by Una Tiers
I wrote a note about the heat on my business card and stuck it on the thermostat. Walking through the apartment I was disappointed that things were so ordinary. I checked all of the windows although we were on the 22nd floor.
After my complimentary safety check, I looked the place over again. I was tempted to open the balcony doors but was afraid the locks would freeze. From what I was able to see, the view was spectacular. There was nothing on the judge’s balcony, except a patch of ice.
There weren't any filing cabinets or any signs of a bill payment area. We never located his checkbook. In the small bedroom the desk was stacked with law books. When I thought I was being watched, I looked around and realized that there were several Abraham Lincoln portraits on the wall. His sorrowful expression prevented me from opening drawers or closets. Damn him!
After checking I had indeed locked the door, (seven or eight times), I dropped the garbage bag down the chute, checked the locks once more and headed for my car. My nerves were on high alert, I even imagined seeing Judge King walk past the building wearing his Humphrey Bogart hat, turned against the wind.
The next day, Bob delivered another batch of mail but didn’t mention the heat was raised in the condo. He said he didn’t think his father paid monthly condominium assessments.
Since the mail was all junk (again), I amused myself feeding it into the shredder, stopping only seconds before I fed an IRS letter into the jaws. What would Freud say about this? Or Willie Nelson?
The letter contained a tax deficiency notice for unreported income for 1997. The tax due was $2,326.23, about half of it consisting of penalties. This was probably pocket money for a judge and exactly the exotic twist I had hoped for all along. Would the underlying source of the income shock, titillate or entertain me?
Although I asked about the old tax returns three or four times, Bob said he couldn’t find them. We would have to order copies. Naturally the aunt wasn’t home so I checked my timesheets to see when I made the last reminder.
Reviewing the to do lists, I noticed that Bob was supposed to take his father’s car to get appraised. He promised me to take care of it three or four times.
I called him at work, the best place to reach him.
“It doesn’t run, but I cleaned it out, it took quite a while.”
“Do you have an auto club card? There might be one in your Dad’s wallet.” I was quite pleased with my subtly suggesting he had his father’s wallet.
He didn’t have auto club coverage, so I agreed to call a garage and have the car towed to where used cars call home, Western Avenue.
“Oh Bob, one other question, is there any other paperwork that you have? We don’t have any bank statements, checkbook, condo assessments or utility bills.”
His answer seemed angry as he slowly answered, spacing out the words, “You have all the paperwork Ms. Gavelle.”
Chapter Twelve
To my capitalistic delight, I landed another probate case when an old neighbor called to tell me her mother died. Genevieve Kroll lived to the age of ninety three. This was probate case number three! I was ecstatic but the weird thing is someone has to die for me to make a living.
Long before I had memories, my family lived next door to Mrs. Bertinet, Mrs. Kroll’s daughter.
My surviving memory of the house was of some mayonnaise jars dressed up like a snowman and a snow lady (presumably his wife) displayed in a glass block window during the holidays. Maybe the memories came from old snapshots.
Mrs. Bertinet said she could not imagine coming downtown, she assumed thugs and miscreants walked the streets of downtown Chicago with machine guns stuffed into violin cases. I agreed to meet at her house.
It was a treat to be able to see our old house. I practiced my pitch to go inside, hoping Mrs. Bertinet would back me up. Unfortunately, our old house was in the process of expanding.
Pick-up trucks were parked on the front sidewalk and lawn and the place was surrounded by a chain link fence. It didn’t look like a bungalow anymore. The roof was raised and they were putting in what looked like a second floor. No additional memories were triggered.
“It’s hard to believe that you are all grown up and a lawyer. I remember you running around the yard when you were just learning to walk,” Mrs. Bertinet looked at me from head to toe.
Mrs. Bertinet was seventy years old and dressed in beautiful spring colors even though it was only early March. Her eyes were puffy. It dispelled my assumption. Grief wasn’t dependent on the age of the decedent. I’ve never known anyone over the age of eighty except for Judge Curie.
“The lawyer is here Victor,” she called down the staircase.
“I don’t know what he does all day, it’s the basement or the garage every day, even on Sundays,” she added.
“What?” a man hollered up the stairs.
She walked back to the staircase. “The lawyer is here, the little girl from next door.”
His response was muffled.
“That old man doesn’t hear too well,” she offered by way of explanation.
A cat appeared in the doorway to look at me. I was introduced.
“This is Black Eyes.”
“Hello Black Eyes.” I held out my hand and he spit at me, leaving the room with indignation.
We were finishing up at exactly noon when Victor came into the dining room. “Aren’t we eating today? Oh hello, I didn’t think you would be here for lunch.”
“We’re busy,” Mrs. Bertinet shot out, displaying the first tone of impatience.
He grumbled out of the room. “I’m going to the garage for something.”
“The man couldn’t fix a cheese sandwich on his own. If I die first he’ll starve,” she snapped.
Overall Mrs. Bertinet had a sunny countenance and I wondered if she was happy with her life. Despite what seemed like grumbling exchanges, they were married for fifty years. I couldn’t imagine being with one person all that time.
