Una Tiers
Judge vs. Nuts
Judge vs. Nuts
An Echelon Press Book
First Echelon Press Publication March 2012
All rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2012 by Una Tiers
Cover Art © Karen L. Syed
Echelon Press
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ISBN 978-1-59080-490-2
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This book is dedicated to every friend and client, past and present, especially those who wear two hats. It is also devoted to following your dreams.
Prologue
With a heavy heart Laslo King waited for the elevator filled with regrets. An hour later he was dead.
Chapter One
January 2000
My name is Fiona Gavelle; I'm an attorney in Chicago, Illinois. I passed the Illinois bar about a year ago and am working to build my own practice. It's much harder than I ever expected. On the advice of a friend, I started to attend bar group activities to network. Bar groups are lawyer clubs. There are at least thirty-five of them in the area, organized around geography, ethnicity, religion, area of practice and gender. I'm certain many groups were formed after an argument. While some lawyers belong to five or more groups, I belong to two. One is a complimentary membership since I am newly licensed. The groups offer their members different amenities from research tools to magazine subscriptions. Almost every group has what's called Judge's Night. It is a reception where the judges are honored, meaning they get in free. The lawyers pay for tickets in exchange for being able to rub elbows with real judges. Rumor has it at some of these receptions the judges outnumber the lawyers.
On a snowy Friday in late January, I attended my first Judge's Night reception at the Water Law Club.
The reception started at 5:30. I arrived early and was mistaken for one of the wait staff. I made a note to show up fashionably late for the next reception. After a seven-dollar gin and tonic, one judge nodded an acknowledgement in my direction. I didn't know his name until later in the reception. This nod has haunted me for a long time.
My plan for the reception was to work the room and introduce myself to everyone. However, when I saw the judges clustered together I was afraid to invade their sanctuary. Instead, I introduced myself to lawyers standing alone, in two's or three's with cheaper suits. Most of them wandered off when they learned I am a solo practitioner just starting out.
Dinner consisted of a modest buffet. With my plate shamelessly stacked high, I joined a table of lawyers who had similar huge portions. The focus at this table wasn't networking, but food. Heads were bowed, shoveling the food in until Mildred Shoe and Charlie Boock sat down. Mildred and I went to law school together and Charlie is her friend. I can't tell if they are dating or just friends. Charlie started the conversation with a war story, which ignited a series of other stories from the table. I feigned interest while eyeing the dessert table.
War stories are only appreciated by the teller as some symbol of their legal prowess. Each retelling brings increasing glee. Being new, I still didn't have a war story to tell. Listeners wear a modestly interested smile while making the 'to do' list for the next day in the working part of their brain. The more I think about it, this book is my first war story.
During dessert, the judge who nodded at me, Judge Laslo King received some kind of award. Several people stood up and clapped. The applause didn't end until everyone stopped eating and stood up. Before everyone sat down I helped myself to a few chocolate covered strawberries and a slice of lethal cheesecake. The judge thanked everyone, warned us about the snowstorm, and adjourned the meeting.
When I was waiting in line for my coat I finally saw another familiar face, the third of the whole evening, my famous client, Adam Curie.
"Can you give me a lift home, Fiona?"
"Sure. I didn't see you earlier."
"I skipped the cocktail hour; I take eleven prescriptions, you know."
Adam Curie is at least eighty years old and has been a judge in the probate department for about fifty of them. He is very politically connected, has a great sense of humor, and is as wrinkled as any elephant I've ever observed. His charm is so far reaching even his rather filthy remarks are somehow acceptable. We have what I describe as a driving relationship. I drove him home from a meeting a month ago since we were headed in the same general direction. We liked each other instantly and after I described my practice, he hired me to write a codicil for him. I think of this as good fortune and not simply a driver meeting a passenger.
The snow was getting heavier as we pulled onto Lake Shore Drive, howling and blowing in swirls instead of snowing from the heavens to the ground.
Judge Curie cautioned me, "Take your time, especially on the bridge." Bridges have the quirk of getting slippery before the rest of the roads do because the cold goes through the pavement from the top and bottom. Despite the storm, the drive wasn't too putrid. Rush hour was well over and most motorists were smart enough to stay home.
"I'll get you home alive."
"I need to finish my codicil. I wondered what happened to you."
It was my first codicil and I was working on it for almost three weeks. In preparation, I took a class on wills, researched appellate cases, and read several estate planning books.
"It's ready, when do you want to sign it?"
"Where do you work now?"
"The same place." Was my one famous client, losing it?
