by Libby Howard
“If I got any mortgage bills, I probably tossed them, thinking they were junk mail. I don’t have any mortgages on this house. I don’t have any bills. Most of what I get in the mail is junk—people wanting to loan me a bunch of money for this or that, or sell me insurance plans, or motorized scooters, or shit like that. Excuse my French. Every day my mailbox is full of junk and I toss ninety-nine percent of it all in the trash without even opening it.”
“But it would have looked like a bill,” I insisted.
“You seen the things they send you? They’re all stamped ‘important’ or ‘time sensitive’ or other things. You get all freaked out thinking they’re from the IRS, or you got caught by a red-light camera or something, then you open it up and some idiot company you never heard of tells you they want to loan you forty-thousand dollars at a criminal interest rate. They even call you on the phone, trying to get your bank information, pretending the government is gonna take your house if you don’t give them the info. Scammers everywhere. I don’t answer my phone anymore unless I know the number. And I throw away all that mail.”
I couldn’t say I blamed him. Lots of these companies used some unscrupulous marketing techniques, and phone scams involving the elderly were at an all-time high.
“And you didn’t get the notice for the foreclosure? Or the eviction hearing?” I asked, continuing my wrapping.
“No idea if I did or not. Like I said, I throw all that stuff away. And no one put anything on my door except that notice that I gotta be out of here by Monday or they’re coming with a sheriff to put all my stuff on the curb.”
“Can I see a copy of that notice?”
He reached over across the table and handed me a weather-stained piece of paper. It looked official to me, but I snapped a copy of it with my cell phone camera anyway, then handed it back.
“Did you call anyone to protest this? If you’re the victim of identity theft, there’s got to be some way you can get this all reversed.”
He paused, looking out the kitchen window into a yard filled with neatly tended gardens full of herbs and wildflowers. “Called the sheriff’s office, but they said I’d need to get a lawyer and protest it. One lawyer I talked to said it’s too late. Foreclosure’s done and this other company owns the house. It’s too late to get a stay on the eviction. He said best I could do is sue the mortgage company for failure to do some diligence or something like that, but it might take three to five years, and no guarantee I’d win anything.” He shook his head. “Can’t afford the retainer on the lawyer anyway. Then I called some place that’s supposed to help old people stay in their homes, but they told me they couldn’t help me either and sent me back to that lawyer I can’t afford.”
I had to grit my teeth to keep my anger in check. This was so wrong! If what Melvin Elmer said was true, he’d been a victim of identity theft, and could hardly be held responsible. Was he supposed to monitor his credit when he had no need for any? Open what he assumed was junk mail? He was losing his home, losing everything, all due to some thieving bastard—excuse my French.
“There has to be someone that can help,” I exclaimed. “Someone at the news that can run a story and pressure this Brockhurst Properties into letting you stay here until it’s all sorted out. Or a lawyer who will take this on out of principle. Someone.”
He turned to face me, and in spite of the stooped shoulders, I saw a spark of something in his eyes behind the tired resignation. “You think I didn’t call those Brockhurst Properties people from the notice? Soon as I got off with the sheriff’s office, before I went to the lawyer, I called them. Left three messages with some stupid automated service. The man that finally got back to me said he was very sorry, but that they’d bought the property at a legal foreclosure sale, and if I had concerns about the loan the bank said I’d taken out, I would need to address that with the bank. He told me he’d paid money for my house and needed to sell it as quickly as possible because of cash flow. I begged him to give me six months, then he could have the place. Even told him I’d pay him rent. He said no.”
I had to take a few breaths to calm down before I could speak again. “Did you get the name of the man you spoke to from Brockhurst Properties?”
“Some Thompson guy. Stuart or Steve or something Thompson. Works at one of them investment companies and does this stuff on the side it seems.”
“Spencer Thompson?”
He shrugged, then yanked a handful of forks from the drawer. “Yeah. That’s him.”
