by Una Tiers
My arrangement is called space for services. That means I do a set number of hours of work for the firm, in exchange for the tiny office (that I love) and minimal copy machine use.
Space for services starts as an advantage for the new attorney and decreases in value quickly as they learn the business. After the attorney learns the ropes, the agreement turns in favor of the firm. The estimated top time for this arrangement is two years, three if the new attorney is kind of dumb.
My work consists of some ghost will and trust drafting, going to court for continuances (making me feel like a pawn or shill), proof reading and filing papers in court. When I go over the limit of hours, I am paid a meager hourly rate. This also irritates Paul, but when we get close to my set hours, he consolidates and makes the associates cover some of the work because they do not get paid extra.
I’m learning about running a business and what to do. When I put in my own phone line, for instance, Paul was royally annoyed. This assured me it was a good business decision. Why should my clients have his telephone number?
His angst affirms my business decisions.
Chapter Three
The day of our appointment I rang the bell and Dorothy came around the side walk of the house from the back again and invited me to follow her. Her mood seemed light and happy.
The garden was spectacular, no it was better than spectacular; it was like walking into a magazine or the colorized version of a black and white movie.
Instead of lawn, the yard was covered in gravel. It had four raised, wood framed flowerbeds around eight feet by four feet. One was dense with daisies or sunflowers. The blossoms were at least four inches across on thick sturdy stems easily shoulder high. The other plots housed thriving vegetables, but not the same in terms of magnificence. There were trellises against the garage covered with buds promising to dazzle the beholder shortly.
“You’re quite a gardener,” I admired. Would it be rude to ask for a flower to go, or seeds?
“Only the flowers are mine, the vegetable plots are rented to neighbors. I live on a small pension and it helps ends to meet.” She explained.
“Are those sunflowers?”
“Daisies,” she answered. “We grow them from an old family recipe, “ she laughed.
Personally I have never seen daisies that large, but I live a sheltered life.
After more laborious chit chat, and identification of the sweet peas and the morning glories, we completed our garden walk.
“You look a little young to be a lawyer,” she noted.
“I’ve been licensed for two years and have a private practice.” I explained as if she wanted to know my experience.
We bonded a little more.
Dorothy did not invite me into the house. We sat in the shade of the coach house on chairs that looked like they belonged in the house. This was my first outdoor client meeting.
The beginning of an estate interview is about the family, marriages, divorces, children and the like. It is always interesting for me.
Dorothy said that she was ninety-two and the youngest daughter of Victor and Gayle Daisy. All four of her siblings, Seumas, Ross, Nancy and Jeanine died years before.
“Seumas,” I repeated since the name seemed out of character with the other names.
“My parents honeymooned in Scotland,” she explained with a giggle.
“Did your brothers and sisters marry?”
“What does that have to do with my will?” A little glimpse of evil shadowed her question. Her mouth pursed and eyes narrowed.
Lightly, I explained about testamentary capacity, what you need to know to make an estate plan.
“I am presumed innocent you know.” She laughed with an edge of mockery.
Kind Dorothy was back. But I remained on guard. END OF EXCERPT
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Die Judge Die
© 2014 by Una Tiers
Gavelle Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, without written permission from the author.
Brilliant Cover by Gad Savage, Photograph by Una Tiers
First Edition, 2014
This is a work of fiction based on internet research. . The names, characters, places, pharmaceuticals and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to protect the innocent and the not so innocent. The information about the magnificence of Chicago, Illinois is real. A few places have been rearranged for privacy and my amusement.
Chapter One
“Fiona?” Judge Curie asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you hear the awful news?”
“No, what happened?”
“Judge R. Etapage died.”
Sympathetic sounds came out of my mouth automatically, although I never met Judge R. Etapage.
With that I had another “date” to a funeral.
Chapter Two
The day of the funeral was balmy with a gusty wind kicking up annoying bits of dirt and dust.
Chicago is often called the windy city but the knick name isn’t about the weather. The phrase was coined due to the Chicago Politicians bragging about the 1893 Columbian Exposition.
We were the first guests to arrive and got a great parking space.
When the wind threatened to prophesize my Gone with the Wind hat, we stepped inside the church vestibule to wait for the others. As a result we turned into the sympathy greeters, like a discount department store.
Naturally, Judge Curie knew everyone. Several people handed me envelopes, and I said thank you, uncertain of who to give them to.
We didn’t start on time. After fifteen minutes of checking our watches, the mass commenced with barely audible organ music and twelve mourners counting two undertakers but not counting the deceased.
After mass, the crowd of twelve thinned to three plus the undertakers. The cortege included the hearse and two cars.
“Hold these, will you judge?”
“Are these the offerings? Why do you have them?”