Conversation paused while I allowed a car going too fast to merge in front of me from the Grand Avenue ramp. The judge grabbed the overhead strap, leaned his head back, and braced his feet, like a cartoon. When the other car fishtailed across three lanes I cut my speed.
Lake Shore Drive is a small, four-lane highway and it is very elegant. It runs parallel to the shores of Lake Michigan from 3500 south to 5000 north, more than ten miles. The scenery is phenomenal year round; the absence of trucks makes it feel civilized and a little safer. The only regular road feature that it lacks is a real shoulder. So, if you have car trouble, pulling over is pretty hazardous. Unlike most of the expressways in Chicago, it has only one connection to another expressway about in the middle of its length. Unlike most expressways, the speed limit is forty-five miles an hour. They reduce the posted speed limit in the winter because drivers aren't smart enough to do it because of road conditions. Rumor has it the lower speed limit is really to keep the salt from splashing on the foliage in the dividers.
The drive starts in a residential high-rise laden area on the north end and finishes in a museum campus on the south end.
"I called you this afternoon and Holadollar told me you didn't work there anymore."
Completely embarrassed, I tried to look calm and in control. "He's hard of hearing and your codicil is ready to go, we can sign it whenever you're ready." Considering how new I am to the business, I thought this was a pretty good save.
Was this why I only have six clients? Was the old skinflint telling clients I didn't work there, or worse, stealing from me?
"Good," he responded with the confidence I didn't have.
I dropped the judge off at his luxury senior residence, still seething over Holadollar's treachery.
My lawyer job is not very glamorous. I work in a sleepy, dusty office on the north side of Chicago with another lawyer. To say the least, it sets a new low in terms of prestige. However, after graduating with a solid C minus grade average and passing the Illinois bar examination, I didn't have a lot of choices. I misunderstood the lawyer job process and assumed the law school placement office would work with me to line up a nice job. After all, I had a law degree and a license to practice. I didn't realize the competition for good lawyer jobs was at least as cut throat as the competition for grades in law school. Way too late I learned some law students start interviewing in the first year of the three-year program. In fact, some of them are hired before they even graduate. In contrast, the students I studied with were only concerned about graduating. A few of them didn't mention they had lawyer relatives waiting to take them in and others were brave enough to hang out a shingle right out of the gate. Then, there were the rest of us who were less competitive and apparently didn't plan too much. It's the learning curve thing everyone talks about.
After the bar exam I managed a few dismal intervals with small firms where I was compelled to lie and say how much I wanted to help clients through divorce or bankruptcy woes. My insincerity was so blatant I wouldn't have hired myself. With my moderate levels of ambition, I needed something a little different from the run of the mill job. I almost interviewed for an agency that served low-income people, but the salary was less than a competent part time minimum wage worker, so I continued my search.
Eventually I found an ad that sounded like a deal made just for me: Senior practitioner close to retirement seeks young associate, modest billable hours in exchange for rent and office overhead. Probate and estate planning. Occasional court appearances. Training included.
Along with my other misunderstandings about professional school, I hadn't given much thought to what kind of law I would practice. While not uncommon, some of my more tuned in classmates knew exactly what they would grow up to be. Corporate law sounded sexy to almost everyone in school. No one mentioned its lucrative nature. There was a bedraggled group that wanted to serve the legal needs of the poor and another group that wanted to work to put those same people in jail.
Wills sounded like law for old lawyers, but with fewer choices it became more appealing. It certainly looked better than being unemployed. Wills resemble contracts, the only area of the law that made sense to me from the beginning although I have never seen a widget. Finally planning ahead, my reasoning was an older lawyer would be near retirement and would need some bright young associate to take over his practice someday soon. After a short interview and a reference letter from the only law school professor who knew my name, I bought two suits, a nice raincoat and was all set to make my mark on the world. It was a long time before I realized I was the lone applicant.
The attorney, Bob Holadollar, was close to seventy and seemed congenial because we didn't talk about money. He said I could bring my bar group journals in to share and cleared a shelf for any books I might buy. He encouraged me to start a nice library. He would help me understand them. Right. He said at his age, he had little need for bar group memberships. He was moderately well dressed about ten years earlier. Although the office was a little run down, I assumed his primary goal was quality legal work. The furniture had chips and dust, the rug was threadbare at the entrance and where the feet rest under the desks.
