Judge vs Nuts: A Fiona Gavelle Mystery

by Una Tiers

  I explained the executor’s job.

  “Well this won’t take very long so I will serve as Executor, I can guarantee you we will be done in two or three weeks. It was my brother’s last wish,” the Aunt finished with a Cheshire cat grin.

  I was getting a headache, hoping that this wouldn’t trigger my allergy to cats.

  “The estate has to remain open for at least six months. That means that the house…”

  “Condo…” they corrected me in unison.

  “Right, the condo has to be emptied and placed on the market for sale.”

  The Aunt continued to glare at me. I wondered if I could deal with her entirely through the mail.

  For a while the room was quiet. I could see the little light blinking on the phone so I knew that we were still connected to the daughters in New York.

  “So what do we do first?” Bob asked.

  “I think you should give some thought to whether or not you want to work with my office.” This wasn’t part of my inappropriate remarks forte. This was part of the conundrum.

  On one hand I really wanted this case, and their money, but on the other hand there were red flags all over the place suggesting dissent. The case could be a pain in the posterior. Lawyers are known to make terrible clients. They tend to second guess a lot of what you do. My inner capitalist was screaming ‘take their money.’ Still, isn’t everyone on their best behavior at the start of the relationship whether they are clients or love interests?

  “Which one is your secretary?” the Aunt asked suspiciously.

  “Everything is computerized. I do my own paperwork. It keeps the costs down by saving on overhead.” I wondered what I did to offend her. Actually I wondered why I didn’t lie about the secretary.

  Feeling kind of foolish, I gave them a copy of my resume, fee agreement and a return envelope.

  “And what do we do next?” Bob was either unaware of the tension in the room or pretty adept at diffusing it.

  “First decide if you want to work with me. If you do, review the agreement and call me before signing if you have any questions. I need a check or deposit for filing fees. Then I’ll prepare the papers for the court and have the executor sign them. We’ll collect the assets, pay the bills and get the condo ready to sell.”

  The daughters said things were fine, and the light on the phone line went out without a goodbye.

  Alone with the Aunt and Bob, I felt like a hostage.

  Still not leaving well enough alone, I blundered on, “My retainer or deposit against fees and costs in probate cases is three thousand dollars. As soon as there is cash available it will be reimbursed.”

  I made a mistake, I was thinking about a thousand, then fifteen hundred. Three thousand was really high.

  Despite my concern, no one objected. Maybe it was better to have cash for out of pocket costs and something for me up front.

  I excused myself to get a drink of water. When I returned with three bottles of cold water I passed them around and saw a check on top of my file folder.

  Bob opened and drank the entire bottle of water without taking a breath. He had a charm all his own.

  The Aunt continued to multi-task, scowling and clutching her purse on her lap. I didn’t realize that I never offered to hang up their coats.

  I paper clipped the check to the file folder since they were watching it. I walked them to the door and thanked them for meeting with me.

  Paul did a double take when we passed the conference room.

  After they left, I examined the check. It was the largest one of my career. It had two different handwritings. The date and amount were in one style of large childish handwriting and the signature was another style that wiggled like a full glass of red wine on the Orient Express. Apparently neither of them could spell my last name, so I filled it in (for safety).

  I sifted through the box of documents, and was disappointed to find junk mail and a smattering of real old utility bills. I spent the next two hours filling out the probate forms.

  The next morning Paul casually stopped by my office.

  “So how are things going Fiona?”

  “Pretty good. And you?” He was never friendly so I was suspicious.

  “Great. Say I was wondering about that older woman and young man who came in yesterday.”

  “Clients,” I answered taking glee in the confidentiality rules.

  “They look familiar.”

  I shrugged, not wanting to give him any information. Sometimes when people do something wrong, the opinion I have of them spirals in every category. Paul was nearing the bottom of the barrel category.

  Each day at mail time, I waited and was disappointed when the fee agreement was not returned. Didn’t they understand I needed the agreement signed and returned? Was it lost in the mail? I hadn’t deposited the check but I didn’t want to return it either.

  On Friday, I went to a tax seminar and sat with Lou Che. When we sit together, we make sure neither of us falls asleep, pass notes and take shameless turns getting the free coffee, pens and cookies from the registration desk.

  “Say Fiona, I checked and no probate case was filed in Lake County for Judge King.”

  “Not here either,” I added before I thought about it.

  “Aren’t they going to hire you? You hang around with Judge Curie, he could put in a word for you.”

  “Not so far.” I love the way you can hide the truth out in the open.

  Chapter Eleven

  A week after the appointment the fee agreement hadn’t been returned. I broke down and called the Aunt. I was disappointed and relieved that she wasn’t home and didn’t have an answering machine. I called Bob, he promised to follow up immediately and appeared at my office in under an hour with the attorney fee agreement and excuses about his busy schedule. I gave him the next set of documents for his aunt to sign and return.

  True to his word, Bob delivered the second set of papers signed and notarized, the very next morning. I took them over to court to open the file and winced when we were assigned to Judge Requin’s calendar.

