Judge vs Nuts: A Fiona Gavelle Mystery

by Una Tiers

  “I had other matters. Is he still here?”

  “No.”

  “Was he here at all?”

  “No, but you didn’t hear that from me.” Annette started to leave.

  “I put the file on his desk. He didn’t want me to send the client a letter did he?”

  “No, probably not.” She gave me a funny look and left.

  I closed the door and blindly worked on my other probate case. What a deliciously evil feeling I had.

  After the paperwork was complete I called Mrs. Bertinet.

  “I thought you would call earlier.” Her complaint was only a mild reprimand.

  “I’m sorry, I had a few things to handle and court dragged on longer than I thought. I have a portable phone now, but you know how expensive the cell calls are.”

  “Oh I know and don’t want to be charged for a five dollar call.”

  Feeling like a culprit, I spent the rest of the afternoon at the law library.

  While thinking hard and looking out the window at Lake Michigan, my thoughts drifted to a phone call from Mildred and other things about the King probate case that seemed off.

  “Fiona, do you know what motion to file when the will is filed in the wrong county?”

  Bragging, I explained the process. “After you open the case in the correct county, call the clerk in the wrong county with the explanation and case number. You might want to give them a heads up on your court date or not set it until the will is received by the correct county.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes kind of a home remedy,” I suggested.

  “Is there a rule that covers it?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so, Mildred. That’s how I handled it this last month.”

  “Can I see your file?”

  “No, it’s a phone call that does it.”

  Now I wondered why she would call me, I had very little experience while she had a lot, or said she went to court every day. Did she know I had the judge’s probate case?

  The identity of Joe Wall, the person who filed the will, was still a mystery. His name wasn’t listed in any phone book or obituary I could find for Lake County. There were a lot of dead people named Wall, but they usually don’t file wills.

  The lawyer directories only listed dead lawyers named Wall. While I considered asking Lou for a little help since he practiced in Lake County, I thought it wasn’t a good idea since he is, well, a blabbermouth.

  When we received the credit card statements for the judge there were charges for restaurants, department stores, clothing, a cell phone, music stores and some unidentified 800 numbers. The judge was quite a shopper, he even shopped in Milwaukee (about 90 miles away).

  It was fun to see what he charged until I reached charges made in February. Not posted but charged. The judge died in January. While I’m not an expert, posthumous shopping sounds like a very bad sign.

  The statements were addressed to the judge at his condo, and my suspicious nature led me to believe Bob was up to something since he was collecting the mail. Of course, two monthly statements may have gone missing, along with the utility bills, bank and other investment documents. Maybe he was just dumping the mail with his Aunt.

  Another call to the credit card company was déjà vu. The card wasn’t canceled, they never received a cancelation letter from the account owner. And, it was still valid. Only the card holder, Laslo King, could cancel the card. After talking in circles for a while, I drafted a letter attaching copies of the last letter, signing Sophie’s name, “By counsel of record.” I also attached a copy of the claim and the letters of office.

  Despite the operator’s edict that fax letters were not accepted, she gave me the fax number and I faxed the letter and attachments. The Aunt’s phone rang without an answer. Bob’s phone was on voice mail. I dialed Rosie’s number just to vent.

  “Hi Rosie, this is Fiona. Have you talked to your Aunt Sophie lately?”

  “No, why?”

  “I never catch her at home,” I complained.

  “I know it’s a little hard since she doesn’t have an answering machine, and she doesn’t hear too well. Can I help with anything?”

  After I explained the credit card issue, she promised to follow it up for me. She suggested we send a death certificate to the credit card company.

  Late that afternoon, Bob called and said that his credit card at Bank Seven had been declined when he was buying something.

  “Your card, or your Dad’s?” I asked.

  “Well, we both used it.”

  Bad answer.

  “And who paid the bill?” I asked.

  “We have an arrangement, my sisters and aunt know all about it.”

  “I didn’t know about it. But, the estate can’t pay your credit card Bob.” Unless Rosie lied, it was a surprise that her father even had a credit card.

  “But I’m supposed to inherit a third of his estate!”

  “That’s after the bills are paid and the claims period is over.”

  “I can’t wait that long, ” Bob whined.

  “It’s too bad you’re not working,” I pushed the envelope but Bob didn’t take the bait.

  “Can we keep this between us Ms. Gavelle?”

  “I have to keep you all informed. The earlier claim went out in the mail at least a week ago.” Weren’t they reading my letters?

  “Well, then lets charge it against my share. My Aunt has his checking account and there is a balance of at least five thousand dollars.”

  We didn’t reach a resolution. Later I wondered if I was too inflexible, but decided following the rules was a good idea to protect me.

  The Aunt had never mentioned the judge’s checking account. I sent her another letter feeling like they were going into some black hole.

  Even though it wasn’t any of my business, I wondered why Bob was so strapped for cash. He worked for the City of Chicago as an attorney. That meant a regular paycheck, which seems glamorous to me every Friday when I feel left out of the rush to the bank.