Bob Holadollar and I got along well for about two weeks and from there things deteriorated. When I started the 'office sharing arrangement' he said his secretary left to have a baby. The dust on the desk didn't tell secrets for at least a week. She probably died from boredom, old age or a little of both. I assumed he would hire another one, and I was wrong. It took me those first two weeks to notice the time I owed in exchange for the space was spent typing, making copies, and answering phones instead of being engaged in the lawyer end of the work. Carrying a huge chip on my shoulder, I shouldered on because I realized my options for gainful employment were slim. After poking around the office when he was out, I learned his secretary was gone since 1985 and may have been his ex-wife.
At the six-month mark, despite the distribution of my first box of one hundred business cards, I had only six clients of my own. Three of them are relatives, but they are paying me so I can call them clients. I don't know how much rent he pays and would guess the checkbook is in the one drawer that locks. Fear restrains me from asking a lot of questions.
Another downside of the office sharing agreement was half of any fee I generated belonged to the miser. He told me this was standard, but didn't mention it until I wrote a will for a neighbor. He insisted on negotiating the checks through his account. At the end of six months, my income covered the cost of my bus pass and little else. Each week I had to withdraw money from my dwindling bank account. Where was the big money lawyers were supposed to make?
My most prominent client was Judge Curie. If other people knew this I believed they would flock to my door and beg me to represent them. Unfortunately, I could not brag about this because of the confidentiality rules. You see, we are not allowed to disclose the identity of our clients.
His case was small, but nearly commensurate with my knowledge of estate planning. He wanted a codicil, an amendment to his will. They seem simple but while trying to draft it, I recognized my two natural legal abilities. I can unwittingly write loopholes and see them on my first proof read. Each time I thought I had finished drafting, I found another interpretation. So, I continued to draft, redraft, and redraft.
Honing words is a nice way to make a living even though it takes me an inordinate amount of time. Of course, I could have copied something from a formbook, but it wasn't good enough for my client.
In the weeks it took to get ready to draft this work of art, I copied my weight in materials at the library. After all of my work, doing the whole document from scratch seemed like a better idea than a codicil. However, I assumed the judge knew what he needed more than I did.
I finally typed the codicil out, on the office IBM Correcting Selectric II. The office didn't have a computer because Bob didn't think computers would catch on.
Every time I used the typewriter, he hovered. Reading over my shoulder he criticized almost everything including punctuation. Then, he took a pen and wrote comments and drew violent lines over my nice clean copy and suggested I buy my own bond paper and stop wasting so much of his.
For three days, I came in early and continued to revise the document, typing it over each time and taking drafts home in my purse. Occasionally, I left back issues of Computer World magazine on my desk at night where he could see them. He asked what computers I had at home to bring to the office. I lied and told him I didn't have one.
The finished product (the codicil) was a magnificent specimen nominating new executors since the ones in the original document were dead. It took me weeks to realize this was the most amount of law I had absorbed without any other person's input. My Aunt Tess always says you can only rely on you.
Another problem with the office arrangement was I wasn't allowed to meet with clients alone. We initially agreed I would meet with my clients when he was not in the office because there was one reception area, one storage area and one real lawyer area. The suggested times for my clients included early morning, lunch hour, late afternoon, and weekends. However, when I made client appointments at those times, he magically had a change in plans and was in the office almost simultaneously with the arrival of my client. After ushering my client into his office, he hijacked the interview and asked me to take notes. Maybe it was a flaw in my reasoning, but this seemed like secretarial work. Eventually, I learned to schedule my clients in secrecy and made a few decoy appointments out of sheer spite. Oddly, those imaginary clients canceled minutes before Bob rushed into the office. I met with relatives in their living rooms and took cash for my work. With six months of experience, I examined the want ads again and learned I needed two years of experience for any other entry-level job. I knew I would not last another eighteen months without being charged with some kind of felony.
The storm increased after I dropped the judge off and while I slowed down again, my temper increased to match the storm's howling wind. Once home, I was between tears and wishing I had a gun. Although it was only 9:00 p.m., our whole apartment was dark. Jack and I have slightly different schedules which is good because it gives us each a little privacy. When you are not getting along it is very important. I do think he could leave lights on when I am out after dark to at least feign concern or consideration
However, I really needed to talk. "What do you think the jerk is up to?" I asked my sleeping husband, flipping on lights in every room.
"I have work in the morning," he grumbled. Jack wasn't exactly supportive, even in consciousness. This behavior didn't raise its ugly head until I started to look for work after graduation. Where was our partnership as husband and wife?
"Well, how can I protect myself?"
"You're paranoid. Why would he want your miserable clients? If you had better grades you would be able to get a normal job. What kind of lawyer avoids taxes?"
