by Nina Howard
The coat fit, barely. That’s if she never planned on buttoning it. Its clean lines hid a multitude of sins along her waistline, and covered a good portion of her mother’s clothing. Now she understood what the term Muffin Top meant. It was beginning to look a bit more like Popover Top. Thankfully, with the help of the shoes and the coat, she felt halfway human again.
She looked at the clock. Dammit - it was already 10:35. The train was due into the station at 10:50, and there was no way she was going to be able to walk uptown in those shoes in fifteen minutes. She grabbed her beloved Birkin bag and walked out to the garage.
No cars, though along the far wall was her mother’s old red Schwinn Breeze. It had a wicker basket on the front, and an extra-large red and white logo seat. There was a fair amount of rust on the frame, it almost had the vintage vibe for which New York hipsters were paying top dollar. The last time she rode a bike was with Trip on their Tour de France trip through France. They’d log 30 miles a day cycling along the Dordogne and at night would gorge themselves on rich French food, vintage wines and sleep in the most resplendent chateaux. There was always a van with water, medical supplies or just a ride if you needed one. The bicycles were state-of-the-art, and custom-fitted. She grabbed the old bike and hoisted her giant Birkin bag into the too-small basket and set off for the train. The heels of her Louboutins hung over the pedals, scraping the ground with every rotation. She swore like a sailor the entire way to the train.
###
When Mike first saw the flash ride out of the alley, he assumed that it was some local on their way to town. Something about the posture of the rider had him think twice.
He drove off to follow the bicyclist, and sure enough, there she was, riding along with a black coat flapping behind her like the Wicked Witch of the West. She even had a little basket on the front of her bike. Instead of a dog, it held her very expensive purse.
He followed her to the train station and watched her put the bike in the rack, not bothering to lock it. Who would steal such a piece of shit in this town? He let her go down the stairs to the train platform, and took a minute to look her over.
She had pulled herself together nicely. He had only seen her in sweatpants the last few times they had met. He appreciated the “downtown” V. Vernon, though there was an approachability to her in sweatpants that she most certainly did not display today on the train platform. He could see that she had gained weight since they first met in New York. She was ridiculously skinny then. He never could understand why women wanted to look like a preying mantis: stick bodies and big heads. He liked his women to look like women - soft, curvy and yielding. She was definitely softer and curvier, but she didn’t look any more yielding than the day they met.
The train came and he was able to hop on at the last minute. He watched her look for a seat in the next car. She rejected any seat that had someone sitting next to her. She finally found a pair of empty seats, then passed them by too. Could have been the large sweaty man sleeping in the seat behind her? She eventually went up to the second level of the train, found a single seat, meticulously wiped it down with a tissue she extracted from her giant purse and sat down.
Mike opened the door to her car and walked through. He had spent so many summers going down to his father’s law offices on a train just like this, except for back then they were filled with smoke and men with hats and martinis. Now they were filled with sailors from the Naval Station up north and teenagers with music blasting from their earphones.
He passed the sweaty sleeping man Victoria had rejected and he had to admit that she had a point. Wow - that smell was enough to clear your nasal passages! He climbed the stairs to the second level opposite Victoria and chose a spot directly across from her. He opened a paper and waited for her to notice him.
It took her a few stops, then he heard her quick intake of breath and gasp. Bingo! He could be invisible when he needed to be, today was so much more fun being under her nose. He looked over his paper at her and smiled.
“Good morning, V. Vernon!” he cheerfully called.
“Really? I can’t even ride the train in peace?” she asked.
“No, no. Pretend I’m not here,” he said as he went back to his paper.
“Like that’s easy to do,” she said. She didn’t have a paper or a book, so she just looked out the window.
He held out a section of his paper. “Sports?” he offered.
She gave him a frigid smile and a hot glare. She turned back to the window. They rode in silence for another stop.
“Let me ask you something,” she said, turning to him. “Why aren’t you looking for Trip?”
“We are,” he answered and went back to his paper.
“You haven’t heard anything,” she asked.
“Nope,” he kept reading.
“Then you’re not very good,” she said, turning her attention back out the window.
“I’m very good. My job was to find you,” he said.
“You’re a regular bloodhound. Are you sure they can spare you?” she asked.
“There’s no place I’d rather be,” he gave her his best smile.
“Well, you’re alone on that one. I’d rather be anywhere but here,” she said.
“You could always go downstairs and sit with your friend down there,” Mike looked down at the sleeping lump on the first floor.
Victoria laughed. Mike sensed a small victory, making her laugh.
“Okay, you win,” she said. She reached her hand out across to his side of the train. “I’ll take that sports section.”
He ignored her and handed her the “Living” section instead. “The comics are on the last page.”
“No doubt you’ve read them all.”
“The best part of the paper. After the jumble, of course.”
“You are an intellectual powerhouse,” she laughed.
“It’s gotten me this far” he said and buried his nose back into the paper.
###
When they got off the train, Mike fell into step with Victoria and she didn’t do much to deter him.
“Where are we going today?” he asked with false excitement.