I looked down at my phone at the eviction notice, then quickly set a reminder to ask for the transcripts from the eviction hearing. It was too soon to have them online, but J.T. had contacts at the courthouse. They would have copies for us tomorrow if my boss turned on his charm.
Then I sent a text to Violet, asking her to pull copies of the promissory note and deed of trust for the loan, and letting her know that there could be some identity theft and fraud involved. I was outraged. I was so angry at whoever this lender was for not ensuring the person they were writing a check to was the actual owner of the home. I was outraged that a man was being forced from his home, the home he’d lived in for nearly sixty years. And I was outraged that Spencer Thompson didn’t seem to have a compassionate bone in his body.
I wanted to wring the man’s neck when I met with him tomorrow. Wring his neck. Or at the very least make sure his wife took him to the cleaners in this divorce.
“Do you have somewhere to go?” I asked Mr. Elmer, half afraid he’d say ‘no’ and I’d end up with an elderly stranger living in my house. “Friends? Family that you can move in with?”
“There’s Ralph. He’s a friend up the road that said I can stay with him until I get myself straightened out. Guess I might try to find an apartment to rent after that.” He raised a shaky hand to wipe his eyes and my heart broke.
“An apartment isn’t so bad,” I told him softly, thinking about the apartments I’d contemplated moving to this spring, when it seemed I’d never be able to keep my home.
“I’ve lived here almost my whole adult life,” he told me. “It’s the gardens I’ll miss the most. I wanted to die here. I wanted to at least see my spring bulbs come up one more time, to maybe sit out on the bench and smell the lilacs in bloom, feel the warm sun on my face.”
I suddenly realized why he was so reluctant to fight this and sue the bank, why three to five years in a lawsuit was more a problem than the fact he might not win.
“Mr. Elmer…do you…are you…?” How do you ask if someone is dying? Especially a stranger?
He nodded. “Been fighting it for years now. A few weeks ago, the doctor told me there wasn’t any more they could do. Gave me six months. All I want is to see the spring bulbs come up and smell the lilacs one more time. I begged that Thompson man for six months. I begged him. I told him I wouldn’t fight for the house, I wouldn’t sue, that he could have it if he’d just give me until next spring.”
Oh, God. Now I was the one wiping my eyes. I blinked away my tears, looking out the big window over the sink to the lovely flowers and bushes in the back yard. “Let me see what I can do, Mr. Elmer. I’m not promising anything but let me see if I can get some kind of temporary stay on the eviction, or a lawyer who might be able to help you, or…something.”
“Six months,” he told me before turning back to wrap the silverware in newspaper. “All I want is six months.”
Chapter 9
I was running late due to my after-work detour to Marshall Heights, and I’d promised Judge Beck I’d make dinner, so with a creative mind I surveyed the contents of my fridge and cabinets at quarter to six that evening. I had fifteen minutes before the rest of my household got home tonight, and not a lot that I could throw together in that short a time.
“There’s that leftover chicken,” I announced to Taco, who looked as if he’d been hoping that leftover chicken would wind up in his bowl. “Or stuffed peppers? I don’t think I can pull that off in fifteen minutes, though. Maybe a stir fr
y with the chicken?”
Taco agreed with a meow, and I turned to the shadow hovering by the sink. “What do you think?”
The ghost was silent, as always. In life, Eli would have most definitely have had an opinion, and that opinion probably would have involved us going out to dinner.
“Stir fry it is.” I pulled the chicken out of the fridge and sat a pan on the stove, splashing a bit of olive oil on the bottom before turning the burner on. I had some vegetables from my trip to the farmer’s market on Sunday, and some quinoa I could cook up instead of rice. With a spirit of improvisation, I threw everything together and was just getting the table set when Judge Beck and the kids walked through the door.
“We made it home alive!” Henry announced.
“Brat.” Madison swatted her brother then plopped her backpack by the stairs. “Here, Miss Kay. I’ll set the table. What’s for dinner?”