This was our perpetual argument, his opinion was I wasn't well schooled enough to be a lawyer and I should get some part time work and transform myself into June Cleaver by dinnertime.
I don't know where the tide turned in our relationship. We never argued before I graduated. Maybe I was a little in awe of him because he was finishing law school when I was starting. He loaned me books and talked about a two lawyer household. We married at the end of my second year of school. He had a job with a medium sized law firm and a really great salary. It took me a long time to realize his heart wasn't in his work, spelling disaster for everyone around him.
After three years together we've reached a dismal existence. Instead of a partnership we have a dictatorship because he brings in the good paycheck and for that reason believes his is the only opinion. If I spend money, even on kitchen things, he throws a fit.
Jack has great aspirations for me, I will work hard all day or part of the day as an attorney and then catapult myself home in time to cook dinner and clean the house. When "the children" come, I will stop working. He is ready for children, but I am not. He also assumes I will learn to cook. Really, I have spent more time learning to make mixed drinks than meatloaf because I am unhappy.
Although my recently developed career plans are vague, I picture a neighborhood practice a little like Perry Mason, but without the television program. Maybe the children could be raised by a nanny. Or, we could adopt older children and send them to military school to avoid the headaches of daycare. The idea of adoption appeals to me, but he thinks I'm kidding.
Children are still confusing for me. I expected this to change in the warm embrace of marital harmony, but so far it has not. Why would I want children when we weren't getting along? More importantly, how would we make them when our relations were farther and farther apart?
If I couldn't be in charge I have to have equal partnership say so. Unfortunately, I failed on both counts at work and at home.
After a few more disagreeable exchanges, my strange spouse turned into my estranged spouse. He rolled over and went back to sleep. I walked out, surprising myself. He wouldn't notice until the empty coffee pot confronted him in the morning.
Outside the wind howled, taunting me. I had to do something to protect my practice and those six clients who relied on me to relentlessly protect their rights.
Maybe after a while, Jack would miss me and we would have a reunion worthy of a soap opera with candles and wine.
Feeling safe in the cover of night, I headed for the office. It took a half hour to drive two miles because the storm was running at full steam, ready to surprise everyone on their morning commute, albeit a Saturday one.
I felt like a thief. My motives were unclear, but unquestionably malicious. I fully expected new locks on the doors and a guard dog waiting to bite me. If he told the judge I didn't work there, I wasn't exactly sure what to expect. The building seemed foreign when I walked in, although I was there as late as three in the afternoon.
When I opened the door, the first thing I noticed was my desk, often mistaken for the secretarial station, didn't have any files on it. In fact, anything that identified my presence in the office had been moved. For the next hour, I searched the cabinets and drawers. Without any luck, and fully frustrated, I started to fill a bag with office supplies to punish Bob. There, under the discount legal pads were my files, my notes, three bar journals, my sample documents, two copies of Computer World and his wills notebook.
Feeling brazen, I flipped the switch on the copy machine, making a copy of his wills forms books and a bank account ledger. Just a few weeks back, I asked to copy several pages from his notebook and he said it wasn't ethical. The notebook disappeared from the bookcase the same day.
Notebooks are a popular way to save work samples, instead of inventing the wheel with each new case or regular file hunting. I have one on codicils that is burgeoning with three inches of material from the library.
After I spit on his desk, my search continued. My remaining personal possessions were in a plastic grocery bag tossed to the back of the closet. My coffee cup, wedding photo, silk plant, and notary seal fit neatly in my purse. Around 5:00 a.m. I left, lugging two large plastic bags of plunder and pillage, including a new box of bond paper. I threw the keys through the mail slot, foolishly announcing my misdeeds.
Out on the street it was completely quiet as the snow tapered off. It glistened in the streetlights, unmarked by cars or dogs. There was a silence worthy of the holidays.
I wasn't calm, feeling cheated again. My spiking anger fueled me to dig out my car and make my next plan, food and shelter. After a drive through breakfast, I drove over to my Aunt Tessie's place, shoveled out a space and waited for a decent hour to knock on the door. I dozed off to the drone of snow blowers and shovels scraping. I woke up to a sharp tapping on my window that scared me silly.
"Come inside, Fiona."
There, in a black velvet cape, like an aging crime fighter, stood my Aunt Tessie. She didn't ask any questions, but carried one of the large plastic bags after peeking inside. Was she really wearing lipstick this early?