“Oh, I’d rather surprise you.”
“The museum? I love the Impressionists.”
“Maybe another day, Mr. Towner.”
“Call me Mike. All my friends do.”
“Mr. Towner,” she insisted, “why don’t you take a guess. Let’s see what kind of detective you really are.”
“Special Agent. Please! Okay, let me guess. You’re all dressed up, headed downtown, stern look on your face. Hot date? Maybe the guy likes the serious schoolteacher thing. I can appreciate that.” She scowled at him. “No. Hmmm. Off to meet the hubby? If so, good thing I’m here.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “One last guess. We’re going to see your lawyer,” he had a hard time keeping up with her long strides. She was walking like a woman on a mission.
“We’re not going to see anyone,” she replied. She kept walking as fast as she could. She could hear him working hard to keep up with her. Of course today was as hot as a day in August, and she was broiling in the black coat, though her vanity wouldn’t allow her to take it off. She’d rather die of heatstroke.
As they approached her intended address, Victoria stopped, confused. She knew she was going to get free legal aid, she assumed that they would be in law offices just like real lawyers. The building they stood in front of looked like it used to house a Walgreens, and had yet to get a new tenant. She double checked the paper on which she had written the address from the phone book. Maybe they had moved.
“Are we lost yet?” Mike asked.
“I thought we were going to 1173 West Jackson. I must have been wrong,” she said, still staring at the paper in her hands.
Mike picked the paper out of her hands. “Legal Aid? Well, I was right about the lawyers, then, wasn’t I?” he crowed. “This looks about right.” He started for the door.
“This doesn’t lo
ok like a law office at all,” she said, not following him. “It looks like a homeless shelter!”
“Not far from it,” Mike said as he walked in the door.
Victoria stood on the sidewalk because she didn’t want to give Mike the satisfaction of following him. She stood there for a good minute, and then realized she didn’t have much choice. She tentatively pushed the milky glass door open. Inside, the place was buzzing. The fluorescent lights hung low over about 30 desks, each topped with either an ancient computer screen or vintage typewriter. Only about ten of the desks were staffed, each with a vagrant sitting in the chair beside each desk. There was a waiting area with a large television mounted on the ceiling, with “Maury” blaring across the room. None of the dozen or so people waiting were watching. Mike had already grabbed a chair.
Victoria approached the receptionist without her usual authority. The African-American woman behind the desk wore a colorful headdress and a navy suit.
“Good morning!” she greeted Victoria with a broad smile.
“Good morning,” Victoria replied, without a smile.
“What can we do for you today?” the receptionist asked.
“I, uh, need an attorney?” Victoria’s reticence even surprised herself.
The receptionist gathered a pile of papers and mounted them on a clipboard. She handed them to Victoria with a pen. “Fill these out, and grab a number,” she said, indicating the bakery-style plastic numbers hanging beside her.
Victoria sat next to Mike, appreciating his presence for the first time.
“Need some help?” Mike offered.
“You’re probably enjoying this,” she said.
“Not at all,” he said, laughing. “Pretend I’m not here.”
“Trust me, I’m trying,” she said.
She walked through the paperwork, unsure of half of the answers. Her situation was so extraordinary, there really was no pre-printed form that applied. She sat with the half-completed forms on her lap, waiting for her turn. She looked around at her fellow clients. There was a woman with two small children, who she kept surprisingly well-engaged with books and crayons. An obese woman sat in one corner, with a walker. An older man sat with who must have been his middle-aged son. They sat and talked and laughed. You would have thought they were at party rather than waiting for free legal advice. A man in his mid-50s, in a dated suit, with a battered briefcase sat working on a crossword puzzle.
She was surprised. She assumed that the ranks of people needing free legal services would be drug dealers and ax murders. These people looked, well, normal. Or as normal as you can be in a vacated Walgreens.
Victoria was not good at waiting. She tried to watch Maury, and although she had a newfound love of daytime television, watching Maury was like watching wrestling. She knew that she was supposed to be in on the joke, and that the freaks that ended up on the show were fake. Or at least she hoped they were fake. She got up and walked around, trying to see what everyone else’s numbers were. She counted out how many people were ahead of her, and tried to eavesdrop on each new person that was brought back to a desk, to see if they would be finished quickly. She was not used to waiting. For restaurants, for doctors, for anyone.
“Come on, sit down,”Mike barked across the waiting room.
“We’ve been here over an hour!”
“It’ll take as long as it takes. Might as well be comfortable.”
“That old man took fifteen minutes just to walk back to the desk.”
“He had a cane and a broken leg!”
“I could have been finished by the time he got back.”
Mike patted the chair beside him. “Sit down. I’ll give you a couple of tips on waiting. I’m a professional, you know.”
“I don’t know how you do it. If I had to sit around and wait for me to do something every day I think I’d shoot myself.”
“I’m a patient man. I know when something good is worth waiting for.”
Victoria blushed. She knew he wasn’t talking about her - well he was, though not in that way. She blushed anyway.
