by Una Tiers
“No thank you dear, we did start a little late.” Her scolding was good-natured but firm.
When necessary, I am good at acting, so I removed a file folder from my briefcase and a legal pad and wrote the time and date on the top of a blank page.
Then the client started the interview.
“You know I want to update my will since a few dear friends have passed away, and I want to add my friend Mary Walsh to my will.”
We talked about contingencies in wills and I was surprised I could spew legal talk without notes or cue cards. Apparently I was turning into a real lawyer.
The client listened attentively, taking notes. I still didn’t know her name.
“Do you have your current will with you?” I asked lightly disguising my angst.
Her name was Martha Culbertson and did not ring any bells. No other name in the will was familiar. The document was twenty years old, so it couldn’t have been my work. This reduced a small degree of my guilt. None of the witnesses names or addressed matched the office personnel or anyone I knew.
“Mrs. Culbertson have you gotten married since your last will was drawn?”
She blushed, “Oh no, I’ve never been married.” She burst into giggles.
“Do you plan on getting married anytime soon?”
Her giggles escalated into a table slapping response.
I used her name a few extra times as penance for my forgetfulness. The lady had a strong resemblance to the nuns from catechism classes but without the threats of eternal damnation.
Before we finished, I double-checked her address, telephone number and the new names she added to her will. The price I quoted was low because of my guilt over forgetting her.
Where did she come from?
We set another appointment to sign the will and the lady gathered her belongings, handed me a check and left the office.
After walking her to the hallway door, I peeked into all of the offices. Paul’s office door was closed and I could hear talking inside.
I considered knocking but if it was a staff error, I didn’t want to spotlight it. In my office I checked my computer and paper calendars, telephone log, briefcase calendar and file database and came up empty handed. I even went through my coat pockets and the little pieces of paper that accumulate in my briefcase. I poked through the reception desk calendar (since no one was there to question me) but there weren’t any appointments for the day.
Maybe I need vitamins. Claude walked in later in the afternoon and I blurted out the story. He said he would come in early when Mrs. Culbertson returned so he could be a witness. The word co-conspirator was not used.
After clearing through my desk drawer, briefcase and coat pockets, I had a small pile of things that needed attention. Trying to get rid of all the wee pieces of paper, I noticed I hadn’t responded to the Wine Reception. I sent in a check for two tickets.
After preparing the will I proof read it and asked Claude to take a look. If I gave it to Paul or Annette they might take the client away from me.
He returned the document fifteen minutes later.
“It’s perfect. I’m heading for class and I’ll lock the hallway door.”
“Isn’t Paul here?”
“No, there’s a radio playing in his office.”
On the day we were supposed to sign Mrs. Culbertson’s will, I watched the clock and my wristwatch until I nearly hypnotized myself. I imagined Paul claiming the client and us tugging at her arms screaming ‘my client.’
“Do you have an appointment Fiona?” Annette asked me when I wandered into the reception area for the seventh time.
“I’m not sure.”
Annette had sheepishly asked for the names, phone numbers and dates that I had clients coming into the office. Her excuse was that they wanted to greet the clients by name. I suspected that Paul’s big nose was the real reason. I told her I would let her know but had no plan to disclose my clients or their contact information.
I guessed about the reasons Mrs. Culbertson was late. Maybe traffic was heavy, the subway fell off the tracks, or she forgot her appointment. Maybe she was dead.
Claude stuck his head in my door a few times. In response to his raised eyebrows, I issued shrugs. I called, but she didn’t answer her phone.
Two hours after her appointment, I gave up, zapped the tea in the microwave and offered to share the bakery cookies with Claude.
Oddly, he didn’t ask any questions when I said the client had to reschedule
Chapter Twenty-Four
In the morning, David called and invited me to a picnic. He said to dress warm and our destination was a surprise. It had to be outdoors and since we don’t have mountains in Chicago, I was guessing the picnic would be at the lake.
I was giggly. His invitation sounded like a date but dates usually happen after dark. Not wanting to get my hopes dashed I developed two daydreams.
For the date, there was a wicker basket, wine, cheese, a loaf of crusty bread and ants. After the first glass of wine, he would finally profess his undying love and devotion to me, and beg me to run away with him to New Mexico.
In the friends for lunch scenario, the ants carried the food away. David turned out to be the villain, completely outfitted with a long handlebar mustache and hair parted down the middle with a lot of mousse.
David admitted Judge King ruled against him in his grandmothers will contest two years ago and he murdered him to settle the score. This picnic would be on the rooftop of a skyscraper and after confessing his crime, he would try to push me off the roof. Of course, a super hero would save me and catch the bad guy just in the nick of time, since I am a happy ending daydreamer. Is that why reality is so hard for me to understand?
Another reason I was intrigued is that I am not a warm weather picnic fan. Winter picnics are right up my alley. Why do people want to eat mayonnaise outside in the summer anyway?
Cold weather picnics are the best. Meatloaf sandwiches eaten in the car with the heater on high is heaven to me. You don’t even need to chill canned soda.