Aunt Tessie is my favorite relative for many reasons. The first is I am always welcome whenever I show up even unannounced, or not specifically invited. Another is we have the same level of intolerance for stupidity.
My Aunt is also a hero for those of us who think love conquers all. Her marital resume is wildly intriguing. Tessie is divorced twice, widowed once, and dates occasionally. Unfortunately, she doesn't talk about her husbands. There must be a lot of life lessons she doesn't want to share.
Growing up I overheard whispered snippets of conversations about her love life that stopped when I entered the room. I was twenty years old before I got any details from her sister, my Aunt Irene.
Her first love, Johnny Fisher was scandalous. He came from Florida and his family raised Brahma bulls. He was unacceptable because Tessie was nineteen and he was thirty-one when they met. My maternal grandmother disapproved of his religion, his mustache, and their moving to Florida. Listening to all of his detriments, I think their smoldering passion was the largest part of his unacceptability. Innocently looking for a clean towel one day at my grandmother's I found an envelope with their photographs. Their eyes glowed when they looked at one another. They never faced forward in a photograph. It was as if they had a secret unknown to most mortals about love. Listening to Irene's version, I could hear their hearts beating wildly. Irene had never married and I thought I heard more than a little jealousy in the way she told the story.
The saga continued, after three years, Tessie moved back home and quietly announced she was divorced. No one asked questions. My grandmother wanted her to enter the convent, or find some other suitable job at a church. Two years later, Tessie enrolled in secretarial school and married her instructor, a man named Richard. Irene described their relationship as a screaming match. There was a particularly nasty Thanksgiving incident Irene would not tell me much about, but I knew a fork, a hand wound and an emergency room visit were included. There was another incident at a bus stop when a police car stopped to break up the disagreement. Five years later, they moved to Cleveland, Ohio. A year later, Tessie returned home. His pictures might be in another closet.
I don't know much about her third husband, except for a vague memory of my own. Irene stopped her narrative as the wine wore off. Although I can't remember his name, he tried to teach me how to ride a two-wheel bicycle. It was a boy's bike and I hated him for this for years. They ran some kind of business together. He died in a car accident and Tessie received a lot of money from life insurance and the townhouse where she still lives.
Although she never had children, Tessie seems like ideal parent material, she is great with children, or at least with me. She never treated me like I was in the way or a pest. Sometimes, she would lift me onto a kitchen counter and smile at me. She would then invite me to talk.
Irene says Tessie is selfish and self centered and was not meant to have children. As hard as it is to believe, Irene and Tessie do not get along. At rare family gatherings, Irene will leave the room when Tessie comes in and vice versa.
I dragged myself inside, wondering where my dignity was. She made toast and jelly, a meal that always tasted better at her house. I am fairly certain there was liquor in the tea. We didn't talk any more than an average diner and waitress at a truck stop in the middle of the night. We had the conversation before, many times. There really wasn't a point in rehashing the whole sordid tale of my poor choice in marriage partners. She understood.
I fell asleep on the sofa under many layers of crocheted quilts, making it hard to breathe but for the liquor-laced tea.
In a way I think the quilts represented insulation. I was moving into the next stage of realizing I wasn't going home to Jack, and I needed protection.
The house was quiet when I woke up just before noon. A note on the kitchen table announced a sandwich in the refrigerator and was accompanied with a set of house keys. I interpreted this as an invitation to stay instead of a request to lock up on my way out.
The rest of the day was inevitable; I stopped at home and packed a suitcase, rescuing my goldfish, Goldfinger, in a double plastic bag carried inside my coat to keep him warm. I wrapped my computer and placed it gently in the trunk of the car in our best towels. At First National Bank, I closed my checking and savings accounts and opened new accounts across the street at Fifth Consolidated Savings, in my name alone.
In a blissful joint tenancy moment, when Jack and I were first married, I put his name on my savings account and my name on a few of his accounts. However, my head came out of the dream clouds before I mentioned this to him. When he received the new statements I feigned ignorance and suggested a computer error.
The banker seemed to leer at me while he was doing the paperwork for my new account. Apparently Goldfinger created an alluring bosom.
Although this wasn't the first time I took shelter at my aunt's house during my marriage, it was the first time I started to think like a single person, yet still stupidly assuming an imminent reconciliation.
My first inclination was to wallow and mope around, watch bad daytime television and eat macaroni and cheese for about a week, wearing my robe. However, that option wasn't good for a houseguest. A houseguest should be somewhat invisible. I was up early every morning, made my bed at 7:00 a.m., rinsed my teacup and toast plate, dressed like a lawyer and headed for a library, any library would do. On Wednesday I finished typing the codicil for Judge Curie at the public library and we signed it at his place.