From under her manila file folder she removed and handed me a check, payable to me, for $500.00. In the memo section it was marked “Deposit Ma’s estate.” In a way a check never made me sad before.
When she handed me my coat, there was a warm spot. Looking at me, she explained. “I think he wants to make friends, Black Eyes was sleeping on your coat.”
I put my coat in the car trunk hoping it wouldn’t trigger my cat allergies.
After stopping at the dry cleaners, I parked my car, picked up a jacket and hopped a bus back to work. I prepared the documents to open the estate, doing my own proof reading and mailed the first set of papers to the client two days later for review, signature and return.
Chapter Thirteen
Proof reading, ghost writing wills and reading about probate took up the next two weeks. Before I realized it, the prove-up date for the Estate of Genevieve Kroll was a few days away.
Things got a little complicated for me when Paul handed me another file.
“Just a prove up for Monday morning, can you do this?” he asked.
“I’m in probate anyway, I have another matter up that morning,” I answered nonchalantly.
Paul said that the client wasn’t going to attend. That explained why the file was passed off to me at the last minute. It was a mystery to me how I would be in two places at the same time. However, since I have waited as long as an hour for my turn in court, I should be able to juggle two cases.
On Monday morning when the alarm went off I was ready although I was running around like the Mad Hatter. Not that I think he wore pantyhose. It took me fifteen minutes to locate my favorite court earrings. I was downtown an hour early. I nursed two cups of tea at a café across the street from court until it was time to rush in and look busy.
All of the probate cases in Cook County, Illinois, are heard at the Richard J. Daley Center. It’s the largest court building in the county, named after a longtime Mayor of the City.
Built in 1965 it has thirty-one stories, with several of them below street level. Ther
e are at least 100 courtrooms, clerk’s and file rooms, a law library, a variety of offices. There is a small jail in the basement and little gun lockers for police that are not from the County Sheriff’s office.
The lobby is a magnificent three stories tall. The first lower level has a walkway (called a pedway because it’s restricted to pedestrians) it connects buildings, stores, the Cultural Center and more.
The steel for the building was made here in the Chicago area and has a novel feature, it rusts to form a stronger bond. Outside the building is the Picasso sculpture. It’s made of the same steel as the building and has a history. Despite the rust feature, the City regularly sandblasts the Picasso. The lurid legal history is that the City of Chicago applied for a copyright on the Picasso. Later it was successfully challenged on technicalities. It sits outside of a court house. I love the irony.
A note on Judge Hoover’s courtroom door said his call would be heard in courtroom 1811. There the sign on the door indicated that Judge Peur was on the bench. I winced because she is rumored to give attorneys a hard time.
Most days Judge Peur only signs continuances and when she makes rulings, the calendar judges are rumored to modify or vacate her rulings. To vacate a ruling is to completely remove it from the record. To modify a ruling is less criticism but means changing it nonetheless.
A continuance isn’t good for business. The client is unhappy to pay the lawyer when nothing happens. The lawyer is unhappy not to get paid because it was beyond their control. Delays are a slippery slope. I avoid them at all costs. Other lawyers do not think they are such a big deal.
My angst increased before Peur even entered the courtroom. Most courtrooms have one sheriff, or less. That morning there were three sheriffs lumbering around the room. I braced myself for a spectacle.
When I signed in the clerk said I was the second case on the list. This was good, I would take care of my case and then go next door and take care of the case for Paul. I needed everything to go well since this is the first time Paul sent me into court for anything but a continuance. I didn’t know he did probate cases. Maybe they do large probate cases. His paperwork showed an estate value of over a million dollars.
My new probate estate for Mrs. Bertinet, was worth about $125,000 if the real estate sold for what the daughter estimated.
In my limited court experience, a sheriff announces court is in session and the judge walks in. Then he (or she) proceeds to read the newspaper, (the sheriff that is) with an occasional shushing if really necessary. One or two of the ambitious sheriff’s patrol in and out of the courtrooms and hallways with mobile shushing.
That day, one sheriff stood at the public hallway entrance, a second stood at the judge's entrance and a third stationed himself in the center of the room. The middle of the room guy was impersonating a television sheriff, with his chest puffed out and thumbs hooked in his belt. He demanded that everyone rise and be quiet.
We rose and waited and waited until everyone was standing and all murmurs of conversation had stopped.
Finally, the rear door sheriff opened the door and Judge Peur strutted in, clutching a copy of the probate code to her bosom.
She wore an expression like the Queen of a small dictatorial island, leading a celebratory parade after a corrupt election. Only the ceremonial wave, colorful floats and marching bands were missing.
The judge’s name is generally on a polished brass plate affixed to the bench, facing the courtroom. Judge Peur had her name written on a plain piece of cardboard with a grease pen, with crooked letters, taped over another name.
The first case was called and we were off and running. Later, I realized that to be a very poor choice of words. Since I was second on the list of cases, I sat on the edge of the chair ready to stand up with confidence as soon as my case was called.
Twenty minutes later I leaned back, because my calves were starting to hurt. I worried Paul’s case would be called in the other court room while I was waiting.
