Judge vs Nuts: A Fiona Gavelle Mystery

by Una Tiers

  The unspoken promise of lunch kept me going. Funeral luncheons include a family style meal with hot soup, bread, real butter, baked chicken and mashed potatoes. I love freshly brewed coffee with dessert cake in the middle of the afternoon. It makes me feel particularly grown up. I can even forgive them for over cooking the canned green beans.

  The sound of a cell phone got everyone’s attention as we scanned the group for the culprit. The crowd seemed to open and close to allow someone to move away from the grave.

  When a car started up, everyone turned their heads around like cast members from the Exorcist to see if the car was going to drive over the graves, since that was the only way out.

  About the time that I lost all feeling in my toes, the rawboned undertaker stepped forward.

  “The ceremony is now at an end. On behalf of the family, I want to thank everyone for your participation in the services to carry Judge Laslo King to his final resting place.”

  His voice resembled Alfred Hitchcock, but not his appearance. He was tall and thin, about a third of the size of Mr. Scare-me-in-the shower. I would place his age at close to a hundred years, and guess he had delivered the same speech hundreds of times.

  After a pause, he continued. “The family invites you for coffee and cake at Buds Banquet Hall, located directly across the road from the main cemetery entrance. Please remember to turn off your emergency blinkers and headlights.”

  I must have misunderstood, cake and coffee, not the family style lunch? No hot soup? No bread with real butter? Cheap bastards!

  Steve exchanged a surprised look with me.

  “You’ll get lunch with the judges since you’re with Curie,” Mildred whispered with confidence.

  As the crowd processed the no lunch message, date books and electronic calendars were pulled out and consulted. With furrowed brows and remarkably nimble fingers, many remembered other commitments. Where were they pretending to go at three o’clock on a Friday afternoon?

  Steve, Mildred and Mary Margaret formed an ad hoc committee to address the terrible injustice.

  “Fiona we’re going to the Blue Cup House, it’s just down Milwaukee Avenue.”

  The restaurant they selected is a buffet place with mediocre food on a good day. However, parking is good, prices are reasonable and you never have to wait for a table. While no one exactly invited me, I answered as though they had.

  “I have a date, remember, Judge Curie?” I explained while worrying whether or not he would ditch me.

  While I watched for him in the warmth of my car, the other mourners streamed past me. Maybe he would ride with someone else. Maybe I should have taken Mildred up on her invitation. If he ditched me I would go home.

  As I watched people, several of the largest, well dressed men, probably lawyers, were wiggling into subcompact models. They looked like clowns driving tiny cars in a parade, knees out to the side like grasshoppers.

  The judges piled into cars with V8 engines.

  When my passenger tapped on the door, I unlatched it for him. A gust of bitterly cold air followed him along with eau de wool from his coat. It was wet from the blowing snow.

  “You weren’t going to ditch me were you?” He asked, mirroring my worry.

  “Not a chance, my car’s blocked. Aren’t you old enough to know to wear a hat in this weather?”

  “It would mess up my hair, I mean hairs.” He laughed easily.

  We exchanged a grin. My grin was because given three or four minutes I could count his hundred or so hairs. Who knows what he was smiling about?

  I turned up the heater thinking about hot days when we suffered from and complained about the heat.

  “Who had the phone call,” I asked.

  “That looked bad. That was Judge Montreel. I don’t know what young people need the portable phone for, do you?”

  “No,” I lied concealing my cell phone envy.

  There were a lot of rumors about Judge Montreel. Many people said he was an example of how anyone can be elected as judge. Instead of political connections, or scholarly work, he possessed an unusual amount of luck. He had the first spot on the ballot and was the first ever French heritage candidate.

  The gossip I heard was that Montreel worked at the attorney general’s office for about four years, not distinguishing himself in any way.

  The attorney general’s office is a state arm of government that represents the people of the state. When a new attorney general is elected there is a high turnover of lawyers in the office because of the nature of politics.

  Apparently Montreel quit the job only days before he would have been asked to leave, following the inauguration of a new chief. He decided to open a private law office.

  Things didn’t go well. After a few months, his telephone, pager, cell phone and electric were shut off for non-payment. Then, a short-armed man (referring to length and bullets) returned his brand new car to the dealer.

  Not disillusioned by the office failure, he decided to run for judge, changing the pronunciation of his last name to include a French accent. He said he was the only French heritage candidate. He won. Maybe people liked the Eiffel tower in the background of his campaign ads on the sides of buses. Maybe they thought it was in Chicago and not Las Vegas. He actually wore a black beret in the campaign pictures.

  Many of the bus posters were defaced with pencil thin mustaches and cigarettes in holders.

  While we waited for the gridlock to clear, Judge Curie turned maudlin. I ignored his sighs at first. Really we weren’t that close.

  After several sighs he lamented, “I didn’t think Laslo would go before me.”

  I have a lot of useless talents, like sarcasm and making particularly disrespectful comments at inappropriate times. I simply nodded to avoid both.

  “He was only seventy years old. Practically a senior kid,” Judge Curie added.

  “I didn’t know that,” I spoke quietly.