While I was preoccupied admiring the check he made out to me and me alone, he filled me in on the big news.
"You heard Judge King passed away, didn't you?"
"The guy who got the award at the reception?"
"Yes."
"I'm sorry." Although I had been at the law library most of the week, where the daily newspapers are available, I spent the time staring out the window, worrying about my future. I probably should start reading the daily law newspaper.
"You could make some contacts at the funeral."
"Can I pass out business cards?"
He laughed gently, "What time will you pick me up?"
Chapter Two
The day of the funeral it was clear, sunny and four degrees. This is average January weather in Chicago. During these cold spells, conversation always includes the wind chill factor which routinely hovers at twenty or thirty degrees below zero.
The funeral consisted of church at the historic St. Somewhere Catholic Church in the west loop, followed by burial.
The term 'loop' means many things in Chicago. Geographically, it describes a five by six-block area springing around State and Washington Streets. Technically, the term 'loop' refers to a set of elevated transit tracks that outline where the city started, not far from the shores of Lake Michigan. The term 'loop' also refers to anywhere you can walk or take a short cab ride to from the general area of where the elevated trains run. Each year the area expands south and west with condominiums born from old factories and warehouse structures, branching out to include the terms west loop and south loop.
Here we don't use the term "east" too much because Chicago was built on the shores of Lake Michigan.
The loop is diverse and includes offices, stores, restaurants, the stock exchange, banks, high-rise condominiums, the main library, courts, and other government buildings. If you have never visited Chicago, you should, everyone enjoys it.
Since I was with the always-popular Judge Curie, I was welcomed warmly at each and every introduction. Some of the introduction smiles had a knowing glance and smirk at the judge partially offensive to me. Nonetheless, this was a dramatic improvement from the judge's night reception just a week earlier. I was introduced to judges, politicians, and lawyers and after the third introduction they all looked alike and I couldn't remember one new name. Unfortunately cards were not exchanged.
When the mass ended, we followed tradition and the casket to the waiting hearse. The funeral guys had already fixed little flags onto the hoods of the cars. Then they walked from car to car to remind us to put our headlights and blinkers on. We also had to be reminded to follow the car ahead of us. All told we were waiting in the car for a long time for the procession to start.
I don't like funeral processions because they are inherently dangerous, even though driving through red lights is fun. The custom is also barbaric if you think about it just a little. Participants risk getting cut off from the herd or getting hit by some driver who isn't paying attention to the divergence of the regular traffic pattern. This ironically could generate more business for the very people who advocate funeral processions, the undertakers. Now and then I worry my evil nature will cause me to turn into a drive through car wash or hamburger place just to see who follows. For this reason, when I am unsupervised, I usually make sure I'm the last car in the procession.
After the forty-five minute drive, with no near death experiences and no comic interludes we arrived at All the Holy Saints cemetery at the city's west border.
Judge Curie was quiet during the drive allowing me to concentrate on driving. A few times he reached up for the overhead grip and acted as if a train was heading straight for my car. He didn't seem to like my driving.
At the cemetery, the funeral guy directed the cars to park two across on the narrow (but plowed) roads.
We waited while the pallbearers struggled to maintain their footing, slipping and sliding a little while they carried the coffin from the hearse to the grave.
"What would happen if they dropped him?" I whispered.
The judge flushed and scolded me with one eyebrow, while his eyes betrayed his amusement.
The ground had been violently disturbed by the digging machines, taking away the serenity of the snow-covered areas. Farther away, where things were not disturbed, we could see the snow covering the graves with only the taller headstones peeking up.
The path from the road to the grave was covered with wooden planks adorned with clumps of mud, ice, and snow. I was glad I slipped on a pair of boots after church. Actually, my Aunt set my snow boots near the front door with a note on them about mud at the bone yard.
Everyone walked carefully over the boards that seemed to bow and teeter. As we waited our turn, a plump woman pushed ahead of us, clomping along with three-inch heels.
Judge Curie and I exchanged a mischievous smile when her shoe got stuck in something and she literally walked out of it with a yelp. A quick thinking undertaker came to her rescue, but she didn't seem appreciative.
Although I estimated the crowd at church to be around two hundred people, here the crowd was down to fifty. Clearly these were the more serious mourners, or people without plans for the afternoon. I scanned the crowd and noticed Mildred Shoe, across the way trying to get my attention. I didn't remember seeing her in church.