“Stir fry,” I announced. “Things were kind of hectic today, and I didn’t have time for anything more involved.”
“Sounds good to me.” Henry sniffed. “Smells good to me, too.”
“Help Miss Kay, then go wash up,” Judge Beck told the two kids before turning to me. “Any progress on that case you were working on last night?”
My stomach knotted up as I thought once more about Melvin Elmer. “Definitely progress, but there’s something I discovered that I want to ask you about later.”
“Absolutely. Remember that I have a duty to report.”
“If I was aware of a crime, I’d be telling the police before I told you anyway,” I said, heading back into the kitchen. “This is more someone being a jerk. It’s a social injustice, and I want your thoughts on options.”
The judge followed me into the kitchen, picking up Taco and petting the cat as he watched me spoon dinner into serving bowls. “Well, I’m happy to help. Anything other than the work I brought home with me tonight.”
I handed him a bowl to carry in to the dining room and took the other. “You work too much. I work too much. We need to not work and do something with the kids this weekend.”
“Come join us Saturday for Madison’s cross country meet. We can all go out for pizza afterward, if you don’t mind cramming into the car with a bunch of sweaty teenagers.”
“I’d love that.”
I would love that. Like a family. I’d be sharing this slice of their lives, and hopefully over the next year or two, I’d be able to share even more. We all sat at the table, Henry still teasing Madison about her driving. I loved having us all here together. I loved my little adopted family.
“What is this?” Madison asked as she peered into one of the bowls. “Is this rice?”
“Quinoa,” I told her. “Some people use it in place of rice. I thought I’d try something different.”
The girl shrugged and scooped it onto her plate, layering the chicken stir fry on top. “Sounds good to me. I’m starved.”
“Real men don’t eat quinoas,” Henry lamented, poking a fork at his dinner.
“Real men politely eat what they’re served and tell their host or hostess it was an amazing meal,” Judge Beck rebuked. “Real men are unafraid to try something new. Real men know that a funny-sounding food might be really good.”
Henry glanced up at me with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Miss Kay. I didn’t mean to insult your cooking or anything. Thanks for making dinner.”
“If you don’t like it, you can always get a sandwich,” I told him.
“No, I’m gonna eat it.” The boy took a big breath and scooped some onto his fork. “Real men are brave. Real men eat the weird-looking rice stuff with the funny name and manage to keep it down and not go get a sandwich. Real man here, working up the nerve to take a bite of this stuff.”
I laughed. “Real men know that a home-cooked meal is more than just food. There’s a love in those grains that satisfies the heart just as much as the belly.”
“Real women who just spent two hours at cross-country practice don’t really care what’s on the plate because they’re starving.” Madison crammed a huge bite into her mouth. “It’s good. Eat it, you wimp.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” her father told her. “And Henry, if that food isn’t in your mouth in two seconds, you’re grounded from your phone for the night.”
The boy shoved the forkful into his mouth, wrinkling his nose as he chewed and swallowed. “Dinner is wonderful, Miss Kay. Thank you so much.”
“Liar,” I teased. “Let me get you a sandwich.”
“No, you most certainly will not get him a sandwich,” Judge Beck told me. “He’s going to eat what’s on his plate, and then when he’s done with that, he can make his own sandwich if he wants.”
I gave Henry a sympathetic glance. “There’s pumpkin bars for when we’re done. And I promise no more quinoa in the future.”
The lure of pumpkin bars had both kids eating their dinner in record time. Judge Beck had them carry the dishes into the kitchen, and I gave them each two pumpkin bars to eat while they worked on their homework.
While they worked, Judge Beck and I did the dishes while I told him all about Melvin Elmer.
