that I had served the information #subpoena on her via her mother, which the judge might deem invalid service.

My case was fourth in line that morning.  Judge Grazziano dispatched the first two matters quite quickly, but the third one dragged on and on.  After much watch-glancing and biting of nails, I was relieved when the judge called for a break.     

"This is going to take a while," he said to the room at large, then glanced at his clerk.  "Let's go through a couple of quick cases and get some of these people out of here.” 

The court clerk intoned the name of my case.

I stood up and smiled at Judge Grazziano.  "It’s me again, Judge.  You must be getting sick of seeing me in your court room every other minute."

He crinkled his luxuriant moustache at me in return.  "Hello, Ms. Scuttlebutt. I’m glad to be of help to you.  That's what we’re here for."  He frowned at the motion papers lying before him.  "Is the respondent here? Charmayne Brown?"

"Nope," I answered.  "Can I get a default?"

"Not yet. I'm afraid we have to wait til the hour’s up to give her a chance to appear," the judge said.

"Oh."  I sat down again, resigned to wait another half-hour or so and worrying about how much longer my employer was going to put up with my frequent absences.

Judge Grazziano dispensed a few more quickies before turning his attention back to the interrupted third case, whose parties appeared to be growing slightly restless.

Another half-hour passed.  Okay, this was long enough; the hour was up.  The court clerk seemed to think so too because she loudly cleared her throat during an appropriate pause.  Judge Grazziano took the hint and had the third case take another break while he granted a judgment for default on my case. 

I left the court room with a spring in my step.  Now we were getting somewhere. 

Back at the office, yet another Friendly Lawyer helped me draft an Order for the judge to sign. It stated that if Charmayne failed to respond to the information subpoena within thirty days, a #warrant would be issued for her #arrest.  

Surely, when faced with arrest, she would pay up, rather than go to jail. 

                                                             * * * * * * * *

A week later, I received a large packet of forms from the mortgage company for Giselle and Marvin to fill out as prospective co-purchasers.  I made an extra copy for my file and sent the originals to Giselle.

Not surprisingly, Diane did not pay her rent for June, nor did she seem to be making any plans for moving out.  I wrote her a letter demanding rent and threatening to have the #Sheriff evict her.  I also hadn’t received any word or rent from Giselle, so I sent her a letter too, asking her to pay the rent and to contact me about filling out the forms I'd just sent her.  She called a few days later and informed me in a dull-sounding voice that she couldn’t even think about filling them out right now.

“My mother's real sick,” she went on to explain. “She lives an hour-and-a-half away, and she’s actually in the hospital there, dyin'.  I'm gonna be spending most of my time theah, so I can't be thinkin' about buying no house."

"Jeez, I'm sorry," I told her.  "Keep me posted, okay? I’ll be thinking of you."  

I put down the phone.  Damn, I’d forgotten to ask Giselle about the overdue rent!  I couldn’t very well do that now, could I?  Not after she'd told me her mother was dying.

The threat of imminent eviction prompted one of Diane's rare phone calls. 

"I sorted things out with Social Services," she announced.  "If you write to my #caseworker, tell her how much rent I owe, they'll pay you the whole amount.  They’re gonna start paying my rent from now on too."

"You're kidding!"  I exclaimed.  "Are you sure?  Why would they start paying now?"

" ‘cause they wasn't s'posed to drop me in the first place," Diane said. "They only dropped me ‘cause they thought I had a second job. But I don't. So they're gonna take me back again.”

"Hm."  I was still dubious.  "Okay, I'll write to your caseworker and see what happens."

I wrote to Diane’s caseworker the next day, telling her that Diane owed $1,250.00 in back-rent and enclosing a copy of the eviction petition to verify my claim.  How did I ever let Diane get so deep into debt, I mused as I penned the letter.  Intermittent reinforcement ... that was it:  promises and little payments every now and then to keep me pacified and hopeful.  Meanwhile, her debt to me had grown and grown. Had I also felt obliged to be more lenient with her because she was Giselle’s cousin? Maybe.

A week later, I received a standard form from the Department of Social Services. In big, bold letters, it stated baldly that Diane Tanner was not eligible for shelter assistance.

What a surprise. 

I called Diane at her job.  "What's going on, Diane?  I just got a notice from your caseworker that you are not eligible for any assistance."

"Er, I din't get my mail yet," Diane said.  "I'll look into it and find out what's goin' on."

"You'd better,” I told her. “I'm getting sick of this.  If you don't come up with some rent soon, I'm going to have to tell the Sheriff to throw your ass out on the street."

"Yeah ... uh," Diane stammered, sounding flustered. “I'll go see my caseworker tomorrow an' call you back."

For once, she stayed true to her word and called me back a couple days later.  I took the receiver from my mother, who’d answered the phone, and waited to hear what the excuse was now.

"I saw my caseworker," Diane began, "but she said D.S.S. can't help me after all. She told me to go see the Division of Human Rights.  Maybe they can help.  I went down there and got an appointment for the twenty-fourth."

"Hm," I muttered suspiciously.  I'd never heard of the Division of Human Rights helping people pay their rent. 

"What's the name of the person you're going to see there?" I asked.  "I want to call them, myself and find out what's going on."

"Uh, I have to look it up and call you back."

A few hours later, Diane called back with the name and phone number of the Human Rights caseworker.  I called the number the next day, but the worker was on vacation.  The woman who answered the phone, however, verified that Diane had indeed made an appointment.

"While I have you on the phone, could I get me some information?" I asked her.

"Sure."

"Does the Division of Human Rights really help people pay their #rent?  I never heard of that before."

"We do, but only a limited amount," the woman answered.

"What's the maximum you will pay?"

"Up to one month's rent, but only if the person shows us a check or money order for the balance of the overdue rent."

"Jeepers!" I exclaimed.  "One month's rent is four hundred and seventy-five dollars.  As of July first, my tenant will owe me two thousand and twenty-five dollars.  She's never going to come up with the balance!"

            After hanging up from the Division of Human Rights, I typed out yet another #eviction notice, ordering Diane to move out by July 31st. 

CHAPTER FIFTY-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-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."