She introduced me to her friends. "Fiona, this is Mary Margaret and Steve Vorce."
Someone ushered Judge Curie to the ring of people immediately around the coffin, leaving me with my own kind.
The artificial turf was full, and we huddled together for a little protection from the wind.
I scanned the crowd, to identify the judges. They wear an attitude, kind of like pigeons.
The sun reflected against an unnaturally black spot. "Who's the guy with the hair?"
"The astro turf hair belongs to Judge Requin."
"Probate?"
"Uh huh."
Mildred didn't seem to like Judge Requin.
"Did you see Judge Peur lose her shoe?" Mildred smirked.
I didn't recognize Peur, but now I knew why the shoe-rescuing undertaker garnered a dirty look. He probably touched her foot, a judge's foot!
The wind picked up speed with a low-pitched howl as the priest stepped forward to begin the service.
"Brothers and sisters…" the wind took over and I couldn't understand what he was saying until I recognized the familiar murmurs of the Our Father prayer. To me, the murmuring sounds like no one knows the words.
The priest stood perfectly still in the bitter wind. Even the pages of his bible did not flap. He was dressed in a black suit with a black overcoat. His ceremonial scarf, worn on the outside of his coat glistened in the sunlight, highlighting the metallic threads. I wondered if the scarf had a name or was just called the funeral scarf. After a particularly eye watering gust of wind mixed with icy particles of snow blown up from the ground, the priest seemed to skip ahead in his sermon.
Every now and again I caught a few words. He seemed to hurtle a few phrases such as "return to dust" my way as if he spotted me as a sinner. I confess poor church attendance. While my intentions are good, I don't need to think about one more area where I am not living up to expectations. Was there still time to repent?
The phrases "valley of death" and "judgment day," reverberated in my ears, judging me unfairly. I have so many other problems right now and my soul is at the end of the to do list for the time being.
The priest bowed his head, signaling the end of the holy portion of the service. I bowed my head solemnly pretending to grieve, but mostly to warm my chin.
"The tiny lady with the fur coat is his sister, Sophie." Mary Margaret whispered a little too loud, causing a few turned heads with reproachful glances toward us from the crowd up front.
Dwarfed by her long fur coat, Sophie's hair had sufficient ratting and hairspray to not move in the gusts of wind.
When the next speaker started, Mildred added, "That's his old neighbor, Mr. Burns."
Mildred had what I considered a real job with a small law firm. She was paid a salary in exchange for long hours. I am jealous, while forgetting I do not work well under regular working conditions. Apparently, Mary Margaret and Mildred seemed to know a lot about the dead judge. They sounded like real lawyers.
We heard every word Mr. Burns said because he was almost shouting in competition with the howling winds. Although it could have been a result of the sheepskin hat covering his ears. Looking around he was the only one with a hat. As a result there were all shapes and sizes of red splotchy ears, including mine. My hat was on the back seat of the car.
He continued slowly and loudly about neighborhood barbecues, new cars, and good times. The priest could take enunciation lessons from him. He credited Laslo for the law careers of his three children and praised him for his 'judgeship' which sounded like something from outer space.
Another man stepped forward and introduced himself, but Mr. Burns wasn't done. He went on to recite additional accolades of Laslo's humble beginnings and ascension to the bench, resembling an ordination or at least an epiphany.
"Now Laslo will now join the souls of his dearly departed parents as well as his brothers and brother in law." Clearly, he was a regular at family funerals.
We could be standing on their graves if they were all buried together. Did they take any secrets to their graves? Did the judge?
His finale included a big hug for Sophie, lifting her feet off the artificial turf and causing her to drop her purse. Could they be an item?
The next speaker hesitated, eyeing Mr. Burns before starting to ramble. I tuned him out. He was from one of the large bar associations and probably didn't even know the judge.
Examining the crowd, everyone was wearing leather street shoes (not boots) and woolen coats almost like a uniform. After several more minutes I thought I was getting dizzy from the glare of the sun against the snow. There is a good reason to wear sunglasses in the winter, although it seems more acceptable when you are skiing than attending a funeral. When I watched carefully, the whole group was swaying to stay warm. We could really use a church choir about now.
I wanted to stamp my feet because I couldn't feel many of my toes. However, considering the stiffness of the boards, I envisioned a seesaw action and a collapse of the artificial turf. Judges would be vaulted up into the air and then down into the grave ahead of Judge King. This would delay lunch.
The unspoken promise of lunch kept me going. Funeral luncheons include a family style meal with hot soup, bread, real butter, and mashed potatoes. I love freshly brewed coffee with dessert cake in the middle of the afternoon.