“Getting the bad guy is always worth it,” he clarified. He noticed her blush as well. It suited her. “Sometimes justice is slow, but it’s always worth the wait.”
“Number 43,” called the receptionist. Victoria held up her plastic number like she had just won the lottery.
“That’s me!” she jumped up out of her chair. Mike stood next to her. “I’m good from here on, thanks.”
###
Victoria sat down at Mercedes Flanagan’s desk. Mercedes was a tiny Hispanic woman with large brown eyes and short curly hair. Freckles were sprinkled across her nose, and Victoria wondered for a minute if the Flanagan was her maiden name. She had photos on her desk of two little boys, and a candle with some sort of saint on it. The desk was covered with piles of paperwork and files that spilled over to the floor. Mercedes Flanagan didn’t even get up to shake Victoria’s outstretched hand. She just adjusted her glasses, magically grabbed the correct file from a heap on the floor and looked up at Victoria expectantly.
“Okay, Mrs.--” Mercedes looked over Victoria’s paperwork. “Vernon.” She flipped through the mostly-blank pages and looked up at Victoria. “Why don’t you fill me in?”
Mercedes could tell in an instant that this wasn’t your typical client here at the Illinois Center for Legal Aid. She caught the red of the Louboutins - even if she could never afford them, anyone who watches Oprah recognizes the telltale red sole. Even without the shoes, Mercedes could tell. There was something about the way this woman carried herself that told her she was going to be a giant pain in the ass.
“Well, my husband allegedly has been involved in some creative bookkeeping at his hedge fund back in New York.”
Victoria stopped. Oh, Jesus, Mercedes thought. This is going to take all day.
“And...” she offered.
“And, the FBI has frozen all of my assets.” Mercedes figured that this lady had a lot of assets to freeze. “... and seized everything I own. They came into my apartment with some bogus paperwork and took almost everything.”
Mercedes rifled through the file and found the paperwork authorizing the seizure. Everything looked to be in order. “This happened in New York,” she said, putting down the file.
“Yes.” Victoria sat up straight and put her hands in her lap. She was a woman wronged, and wanted to give a good impression.
“We’re in Illinois.”
“Right, well, they took everything I had, and I really didn’t have anyplace else to go.”
“So you came to Illinois?”
“My mother lives here,” she explained. She was reluctant to offer that her mother lived in Tenaqua. It was a known fact that any time someone found out you lived in Tenaqua they added 20% to their bills. Not that Victoria was getting a bill here.
“I haven’t done anything! I shouldn’t be the one they punish,” Victoria was on the verge of tears, although Mercedes suspected they were manufactured for her benefit.
“Where does your husband figure into all of this?” Mercedes asked.
“Lord knows. I can’t find him. Neither can the FBI.” Victoria nodded her head toward Mike, who was engrossed in a complementary “Chicago Parents” magazine. “The FBI even has someone tailing me 24/7.”
“At least you got a cute one,” Mercedes said as she gave Mike an appreciative once over.
Victoria was indignant that this attorney (at least she assumed she was an attorney) wasn’t horrified that her privacy was being infringed. She thought Mike was cute? Most importantly, wasn’t this about her?
“Lucky me,” Victoria said. “Uh, about my case? Is there anything you can do?”
“I’m going to need quite a bit more information Vicky. Do you have any paperwork from the FBI?” Mercedes asked.
Victoria fished out an envelope from her bag and handed it to Mercedes. “Oh, it’s Victoria,” she corrected.
Mercedes ignored her as she reviewed the pape
rwork. Everything seemed to be in order. The FBI agent had done an excellent job, although she had only a couple other run-ins with the Feds with which to compare. She got out a legal pad and got to business, starting list upon list.
Victoria tried to look over her shoulder to see what she was writing, yet couldn’t decipher the chicken scratch on the yellow pad. She sat petulantly and waited until Mercedes finished. Her fate was in this little woman’s hands. Her hands that probably had never seen a manicure. If they had, it was probably some crazy $30 for a mani/pedi place where they don’t sterilize the instruments and had walls of polish that were almost empty.
“Okay, do you have a pen and paper?” Mercedes asked and startled Victoria out of her thoughts.
Mercedes’ phone started ringing. She ignored it. Victoria assumed it would stop after five rings or so, but it kept on going. And going. She was almost going to lean across the desk and pick it up herself, then it finally stopped. Mercedes didn’t even flinch.
Victoria fished a leather journal out of her bag. Mercedes also knew enough to know an authentic Birkin bag when she saw one. In her neighborhood they all came from China. She could tell from across the desk how beautiful the leather looked. She kicked her purse that she had just bought at Target - she thought it was adorable only yesterday, although today, it just looked like a bag from Target.
“Okay, shoot,” Victoria was ready to be a part of the plan. She loved that Mercedes had a plan.
“Here’s what I need from you. All bank statements; investment accounts; a list of all real property, both domestic and international; any vehicles; life insurance and annuities; a list of insured jewelry; any trusts, either in your name, your husband’s or your children's’; any outstanding debts, including mortgages, car loans, margin trading.”