  For almost a week I received a flurry of messages from Lilly, Rosie, and Bob about the credit card issue. The calls were pointless, I started to screen them until they wore themselves out. I did what any self-respecting lawyer would do. I covered my behind with a paper trail essentially denying fault. Maybe I would start a note book with samples of letters denying liability? I’d need a huge notebook.

  After renting a post office box, I completed a change of address form to send the judge’s mail there. It was time for me to get a look at the incoming mail without Bob’s censorship.

  Reviewing the list of to do matters, I decided to follow on the car and the personal effects at the hospital.

  Since Bob changed his mind about selling the car, I called a used car lot and met the tow truck for pick up at the condominium garage.

  Two hours later, the dealer had a price for us and asked about all the papers in the trunk of the car. Apparently Bob hadn’t cleaned out the car.

  Curious and defensive, I took a cab home and drove over to get the paperwork.

  As I walked up the steps to my Aunt’s house, I heard music playing. Then I heard a male voice and my Aunt’s notable high pitched laughter. It sounded like someone tickling the Queen. Maybe those sounds I heard in the night weren’t the television. Quietly I retreated.

  The boxes from the judge’s car filled up my trunk, back and front seats. Did I mention that his car was about twenty years old and the size of the Queen Mary? With my heavy duty luggage carrier I moved everything to my office, it took four trips. When I was finished, one of the associate lawyers looked at me.

  “You’re all sweaty.”

  “Thank you.” I answered while vowing to get a voodoo doll with his name on it as soon as I could figure out which one he was.

  I was feeling pretty grimy so I headed home to change clothes. Realizing my Aunt could still have company, I parked right in front and walked around the neighborhood to look for signs for apartment
s for rent.

  Using the pay phone at the public library I made three appointments for the next day. Pay phones were cheaper than my cell. The most promising place, was a six month sublet.

  In the morning I went through the boxes from the judge’s car and found old bank statements, tax returns, and stock purchase slips. This was what we needed. Everything was in order. There were notations when accounts were closed and where the money was deposited. One entry that puzzled me was accompanied by a doodle, a withdrawal a week later and no further notations.

  Was this a lump sum payment on the mortgage, a transfer to an off-shore trust, gambling debt, hush money or a bribe? It was probably on one of the missing statements. It would be good if we could find another bank account. I wrote more letters.

  Chapter Fourteen

  There was a new face at the office, a particularly friendly face. He approached me and introduced himself with a smile. Claude Eng, a law student was working as a part time clerk. He seemed older than the average law student, or maybe he was out in the sun a lot.

  He was tall, lean and conservatively dressed with a short, slightly sexy haircut. I immediately chided myself for my impure thoughts.

  “We have every data base there is at school, so if there is anything that you need I can find it for you. I also am looking for research work,” Claude said almost breathlessly.

  “Thanks.”

  What a change from the other people in the office.

  He appeared at the door of my office a few minutes later with two bottles of water. I didn’t mention that Paul complained when I drank the bottled water. His bottled water.

  “Annette said you did probate work. That’s the area I want to practice. And, I am also pretty good on the computer if you ever need help.”

  “Well thanks, but I office here and am not part of the firm.”

  “Mr. Cartofle mentioned that. It doesn’t matter, I’ll still help you. We’re going to get along better than a few of these stuffy lawyers.”

  His candor was nice.

  “I can run your clients through a background check, locate missing heirs or lost property.”

  Claude would probably take away my clerking time, but I didn’t mind. Maybe Paul would send me to court more, just as long as he didn’t want me to pay rent.

  The unclaimed or lost property division of the State of Illinois hadn’t occurred to me as a source of assets for estates. Signing onto the internet I did searches for my name, my Aunt’s, then each of my open files including the live clients, and the dead clients.

  Laslo King had an asset listed with a value of over a hundred dollars. This wasn’t very meaningful since there are only two categories and the other is under a hundred dollars.

  I prepared and sent the forms to the Aunt because they required a signature guarantee. While I was playing asset sleuth, I sent for a safe deposit box search. I didn’t know where he banked, and although one probate article said to call the banks near the decedent’s home, the judge lived near the loop, near every major bank in Chicago. And since I wasn’t aware of the bank he used, it was necessary.

  After I dropped the mail in the chute, Rosie called.

  “I wanted to let you know my Aunt is out of town for a few days.”

  “On vacation?”

  “No, I will ask her to call you as soon as she can.”

  “Okay.” I explained the safe deposit box search as well as the unclaimed property. She didn’t seem interested.

  “We’re coming in this weekend to go through the condominium. Who has the keys?”

  “Bob and I have keys.”

  We made plans to meet at the apartment on Saturday morning.

  After work and the apartment appointments I made it just in time for bar group meeting in the suburbs on Thursday evening. The speaker was talking about attorneys fees, my favorite topic, even in the context of divorce cases.

  The Glencoe Bar group was planning a wine tasting reception as a fundraiser. As usual for all volunteer groups, everyone loved the idea but not too many volunteered to work on the project. My excuse was that my office had moved downtown and I was working with the downtown bar groups a little more.