When we got into his car, David said we were headed to Navy Pier, one of my favorite places. Right on the shores of Lake Michigan, it has a view of the city skyline and can’t be beat for a place to daydream or be romantic. It also has a fascinating history.
The pier was built in 1914, designed as a freight and passenger pier and initially called the Municipal Pier. Over the years, it housed parts of the U.S. military in WWI and in the 1920s had a hospital and a radio station.
It served as a training ground for pilots in WWII, when barges, connected end to end, far out in the lake were used as runways. To this day, there are rumored to be a few planes at the bottom of Lake Michigan from less than perfect drills. Several have been located and restored.
In 1927 it was renamed Navy Pier to honor Navy personnel from WWI. In 1946, the Chicago branch of the University of Illinois was housed there for the returning veterans.
With the increase of railroads and interstate highways, shipping dwindled and the pier saw increasing use for music, cultural and political events. It was the second site of the Taste of Chicago, an annual summer event where everyone eats as though it is a sport and the participants are all pigs.
In the late 1980s the pier was renovated to become a year round entertainment center. A fifteen-story Ferris wheel and a musical carousel were added along with various permanent exhibits, restaurants and stores.
Currently, it hosts the flower, boat and antique shows. The farthest end of the pier has a magnificent circular auditorium with a walkway/balcony around the edges.
There is a replica of a Shakespearean theatre and a pavilion for music concerts. During the summer there are dinner cruises that travel back and forth along the breakwater to show off the magnificent city skyline. There are also water taxis, large speedboats and tall ship rides, lasting about an hour.
Every few years the Tall Ships, replicas of the Christopher Columbus fleet (the Niña, Pinta and Santa Maria
), visit the pier. The contrast of the old wooden ships and their elaborate sails against the skyscrapers is something you must see to fully appreciate.
David grabbed a small paper bag from the backseat and opened the car door for me.
When he started to walk toward the pier, I reminded him about the picnic basket and blanket. He held up the little brown bag.
“We have sandwiches and can get coffee at the food court,” he explained.
It seemed like kind of a low budget picnic, or was this the prelude to more bad news?
We walked to the far end of the pier near the auditorium and found a dry bench.
The coffee resembled glue but the heat transferred through the commemorative paper cup, giving it some value.
Although I was dressed in layers, it was hard to stay warm sitting still. I tried to focus on the view because I simply liked being with David.
I love to watch all the different colors and moods that the lake wears. Sometimes it’s sky blue and other times, army green. It can glisten like a firework or display a dull split pea consistency.
The snapping of the flags and splashing of the water were the only sounds until the shorebirds discovered we had food.
There weren’t many people around except for the occasional worker driving an electric cart or a hearty jogger. It felt oddly intimate. I watched him with a sideward glance as he stared out at the water, wondering what he was thinking about. We exchanged smiles. Police (and nuns) usually make me crazy nervous more than anything else. Around David I felt safe, but still nervous.
The lake churned and splashed against the pier, challenging us to remain. Occasionally a high spray of water moved up in slow motion, paused, and then settled down with the same grace and determination.
I’ve been a fan of the pier for a long time. When it was a shipping port it had two long sheds running the length of the pier for cargo storage. Things like small foreign cars were lifted from the cargo holds by cranes. Forklifts zipped around moving the cargo from the pier into the sheds.
There used to be a long second story walkway providing a magnificent view of the city skyline, facing south and west. You could see the fires at the top of the steel mills in Gary, Indiana, belching out pollution. It was another opportunity to watch the brilliance of Lake Michigan from a different angle. The walkway had signs with mileage and arrows to exotic places like Dublin, Moscow and Warsaw.
I wondered about the unspoken memories the lake held. What missed treasurers were dropped and claimed by the lake? Just south of the pier are the locks that have something to do with reversing the flow of the Chicago River.
In between the locks and the pier, there used to be a takeout fish place where everything was deep-fried, except for the boiled shrimp and raw oysters. In the true carry out fashion, there were no tables inside. They had a lone picnic table outside but most people ate in their cars with the windows rolled down in warmer weather, and the heater cranked up in the winter. It was noisy during the day because the shore birds demanded samples. The ducks in the water also accepted donations but were far more casual in their helpfulness to clean your plate.
Until recently, I never realized that although the restaurant was on the edge of Lake Michigan, the fish were from other waters.
Everything was a memory now that the pier was exclusively dedicated to entertainment, dining and of course souvenir shopping. It raises a tremendous amount of revenue for the city with millions of visitors each year.
The restaurants range from the fast food type to places with tablecloths and waiting lines. There is a fudge shop, popcorn store and ice cream place. There are beer gardens filled with sitters, sippers and sprawlers on any given summer evening.
Souvenir shops are strategically placed every hundred feet in case you forget to bring your Chicago tee-shirt, pen or keychain. Even though I’m a native, I love to look at the Chicago stuff, especially the snow globes.