“People handed them to me; I didn’t know who to give them to,” I explained.
“Someone there must have been family,” he noted, “probably that woman with the red hair ahead of us. She’s the only one I didn’t know.”
“I thought she had a red hat,” I squinted but could not tell.
I tailgated the Missouri car with the rather emphatic muffler, trying to get a better look at her hair without rear ending her. We zig zagged north hesitating at each red light, until we came to Pulaski Road. From there the cortege headed north, almost to the city limits.
“How many cars do you see, Fiona,” the judge asked.
“The hearse and one car.”
Because of his declining vision, the Judge stopped driving. He is over eighty and more wrinkled than any elephant I have met at the zoo. Adam Curie is the only part-time judge in the county, and probably the State of Illinois. He is assigned to the probate division, where estates of the deceased and lives of disabled people are administered. He exudes clout, like he invented the system.
Curie has a kind face and is always alert to being introduced or introducing himself to new people. He smiles even when he is complaining.
We have a driving relationship. I gave him a ride home after a reception about a year ago. Now, he calls every month or two to tell me about a reception he would like to attend.
I like the Judge; he’s witty, bordering on the obscene. He is invited to really nice receptions from bar groups and political realms. If I drive him, I have the chance to network with a semi famous person, and dinner.
There weren’t any mourners to carry the casket from the hearse to the grave so we had to wait until enough cemetery workers were collected. If not for my high heels, I would like to coin the phrase, Paula Bearers, but I digress.
Once everyone, I mean the three of
us were gathered around the casket, the priest opened his bible. The third person was wearing a red hat with a matching dress. Her hair looked reddish too.
“Brothers and sisters,” the priest started softly. His ceremonial scarf flapped in the breeze while the gold threads danced in the sunlight. He had good posture.
My mind drifted from his prayers to examining the mourner in the festive red outfit. She wore sunglasses and enormous gold earrings. Tendrils of her hair were the same red color as her hat. Her attitude was victorious, as though she was accepting an academy award instead of attending a funeral.
While the priest prayed for the soul of the dead judge, I made up a story about the woman in red. She was the twin sister of the decedent, Judge R. Etapage.
In my daydream, the judge had an affair with her brother- in- law. Her sister divorced, and the cheating ex husband married the evil twin (now dead judge).
A year later the bad husband died in a suspicious boating accident and the sisters fought over his life insurance proceeds in court for five years. The end result was a lot of attorneys fees.
As a final gesture, the woman in the red dress was here to dance on her sister’s grave.
There weren’t mourners since friends and family disowned them after the scandal and the interminable court battle.
While I daydreamed, I gazed around at the headstones and the pretty clouds. I was lost in a more amusing place. Did people visit graves in real life the way they did in movies?
A jiggle at my elbow pulled me out of my daydream. The cemetery part was over. The priest extended his sympathies with a two handed hand shake and a head nod. It seemed rude to tell him I was not family, or a friend. So, I thanked him in what I hoped was a funeral appropriate family mannerism.
The funeral guy said the ceremony was over and that the family invited us to stop at a restaurant a few blocks down Pulaski Road.
We were guessing about the luncheon as we drove over to the restaurant. But when we arrived at the restaurant, we were ushered to a small room that had a few coffee urns and sliced pound cake on trays.
Cheap bastards.
Judge Curie shushed me when I said I was hungry. He gave the envelopes to the lady in red and we left after murmuring our sympathies.
The lady in red left right after we talked and roared out of the parking lot ahead of us.
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Judge vs Michigan
Judge vs Michigan
A Fiona Gavelle Mystery
Una Tiers
© 2016 by Una Tiers
Gavelle Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, without written permission from the author. I mean it.
Brilliant Cover Art Gad Savage
First Edition
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to protect the innocent and the not so innocent. The information about the magnificence of Chicago, Illinois, is real. A few places have been rearranged for privacy and my amusement.
Chapter 1
Was he drunk? Did he see a ghost? Did someone push him? Did he jump? With a splash all of his troubles were over.
Chapter 2
Two hours after Anthony's body was recovered, his surviving family members sat in Eleanor's living room, reeking of anticipation.
His sons, Alan and William Prince, and her daughters, Mildred Shoe and Catherine Boute were uncomfortable and unwelcome.
Alan and William were eager, closer to greedy to learn about their inheritance. William thought about the late night television ads where people borrowed money against a lawsuit before it went to trial. Would they advance money on a probate inheritance?
Eleanor considered why they came, scolding herself for calling them. At the time it seemed the decent thing to do, but she wasn't dealing with decent people. This was about money.