  During the filing process in the clerk’s office, I talked to two clerks and the cashier. No one said anything about my famous client.

  After court I went to the County Building to do a quick title search on the judge’s condominium. Working for Holadollar I had to learn how to do them manually and they were finally going faster. To order one cost $100. I also looked up his real estate tax bill.

  His condominium had a mortgage until 2020, and the taxes were current. We needed the information on the monthly condominium assessments.

  While I was out, Bob delivered another box of papers that contained more junk mail. I left a message for him to bring only information about current assets and bills. The assets that we had identified so far were the condo, a car, and some stock. It would be more accurate to say maybe some stock, there was a two year old dividend check stub stuck to the back of an old electric bill.

  Maybe the judge had other names on his bank accounts, like his children. Parents do that, they put their children’s name on their accounts for “an emergency,” meaning to pay the undertaker.

  Nervous about the first court date to open the estate, I read the file daily, carrying it home at night and back in the morning. The way I was preparing, it sounded like I was about to have tea with the Queen rather than appear in court on the King’s estate. I called the clerk’s office to make sure that the will had arrived from Lake County and then stopped by the wills counter to double-check.

  Two days before court, I received a message from a probate court clerk saying that the case was moved to 2:00 PM Tuesday or Wednesday. They didn’t leave a name, or telephone number and didn’t say which Tuesday or Wednesday. I walked over to the courthouse in a bitter wind, guessing about the error.

  Probate division takes up the entire eighteenth floor of the Daley Center. When I stepped off the elevator, it was deserted, quiet and eerie, in sharp contrast to the hectic mornings. I
had never been in the court in the afternoon before. My boots squeaked a little until I started to walk on my toes.

  Judge Requin’s court room was empty but Alan, smiled and swept in before I reached the podium and asked for my original documents. Since I had them with me at all times, I handed them over. He returned a minute later and proceeded to stamp the papers.

  “You’re all set counsel,” he noted with a smile.

  “Thank you, do you mean I’m done?”

  “Yes.”

  “The estate’s open?”

  “Yes.”

  “And my client is appointed?”

  “Yes.”

  Happy Days!

  I felt cheated out of the opportunity to have other attorneys overhear the name of my famous case and break out in thunderous applause while they turned green with envy.

  After court I finished the paperwork for the creditors notice.

  The creditors notice is something you publish in the newspaper to cut off bills that are not filed with the estate within six months.

  Another call came in from the clerk from the probate court before I even made it into the office the next day, so I put my coat back on and headed for court. They probably found a mistake in my papers. There was a different clerk in Requin’s court room.

  “Someone called me about the estate of King, but didn’t leave a name. My name is Fiona Gavelle.”

  “Certainly counsel,” the clerk said with a knowing smile. “I called you but we aren’t allowed to take attorney calls.”

  She handed me an envelope, smiled and left the courtroom. I thanked her, and went into the hall to look inside. My legs were a little wobbly. The documents were letters of office. They show that your client is the executor.

  They made a mistake and gave me twelve copies although I only paid for six.

  I sent a letter to the Aunt about the stock certificates based on the dividend check stub. The judge had to have more assets. I would apply the sleuthing skills I learned from the Sherlock Holmes and the ‘Cat Who’ mystery series to identify the remainder of the assets.

  A few days after the claims notice was published in the lawyer newspaper, we received two offers to buy the real estate, sight unseen. In the small print they added an inspection within five days was required and that only qualified estates would be eligible. The offers screamed ‘ridiculously low price’ to me.

  We received three claims against the estate the next day. I had to look up the rules, since they were the first I’d come across. After reading for an hour, I learned claims are simply bills.

  One was from the emergency room at the hospital and the other was from the City of Chicago for the ride in the ambulance. I sent the bills to the judge’s health insurance and a letter to the hospital about his personal items (wallet and keys).

  I didn’t figure this out. Judge Curie gave me the information for the judge’s health insurance company and suggested I see what the hospital might still be holding in terms of personal property.

  When I called the Chief Judge’s office to ask about his last paycheck and any other benefits, (also on Judge Curie’s suggestion), the secretary knew my name and said they had already forwarded the paperwork to bookkeeping. She promised me the checks by the end of the week. I was impressed that they knew I was representing the estate. Ah politics.

  The third claim was the most uncharacteristic since it was for a credit card balance in the amount of $6,214.34. Maybe I was wrong and the judge lived paycheck to paycheck. Now I saw why the wallet was important, maybe there were other credit cards.

  I called the attorney who filed the credit card claim and asked for the last two statements, for December and January.

  “Sure, it should take about four weeks.”

  How did he prepare the claim without statements? Ending the conversation, I joked about closing the account since they knew he was dead.

  “I don’t know anything about that. You can call the credit card company. My job is to file the claims.” The line was dead.

  My stomach lurched in guilt. I didn’t know we were supposed to cancel the credit cards. Was that my job? I hadn’t even seen any credit card statements. I started to collect the information that you have to look for in a probate estate in a notebook.

  Notebooks are an office procedure to save information to use again in other cases. Holadollar had a few of them and right after I asked about them, they seemed to disappear.