  Why a suburban group had a fund raiser downtown wasn’t mentioned.

  On Saturday morning I picked up flat folded boxes, packing tape, markers and scones from the bakery.

  To be polite, I knocked at the unit door, one of the twins (I wasn’t sure if it was Lilly or Rosie) opened it and it was clear the fight had begun. All of the probate articles mention the time wasted fighting over personal property.

  The clash was over a painting. The artist’s signature read: King. It was a water-color of the statue of liberty on construction paper. Not matted or framed, it looked like the work of a very talented second or third grader. The rubber band had disintegrated into lumps stuck to the back in a pattern of dots and dashes.

  “Why don’t I hold onto this for now? Do I smell coffee?” The chocolate scones distracted everyone’s attention from the dispute.

  There wasn’t much organization showing and I decided to take charge. Assigning each of them to a room with rotation afterwards, the kids were asked to round up personal things, items they were interested in and items for their Aunt. I asked for all financial documents in the kitchen. We finished in three hours. Okay, most of the time I was drinking coffee.

  There were three little piles of possessions. One box was earmarked for Sophie, with odds and ends and pictures of dead people the children didn’t recognize. The lone item in dispute remained the prized art.

  Bob started to lug the trash bags to the garbage chute and I offered to treat to a pizza. I ordered from a menu in a kitchen drawer. It was too early for delivery, I walked over to get it. Everything was listed as organic, which sounded interesting.

  The children ate the pizza and guzzled the soda like monkeys at the zoo might, if afforded the luxury. Since I was the only one talking to everyone else, I reminded them to chew. To my surprise, they obeyed. Marking the receipt as a business lunch I placed it safely in my wallet.

  Not one stinking financial paper surfaced at the condo. Bob even removed the bureau drawers looking for secret papers taped inside, without luck or maybe just for show. One of the twins climbed up on a chair to check the top closet shelves but returned empty handed.

  There was a whole box of lawyer stuff: key chains, scales of justice glasses, neckties, scales of justice clocks, awards, coffee mugs and two embroidered scales of justice pillows.

  “Who will take this box?” I asked with envy.

  “Help yourself, it’s all lawyer stuff,” Rosie (or Lilly) said.

  “I’d like to buy the coffee mugs.”

  “Really, we were going to toss the whole box, so go ahead.”

  The Abraham Lincoln picture (a Republican) would look regal in the office even though he wasn’t a good looking man. A set of mugs would be nice for the office and the glasses would be good for home. I could give some things as gifts to other lawyers as funny gifts, funny origin hidden gifts.

  Maybe one of the ties could be dry cleaned and I could give it to Timothy for Christmas, or Paul.

  “Did you find any financial stuff at his office? There has to be a box with current paperwork,” I asked. Actually I hoped the documents the aunt had would be disclosed but they were not.

  I was showered with three blank stares showing a clear family resemblance. When I left they were talking to one another again.

  The statue of liberty art was safely in the trunk of my car. When I went for the pizza I walked past the recycling containers in the garage and found a nice clean cardboard tube to store it in. It’s a good thing they weren’t fighting over a grand piano.

  All things considered, the day went well and no one stormed out threatening legal action.

  On Sunday morning, we met at the condo to interview two estate sale people and two realtors. The children picked the ones they liked as soon as they were out the door. Rosie and Lilly were anxi
ous to get to the airport and no one mentioned Aunt Sophie.

  Early Monday morning, I called the probate division and asked to talk to the late judge’s clerk.

  “Hello Attorney Gavelle, this is Margaret, you know, Gena transferred to Markham court after the judge died. Can I help you?”

  “I wanted to know who collected the personal things from his office.”

  A message came in later that afternoon, Judge Requin personally packed the office and delivered the boxes to his children. What the heck?

  The next day I was still trying to decide how to handle the office stuff when I received an overnight letter from the adorable delivery guy. It was from Judge Requin.

  “Who let you in?” I asked.

  “I had to come and ask you to run away with me lady.” He had brown curly hair, an engaging smile and a wedding band. While he was not in my age group, he certainly made me smile.

  After I signed for the envelope, he disappeared with my daydream. Inside the envelope the letter was affectionately addressed to “the file.” The letter contained the name, address and telephone number of a storage facility. In a smaller envelope I found a locker number, key and inventory that read: 1. Mementos; 2. Pictures; 3. Plaques.

  “Hi Fiona.”

  “Hi Claude.”

  “I have extra time to help you if you need anything.”

  Law students don’t have extra time, they don’t even have enough time to sleep. However I understood his ‘code,’ it meant ‘I hate school and need to do something where I feel like an adult.’

  “Is this place right around the corner from your school?” I showed him the address of the storage place.

  “Yes, Store it All is in the same building where I park.”

  We made an arrangement for him to check out what was in the boxes and for me to pay him for his time.

  “Wait,” I added, “I’ll give you my cell phone and a check and you can call me from the storage place.”

  Claude smiled and pulled out a really fancy cell phone, making my new phone look like a moderately priced part of Barbie’s dream house.