A few shore birds stalked us and squawked menacingly until they got the last of the bread. Not surprisingly, they deserted us as soon as the sandwiches were gone.
David seemed to be sitting closer or maybe it was my imagination? The coffee, now ice cold, but still muddy, sat discretely under the bench.
The temperature continued to drop as the clouds increased and daylight faded. I was quite content to sit there as long as possible, hoping for something romantic to happen, like handholding or at least shoulder bumping.
When I pulled my sweatshirt cuffs over my hands, David suggested that we go inside to warm up. Although I didn’t want to move to the end stages of the date, my nose was starting to run. Not all men find this attractive.
Walking closely together we looked at the stained glass window exhibit. The lights were dim to set off the colors of the glass and it was quiet except for the howling wind and echoes of the birds. We bumped shoulders companionably. I had seen the display at least a dozen times and he probably had too.
It was a pretty nice time and in the end whether or not it was a date didn’t matter. When it ended I ached for more time with him until I fell asleep. Alone.
Bright and early the next morning, my inner romantic waltzed into the office on the memory of the picnic. There was already a message from Lou Che asking if I represented the guy who murdered Judge King. The message came in at 7 AM, probably to suggest he was working real hard at the office and not at home in his pajamas. I made a mental note to call his office from my cell phone at 6 AM the very next day that I was up that early.
It was a week before I realized David’s picnic coincided with the news report that Judge Laslo King was murdered.
My first project of the day was to find someone to go with me to the wine party for the Glencoe Bar Group since I had two tickets.
Annette said that she had a book group that night and saw enough lawyers during the work day.
Mildred Shoe begged off by insisting that she was not a member of the suburban group (although that didn’t matter).
Sally Tax had a message on her machine saying that she would be out at a deposition all day.
Timothy Venal said that he didn’t want to be downtown that late.
Then, shortly after noon, I wandered over to the law library and asked Steve who was available and happy to be asked. He was also relieved to be my guest.
The reception was nondescript with about fifty attendees. There were only six tables featuring different wines. We came in ten minutes after it started and missed the ‘appetizers.’ My guess was they were no more than a box or two of crackers.
The champagne table was the least crowded and is where Steve and I headed and wandered back to as soon as our glasses were empty. They gave such miniscule samples that we really had to be brazen to get a buzz. A few of us started to practice toasts when the server snarled at us that the table was closing.
Steve was filling out a form to buy a case of wine (we agreed to split) when we noticed it was the price per bottle, not for a case. It was a mistake anyone could have made, really. I made sure that the organizers saw me before we left.
I was hungry and wanted to pick something up on the way home but since it was after 8 PM the daytime food places were closed. Those that were still open were not carryout types. I assume that they felt that their food was far too elegant to put in Styrofoam containers. They were missing the opportunity to use some catchy phrases like, “Escargot-To-Go.”
There wasn’t much food at home, since my aunt and I are one meal shoppers who eat out a lot. Maybe she is avoiding me as much as I am avoiding her. I settled for soup and toast. Living alone wasn’t sounding as attractive to me anymore.
That night, I dreamt that I was horseback riding with a blue eyed movie star and a herd of wild ponies. When I woke up, I wondered why David wasn’t in the dream with me. Was my inner dreamer sending me a message?
David appeared at my office at lunchtime with a pizza at noon the next day.
Like our Navy Pier picnic, it was comforting that we were content just eati
ng lunch together, with an occasional exchanged smile and meaningless comments that didn’t amount to a hill of beans.
After reviewing some of the news for the day we sat quietly. Was this what was called companionable silence? I liked that he stopped by, with food, without calling first. That was something a boyfriend did.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Although I waited patiently for David the next two lunchtimes, he didn’t show up. Claude stuck his head in the door and offered me half of his submarine sandwich the second day.
“How’s school?” I asked.
“About the same, way too much to read and understand in short time periods.” He laughed easily and sat down.
We discussed his classes and his interest in probate. He asked about the JIB.
The Judicial Inquiry Board polices complaints against judges. They are not active if you compare them to the attorney discipline group. That is not to say that there aren’t errors made daily by the judges but lawyers and litigants are understandably reluctant to call them on their errors. To put it in perspective, there are about 400 judges in the county and 35,000 lawyers. It has to take a lot of courage to challenge a lawyer, and even more to challenge a judge. Still I think it would be good if more people stood up to the judges, although it wasn’t on my list of things to do.
When I explained lawyers not filing complaints against judges he was surprised. “Isn’t that what being a lawyer is about?”
“I think Don Quixote went out of business when the windmills were shut down. Look at it this way, Claude, the judges are a powerful bunch and stick together. Even if your complaint was legitimate, could you continue to practice in the county after you made it?”
“The whole county?”
“They stick together.”
“A point I hadn’t considered,” Claude said.
“Would you report misconduct?” he asked.
After thinking about it for a second, I answered. “Probably not.” Did this make me sound like a coward? “Even though I hear horror stories about things that happen in court, I want to make a living at this law stuff.” Quietly and to myself I wondered about my own convictions.