  “He was talking about retiring.”

  “Really?”

  “Did I ever tell you about my wild retirement history Fiona?”

  He told me both times I had the occasion to drive him home, but it seemed like a safe topic. I tried to be sensitive by not talking.

  Of course all that I could think of were inappropriate things. Would you want a larger funeral? How long do you want to live? Could you die in nicer weather? Will you work until you drop dead on the bench? Will we have a proper lunch after your funeral? Can I represent your estate? Do you already own a cemetery plot?

  “Well it was about eight or nine years ago. I was the head of the department and the committee decided to put me out to pasture. They threw a party, a small one, cocktails and snacks. But between the time of their announcement and the reception, I decided I wasn’t ready to retire, so the next day I came to work as usual.” He laughed, and I smiled. “Boy did I surprise them.”

  The line of cars ahead of us was finally starting to creep out of the cemetery.

  Both of my grandfathers died before I was born. Judge Curie was the kind of man that I imagined them to be, spewing witticisms and stories (multiple times) about the old days.

  “Then what happened?”

  “Well, my friends at the Supreme Court immediately recalled me to save face, probably theirs more than mine. Do you know what a recall is?”

  I knew, but answered, “No.”

  “Recalls, occur when a judge reaches the mandatory retirement age and they can’t run for reelection anymore but they have enough friends to let them stay on the bench. It gives the courts the advantage of some very well-seasoned jurists.”

  “Like you.”

  “Like me,” he repeated as his pale blue eyes twinkled with appreciation.

  “Well after two more years, they were still trying to get rid of me and they threw a much larger party. They sold tickets and gave me another scales of justice award, just what I needed like a hole in the head.

  Have you ever been inside the Medina Temple Fiona?”

&nb
sp; “I’ve driven past it.” Actually I thought that was the place where they used to hold the circus. Briefly I pictured a retirement ceremony. And in this ring, ladies and gentlemen, the retiree.

  “Magnificent building.”

  “Was that where your second reception was held?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what happened?”

  He laughed and all of his wrinkles joined him.

  “The second retirement party was lavish, everyone had a great time and I just came into work the next morning just like I have for most of my life. It was funny because they looked at me like I was confirming my senility. I’ll tell you this, I don’t play golf and they may have to carry me out feet first.”

  “Not you.”

  He shot me a questioning look and continued. “Well the next week, by coincidence, a shortage of judges was announced and the Illinois Supreme Court recalled me and appointed me for another year of service.

  They reappoint me each year. I stepped down as presiding judge, just to meet them half way. Now I have to admit, things are better. I only go to the meetings where there is good food. I can miss meetings because I didn’t remember, fell asleep or couldn’t get a ride.”

  “So you pretend to forget things?”

  “Forget you heard that, okay?” He laughed gently.

  “What year did you step down as presiding judge?”

  “Maybe eight or ten years ago, hard to remember. Let’s see Laslo was the head for two years, Requin two years, Wall about four. So that means I stepped down about eight years ago.”

  “Wall?”

  “Judge Wall was in probate for many years. A good man. He took over after I stepped down as the presiding judge and when he died just a few years later, Judge Requin was appointed.”

  “I didn’t know Requin was ever the presiding judge.”

  “Yes, before Judge King.”

  “Is it a two year term?”

  “No, it continues until you retire or drop dead. Oh Judge Requin had a terrible time at it. Finally he talked about his health to bow out and save face. He returned to being a judge and not a manager.”

  “And Judge King was appointed next?”

  “Yes, he was a breath of fresh air, integrity, drive and ambition. We don’t see many like him. He should have run for judge earlier in his career.”

  “Was he with a large law firm before he was appointed?” I asked.

  “Oh no, he wasn’t in private practice, he worked for the City of Chicago at the parks department for maybe thirty years before he was appointed to the bench. Later he ran for office and won, well you knew that.”

  That explained his appointment to me. Politics. I didn’t share this opinion.

  “He worked for the party even when he was in high school.”

  “What party?” I couldn’t resist asking.

  “You should always say you are a Democrat.”

  I was quiet.

  “Fiona?”

  “What?” I was registered as a Republican, but he didn’t need to know.

  “You understand not to repeat anything we discuss don’t you?”

  “Sure, I’ll conveniently pretend to forget.”

  The judge chuckled. “Listen did you find another office?”

  “No I’m still looking.”I didn’t explain that meant a combination of pondering and worrying instead of any concrete action.

  “You’ll have a chance to make contacts at the luncheon.”

  “We get lunch?”

  “Of course, it’s a funeral.”

  I quietly admired Mildred for her guess the announcement of only coffee and cake was a red herring to thin the herd.

  At the restaurant I tried to drop Judge Curie off at the door but he insisted on walking with me from the parking lot. I ignored his leer when he said he needed help unlocking the seat belt. He unlocked it without my help at the church and at the cemetery. Walking from the parking area, he seemed to lean on me more than the way into church.

  Maybe he was tired or I was simply more charming than I knew. Maybe despite his light hearted conversation about retirement, the death of his friend weighed on him. Did he have a lot of dead friends? Did he always attend the funerals?