Mildred stood near the front window, clenching and unclenching her fists. She was dressed in what had become her uniform of a suit, silk shell, pearls with matching button earrings and black pumps. Mildred wanted to know about the money. She wanted to know how much Anthony and Eleanor had commingled their assets. After running a title search, Mildred knew the house was in joint tenancy. This appeased her a little.
Catherine, younger by three years, wore a flowered dress ala Marilyn Monroe, exposing much bosom. She hovered close to her mother. When she sat on the arm of her chair, a quick look from Eleanor repelled her. Catherine wanted to beam nurturing thought to her now twice widowed mother. In exchange, she expected financial help. Eleanor could take on some babysitting responsibility to save her daycare costs. She wanted her son, Eleanor's only grandson to be showered with expensive gifts.
Mildred and Catherine watched their mothers for clues or reassurances that would not happen.
Anthony's sons, William and Alan, were sprawled on the sofa like drunken sailors. William was dressed in his usual button down shirt. He tugged at the top button, but it wouldn't close because his chins were in the way. William wanted cash from his father's estate. He wanted to know how much he would inherit and how soon.
Alan wore his lifelong western look, a sweatshirt with jeans and cowboy boots. He peered around the room at the particularly nice furnishings, guessing their value. He planned to claim some of the things belonged to his late mother and now were rightly his. He wanted something now, something he could take with him and turn into cash. Maybe he could ask Eleanor to write a check.
Alan reached down twice to finger the Persian rug. He wanted to know if it was 100% wool. He didn't know who would move the sofa and chairs that were on top of it so it could be rolled up and carried to the car. Alan had two issues with this, the first was that he hated carrying anything heavier than a buffet plate. The second was with his tight jeans, bending down was a risk.
Eleanor tried to remember the last time any of the children were at the house. Mildred stopped by once in a while. Catherine called to ask if Eleanor wanted to see her only grandchild.
Eleanor and Anthony invited their children for dinner at their house on the children's birthdays. The invitations were turned down for a variety of reasons, really seen as excuses by Eleanor and Anthony. After two years they stopped the invitations.
She was certain the only time all four children were ever together was at the dreadful wedding announcement dinner. Not one of them had attended the anniversary dinner the night before. Not one of them even took the time to decline the invitation.
Realizing it was her move, she decided to throw Cerberus and Orthus, guard dogs to hell, a bone with the funeral letter.
She glanced at the date on the letter, it had been less than two years since Anthony insisted they put their decisions into a letter to the children.
"This is what your father wanted," she said, holding the letter out to the boys.
William hesitated before grabbing the letter. He read, curling the edges in his sweaty hands while Alan pulled at the side, trying to read it simultaneously.
To William, Mildred, Alan and Catherine:
Traditional funerals have always offended us. It's our decision to have our remains cremated and our ashes scattered at our cabin in Lake Delton, Wisconsin.
Any memorial service should celebrate life and not wade in the deep waters of death. We prefer donations to the Cancer Foundation or St. Paul's Law School in lieu of flowers or monuments.
After much thought, each of us has decided to authorize the survivor to handle the arrangements. Our property is held in trust and each of you will receive what belonged to your parents. Our homes, here in Chicago, and the cabin will not be sold until after the death of the second of us.
Please afford us the dignity in death you denied us in life. Don't fight over personal property.
Sincerely,
Mom and Dad
/>
August 3, 1998
Mildred and Catherine were rigid, petulance coloring their faces at the exclusion from seeing the letter. Mildred was breathing shallowly through her nose, trying, without luck to signal her mother that she needed to see the letter.
William set the letter down with a grunt. He tried again to close the top button of his shirt. Like an novice actor waiting tables until his big break, he took a few deep breaths and formed an exaggerated look of horror before he spoke.
As William let the letter drop into his lap, Alan scooped it up and examined it inches from his nose. This cowboy needed glasses.
"Cremation?" William barked. "My father never, never, talked about cremation. And what kind of will is this without a notary? And what about a military funeral, you know my father was in the war."
"It isn't a will, William," Mildred chimed in with evil delight. "It's a letter of direction about funerals and disposition of remains."
As a lawyer, Mildred knew what legal mumbo jumbo to spew.
"Well, where is his will? I want to see it today," he roared. "I've studied wills and trusts and as blood heirs of my father, we have rights. We insist on seeing the will, in fact, I will demand to have a formal reading of the will."
Mildred snorted, but shut her mouth with a cutting look from Eleanor.
When Eleanor didn't answer, his voice got louder.
"Well?" he demanded.
"Oh stop shouting at my mother, you pig," Mildred snarled.
Eleanor felt trapped inside act one of any Ibsen play. It was playing over and over again on a loop. What she wanted was for the children to leave. If only there was a piano player and she knew how to dance the tarantella.