  The operator at Bank Seven advised me that the credit card was still active and that I, the mere attorney, did not have the authority to close the account. She suggested I have the cardholder contact them.

  “He’s still dead. Don’t you think that’s why you filed a claim against a decedent’s estate?”

  Apparently the operator didn’t go to law school.

  Defeated, I collected the information they requested and sent it with a letter for the Aunt to sign and forward.

  On the court date for the claims, we still didn’t have any more information so I offered to continue the matters.

  New claims are heard on the fourth Monday of each month in every probate courtroom and are the only matters heard those mornings. The times are staggered in fifteen-minute intervals per courtroom. Judge Requin has the 10:00 AM timeslot and Judge Fullhammer the 10:15 AM and so forth. Our case was number fourteen on the list, but I was there early, at quarter to ten.

  When I walked in I was the only lawyer there. I checked my calendar. Where was everyone else?

  Alan, the cute clerk, asked if I was ready before I had a chance to sign in. He took my orders and Judge Requin swept in and nodded. In less than a minute the three claims were continued.

  The sheriff caught me off guard when he held the door open for me to leave the courtroom. Maybe my skirt was a little short. Was I reaching an age where I couldn’t show off my legs? Poor old thing.

  I stopped for a drink of water and when I turned, I saw a flock of attorneys heading into the courtroom that was empty only a minute before.

  Hearing my name, I turned to see Timothy Veenal, smiling and waving as if we hadn’t seen each other in years. Maybe it was the skirt length.

  Tim is tall, lean, a little stooped over and reminds me of a priest. We met at the Catholic Lawyers Club where he whispered irreverent wise cracks during the entire program. It was probably the best program I ever attended. Timothy is always happy and is the biggest gossip walking the face of the earth. As such he is a wealth of information unavailable from any other source. This, in a friend is a good thing.

  “Say, what’s new?” he asked.

  “I have a new office.”

  “No kidding, where?”

  “Downtown, with Paul Cartofle.”

  “Wow.”

  “Wow what?”

  “No I mean just wow, an office downtown with Paul Cartofle. Isn’t he kind of, I don’t know, a stuffed shirt?”

  “We’re lawyers, the highest sort of stuffed shirts Timothy,” I joked.

  Although I wasn’t formally affiliated with the office, and felt confident in my status as head black sheep, I didn’t like the criticism. Loyalty is very important to me, even if it is misplaced.

  “Want to get coffee?” he offered.

  We talked about our practices. It felt good to be part of ‘the business.’ I noticed that my new office was growing with each description. It wasn’t unlike Timothy’s description of his practice.

  “Oh my practice is killing me, I haven’t got enough time to deposit checks,” he bragged.

  “No kidding.”

  “Yes, I’m working six days a week now. By Sunday, I just want to sleep.”

  Yeah, I thought, you don’t want to go to church after telling that bank deposit story, you would be stuck in the confessional all afternoon.

  I sent a reminder letter to the children and aunt about preparing the real estate for sale. My letter explained all personal documents had to be removed and the clothing perhaps donated. Maybe some financial documents would s
urface when things were sorted.

  Since they left me a set of keys for the judge’s condo, I decided to take a peek. I felt enormous treachery and had a lot of reasons practiced as to why I had to go in without mentioning it before hand.

  While very curious, I felt like a cat burglar who wasn’t even dressed properly for the part. The theme music from Pink Panther played in my head on a loop.

  The lobby of his building was magnificent with a mirror and marble finish and the faint scent of jasmine, but no management sign. My best excuse was needing the contact information to avoid late charges in the monthly assessments.

  Ringing the bell I felt foolish, the place was empty. While I waited out of courtesy, or fear, I read the other names on the bells. I’m not sure what I would do if anyone answered the bell, probably run like the devil was after me.

  There wasn’t any management company information by the mailboxes so I took the elevator up to the twenty-second floor. I listened at the door for sounds inside, nothing. I knocked like a mouse and waited at the door. I moved it up to two firm knuckle knocks. Without a response, I slowly unlocked both locks and stepped inside.

  The cold air hit me like a pancake. It wasn’t much above thirty in the apartment. I set the thermostat at 50 and waited, holding my breath. After several seconds I turned the switch from off to automatic.

  After a few clicks and a whoosh, the curtains moved and I could hear the furnace running.

  The living room furniture was pushed haphazardly into the middle of the room, probably by the paramedics trying to remove the judge. This took a little of the fun out of my nosy mission realizing the judge had died there.

  I checked the kitchen where I found slimy things in the refrigerator, maybe accounting for the odd odor. I emptied those out. The cabinets only had a few cans of food. The freezer, a favorite place to hide things, had ice cube trays and a half of a bottle of vodka. Instantly I knew I would have liked the judge if we had a chance.

  Taking down a pretty monogrammed glass from the cabinet, I poured myself two fingers of ice cold vodka hoping it wasn’t poisoned. I sniffed it but what does vodka smell like? After pouring it down the drain, I washed the glass and replaced it on the shelf with a paper towel shielding it from my finger prints.