“He needs a lawyer,” the judge insisted, scooping the leftover stir fry into a plastic container. “A lawyer will get a temporary stay on the eviction of a week or so, and that will give him enough time to pull together proof that the man never took out that mortgage, and that the lender had no legal right to a lien on the house, and thus no basis for foreclosure. Once his lawyer shows the court that there’s an issue involving the property title, the eviction will remain on hold. We’re not monsters, Kay. None of us wants to kick a dying ninety-year-old man onto the street. We need to uphold what appears to be a legitimate claim to a title, but give us an excuse, and we’ll put a hold on it.”
“Mr. Elmer says that he went to a lawyer,” I said as I rinsed the dishes. “He can’t afford the guy. And he doesn’t want to spend the last six months of his life dealing with ongoing litigation. Why is Spencer Thompson such a jerk? Why? If he’d just give the man six months, he could have the house after Mr. Elmer dies. Six darned months, and he wouldn’t need to have to sue the mortgage company to get his investment back or deal with any losses.”
“Some people are heartless,” the judge agreed.
“What can he do outside of hiring a lawyer?” I asked. “There has to be some other way he can remain in his home until he dies.”
“There aren’t many other choices, Kay. Mr. Elmer can ask to have the eviction postponed himself by coming into the courthouse and filing the paperwork. That’s not unusual. People get a few extra days or weeks due to hardship, or bad weather. To get anything longer, though, we’d need to see a pending court case. We’d need to have an indication that the foreclosure, and Brockhurst Properties’ claim on the title, might not be legitimate. We can’t just do that based on his word. We need to see that there’s an ongoing legal proceeding to put all this on hold more than a week or so.”
He was right, but it didn’t make me feel any better. I put my head in my hands and leaned against the sink, my eyes stinging with tears.
A hand rubbed my back, warm and firm. “Have Mr. Elmer talk to social services about possibly finding a pro-bono lawyer. Or maybe that non-profit place can help. That Humble House place you were talking about.”
I lifted my head to find Judge Beck behind me, his hand on my shoulder, his face full of concern. “I left a message for Tracey Abramson, but they do reverse mortgages and equity payouts. They can’t do that for a man who can’t prove he owns the home anymore.”
He sighed, giving my shoulder a quick squeeze. “It doesn’t sound like Mr. Elmer has anyone to take care of him or help him in his last months, or that he has money for a home health aide. Maybe fighting this isn’t the best use of his remaining six months. He could stay with friends, or in a small apartment, then when things get bad, move into a hospice facility.”
“He wants to die at home. And I completely und
erstand what that feels like,” I choked out.
“Because Eli wanted to die here?” he asked, his voice gentle.
“I never seriously thought of putting Eli in a home,” I told him. “No matter how hard it got. Ten years he lived after his accident. I wouldn’t have wanted him to be in a nursing home for ten years.”
“But Mr. Elmer only has six months. And you know people who are happy in facilities that provide nursing care. Matt’s father is happy, isn’t he?”
“Matt’s father always asks when he’s going home,” I countered. “Half the time he thinks his wife is still alive and waiting for him. The other half he thinks Matt is going to take care of him. I don’t fault Matt one bit for having his father at Tranquil Meadows. Only he can decide where his father will be safe and provided with the care he needs, but in spite of that, the man would rather be in his own home.”
“Kay, not everyone can afford home health care, or a live-in nurse. In an ideal situation, Brockhurst Properties would delay the eviction, but legally they don’t have to.”
“It’s not just that,” I told him. “I want this to be made right. I don’t want a mortgage company or Spencer Thompson to profit from a case of identity theft. It’s not right.”
“Giving out a hundred-thousand-dollar loan and only getting fifty thousand at the foreclosure sale isn’t my idea of profiting, but I understand what you mean. You want justice served. I do too. It’s kind of my job, you know.”
I gave him a wobbly smile. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dump all this on you. I’m just so frustrated, and I feel a bit helpless to remedy the situation.”
“Sometimes all you can do is deliver partial justice. Do that. Do what you can within the scope of your job and abilities, then let it go. You can’t always be King Solomon. Sometimes you have to be satisfied with a fine for jaywalking and let someone further down the line work on dividing the baby.”