  Once inside, we checked our coats reluctantly before Judge Requin swooped down and scolded me for kidnapping Judge Curie. Although he was smiling, his remarks reeked of malice, snakes and curses. His weird shiny hair provided him with a look of menace.

  As he was dragged away, Judge Curie grabbed my hand pulling me with them. It must have looked silly or like two judges and a lawyer on parade. This is another reason that I like him; he is unpredictable in a fun way.

  We bypassed the people waiting to talk to the family so Judge Curie could introduce me to them. Sophie King was much smaller without her fur coat, about the size of a sixth grader. The judge’s two daughters were tall, self-contained, well dressed and the object of my curiosity.

  “Ms. Gavelle is a very good lady probate lawyer, she might be able to help you,” Judge Curie advertised, while I fought off a cringe. He might have said that I wrote a mean codicil, but I digress.

  “My sympathies to your family,” I said without meaning a word of it. This was not what I had practiced but up close I didn’t get the impression I made much of an impression. As I examined them, they seemed ordinarily human.

  Out of the corner of my eye I looked at the son again and decided that he must be either cross-eyed or bored since he didn’t make eye contact. On the other hand, we may have missed cocktails.

  Waiting for the serving to begin and still trying to warm up, I wandered around the room clutching my cup of coffee and eavesdropping on as many conversations as possible.

  Everyone seemed to be discussing the judge’s heart condition. The details were so exact I assumed that medical records had been passed around. Being a tad squeamish I continued to circulate, full of confidence, since everyone suddenly, ala Judge Curie, said hello to me.

  After a respectable lunch including chicken, mashed potatoes, bread and butter a rather compact attorney approached me. He had the aura of ex-military.

  “Paul Cartofle,” he said, handing me a business card. “Drop by next week to talk about office space.”

  “Thanks,” I barely uttered. He caught me off guard. I casually placed his card in my inside pocket and hoped he didn’t know about the office supply scandal.

  Chapter Three

  Two weeks after the Judge’s night reception, I was sitting at my new desk at the law firm of Cartofle and Cebula. Things fell into place, at least after Judge Curie greased the wheels.

  This was a traditional, respectable, office sharing arrangement. I did twenty hours a month of their work in exchange for space, electric and use of some of the equipment. This meant not copying the annotated statutes (big thick law books) and chipping in sooner rather than later for utilities.

  Any case I brought in, I kept the fee. They said they might send me small matters, but I didn’t expect it to happen.

  My office is pretty small and looks out at a raggedy brick wall, but it’s mine. Maybe I could disguise the brick wall with curtains or tape outlines of Chicago skyscrapers on the glass. Maybe I could get a can of white paint and make the other building look better. We are only on the 5th floor of a 20 story building.

  Ambition coursed through my veins like the third cup of coffee mixed with foolishness. I was determined to set the legal world on fire. This was a better atmosphere for me; everyone was young and vibrant, although not friendly toward me. I would work hard and succeed here, no problem. It was also a surreptitious way to avoid the personal side of my life which was still in ruins.

  Annette startled me when she moved quietly into the office. “Here’s the first set of documents to proof read Ms. Gavelle. Did Paul talk to you about recording your time?”

  “Fiona. And, yes he did.”

  Annette Hughes is the office manager. She worked for Cebula for ten years when he was in solo practice before
he formed a partnership with Cartofle.

  She is tall, slim and exudes efficiency and confidence. She provided me with a list of the attorneys at the office and an oral history of their practices. She subtly suggested that Paul counts things in the office supply cabinet. He has a fear that other people will sneeze on his stapler. The things she left unsaid were communicated brilliantly

  “We’ve never had a lady attorney before.”

  “Well thanks.” Even if I was a token, it was a real lawyer job where I wouldn’t be mistaken for the receptionist. In Annette I anticipated an ally.

  The new firm consisted of Paul Cartofle and his partner Charles Cebula. There were two associate attorneys, a secretary, Annette and me. The bookkeeper came in two Sundays a month, and sounded like a relative.

  When we first met, Paul was very clear that I was not ‘of counsel’ whatever that meant and that I needed my own stationary, office supplies, business cards and to chip in for the telephone within six months. He said that I was welcome to use the enormous stapler. I looked forward to the time when I would outgrow my trusty desk style stapler. I nodded when he talked about some things as if I knew what we were talking about.

  When I finished the proof reading, I took the rest of my work over to the library. The rest included planning and daydreaming. The library was where I was most comfortable for the time being.

  The Daley Center (where the probate court is located), houses one of the best libraries in the county. It’s on one of the top floors and has floor to ceiling windows with tables along the best views of the loop and lake.

  Steve Vorce was staring out the window at Lake Michigan, with a pile of opened books and his laptop idling. We easily shared a table and guarded the other’s possessions when necessary.

  I put a lawyer spin on my new office and expressed my enthusiasm.

  He complained about the paper listing nothing good except for one ad he had circled: “Senior practitioner close to retirement seeks young associate to share space for research, document drafting, occasional court appearances. Training included.”