“Estate of K-r-o-l-l.” I stood up and approached the bench, “Fiona Gavelle.”
The judge reviewed each document with a furrowed brow. Her interest, which I doubt was more than for show, suggested she had never seen a probate form before mine. This irritated me. If I could understand them, how tough could they be?
After a lot of frowning she launched into questions.
“Counsel, are the people listed on exhibit A the only ones entitled to notice?”
“Yes.”
“The decedent was ninety-three years of age?” she asked with a worried look.
“Yes.”
“No grandchildren are entitled to notice?”
“No,” here I was punting because I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. But she accepted my answer.
My youth, inexperience and beauty were probably what triggered her goofy review of my papers.
She continued to look at my documents and I continued to worry about missing the call for Paul’s case. When I sneaked a peek at my watch, it was still Monday morning, I was still in court and Judge Peur was still looking at my paperwork to open the case.
By examining the odds and ends on the judge’s dais I distracted myself. There were several very neat stacks of papers on the desk, probably unread. A scales of justice gold trimmed glass held pencils with double erasers that looked like little gavels. A scales of justice coffee cup had one pen in it. What I didn’t see was a gavel.
With a sigh, the judge approved the documents and the estate was opened. She exuded the attitude that she was doing me a gigantic favor instead of doing what she was well paid to do.
I mumbled a thank you that I never meant less in my life. It was eleven o’clock.
Handing my copies to the clerk for stamping, he displayed an eye roll in sympathy or frustration as he glanced at his watch. This I took as camaraderie with a high level of delight.
The relations between the clerks and the lawyers are dramatic. Some lawyers feign minute interest in the clerk’s tie or haircut as a matter of habit. To me it appears demeaning. Nonetheless the clerks, like happy puppies lap up the attention.
At other times the clerks are preoccupied and hang their heads close enough to the papers for their noses to touch. They pretend they don’t see people lined up twelve inches in front of them. Freud would enjoy the court system.
When I pushed my way to the door to leave her court room, all of the seats were filled and people were actually leaning against the walls, like a saloon. Only two cases had been finished in an hour. With sarcasm I wondered when the court house closed for the day.
This pace would cause the morning court call to run into overtime, one of many wicked amusements for me. When I sat and observed the ten and eleven o’clock calls, I observed a phenomenon. At 11 AM, after the court was in session for a full hour, the clerks would start to wiggle. By 11:30 wincing and yawning started. Then, at the strike of twelve, the clerks, reporters and sheriff’s started to squirm, wiggle, wince and yawn in what seemed to be agony.
The judges seemed disturbed or frightened by the squirming, wiggling, frowning, stretching, yawning, wincing, and grunting of the staff.
I rushed to the next courtroom, only to find it locked. I checked my watch again, it was 11:02. There wasn’t a sign rerouting the lawyers to another court room. Peering through the window I saw the room was empty.
Another lawyer walking by offered an explanation. “He finishes early and leaves.”
Waiting for the elevator I ran into Mildred. I was miserable.
“Fiona are you okay, you look upset,” she asked.
Explaining the dilemma of the locked court room, she offered her sage advice. “You’ll have to reset the date. He is very strict about missing court.”
“You mean wait another week? How could he possibly have finished his eleven AM call in two minutes?”
“You’ll be lucky to get another date in only a week. His calendar is filled more than three to four weeks ahead of time. Oh, and you di
dn’t hear this from me, but he only hears cases four days a week.”
“What do you mean.”
“He usually has one day a week he blocks off. Again, I never mentioned that. Okay?”
She waited until I nodded in agreement.
“Look on the bright side, now you know not to schedule other cases on the days you’re in front of him.”
I grumbled all the way back to the coffee shop where I sat nursing more tea and a scone for three hours. When the cashier gave me the ‘go away eye,’ I went over to copy Paul’s file for my secret notebook. There was no way that I could return to the office and tell Paul I blew the court call.
Rather than explain, I held firm to my plan “B” even though I realized the stupidity of it. At one minute before two I walked into Requin’s court room, startling him and the clerk. He was sitting in short sleeves (and pants I assume) reviewing documents.
“Estate of Anthony Edwards, Fiona Gavelle for the attorney of record. This case was on your ten o’clock call judge and I was held up in another courtroom and at eleven, you were gone.” I handed him my original documents which he accepted reluctantly. I hoped he didn’t see my hand shaking.
The judge silently reviewed my paperwork while I tried to look like a good understudy for the lead role in Annie.
When he started to sign the orders, I exhaled, feeling like I put something over on him.
I stepped over to the clerk to have my copies stamped when the judge added, “Thank you for waiting Ms. Gavelle.” With that he left the room. I continued to wear what I hoped was a poker face.
The clerk wasn’t fooled by my act and let me know with a sly smile. He stamped my copies and handed them to me with what I think was a wink.
Back at the office I followed the now familiar ‘after the first probate court appearance procedure.’
Annette waited in the doorway for me to look up. “Paul called several times asking where you were this morning. Wasn’t the court call at ten?”