The sound of a cell phone ringing caught everyone's attention as we scanned the group for the culprit. The crowd seemed to open and close to allow someone to move away. When a car started up, everyone turned completely around like cast members from the Exorcist to see if the car was going to drive over the graves, the only escape route.
About the time I lost all feeling in the rest of my toes, the rawboned undertaker stepped forward. "The ceremony is now at an end. On behalf of the family, I want to thank everyone for your participation in the services to carry Laslo King to his final resting place."
The man's appearance was similar to half of Alfred Hitchcock. Maybe his weight was only a third of Mr. H. I would place his age at close to a hundred years, and I guessed he had delivered the same speech hundreds of times.
After scanning the crowd, he continued. "The family invites you for coffee and cake at Buds Banquet Hall which is located directly across the road from the main cemetery entrance. Please remember to turn off your emergency blinkers and headlights."
I must have misunderstood, cake and coffee, not the family style lunch? No hot soup? No bread with real butter? Cheap bastards!
Steve exchanged a surprised look with me laced with indignation.
"You'll get lunch with the judges since you're with Curie," Mildred whispered.
As the crowd processed the no lunch message, date books and electronic calendars were pulled out and consulted. With furrowed brows and remarkably nimble fingers, many remembered other commitments. Where were they pretending to go at three o'clock on a Friday afternoon?
Steve, Mildred, and Mary Margaret formed an ad hoc committee to address the terrible injustice.
"Fiona, we're going to the Blue Cup House, it's just down Devon Avenue."
The restaurant they selected was a hole in the wall place with mediocre food on a good day. However, the parking was good, prices were low, and you never had to wait for a table. While no one exactly invited me, I responded as though they had.
"I have a date, remember, Judge Curie?" I explained. I prayed he would find my car and not leave with the important folk.
While I watched for him in the warmth of my car, the other mourners streamed past me. Some of the largest but well dressed men, probably lawyers, wiggled into subcompact cars. They resembled clowns driving tiny cars in a parade, knees out to the side like grasshoppers.
When my passenger tapped on the door, I unlatched it for him. A gust of bitterly cold air followed him along with eau de wool from his coat. "You weren't going to ditch me, were you?"
"Not a chance my car's blocked. Aren't you old enough to know to wear a hat in this weather?"
"It would mess up my hair, I mean hairs."
We exchanged a mutual grin. My grin was because given three or four minutes I could count his 150 hairs. Who knows what he was smiling about?
I turned up the heat thinking about hot days when we suffered from and complained about the heat.
"Who had to take a phone call?" I asked.
"That looked bad. It was Judge Montreel. I don't know what people need the portable phone for, do you?"
"No," I lied, concealing my cell phone envy.
Rumors abounded about Judge Montreel. Many people said he was an example of how anyone can be elected as judge. Instead of political connections or scholarly work, he possessed an unusual amount of luck. Some people say having the first place on the ballot alone can get you elected. This does not say a lot about our voters' thoughtfulness or attention to the evaluations of judicial candidates.
Montreel worked at the attorney general's office for about six years, not distinguishing himself in any way. The attorney general's office is a state arm of government, representing the people of the state. When a new attorney general is elected there is a high turnover of lawyers in the office because of the nature of politics. This is denied vehemently by the newly elected.
Apparently Montreel quit the job only weeks before he would have been asked to leave or laid off due to the changing of the guard. He opened a private law office. Then things really went downhill. At his four-month mark, his telephone, pager, cell phone, and electric were shut off for non-payment. Then, a short-armed man (referring to length and bullets) returned his brand new car to the dealer.
From there the story gets bizarre, deciding to run for judge, he put himself out to the electorate as the only French heritage candidate and won. Maybe people liked the Eiffel tower in the background of his campaign ads on the sides of buses. Maybe they thought it was in Chicago instead of Las Vegas. He even wore a black beret in some of the campaign pictures.
While we waited for the gridlock to clear, Judge Curie turned maudlin. I ignored his sighs at first. Really, we weren't close.
After several sighs he lamented, "I didn't think Laslo would go before me."
I have a lot of useless talents, like sarcasm and making particularly disrespectful comments at inappropriate times. I simply nodded to avoid both.
"He was only seventy years old."
"No kidding."
"He was talking about retiring."
"Really?"
"Did I tell you about my retirement, Fiona?"
He told me both times I had the occasion to drive him home, but it seemed like a safe topic. I focused on being sensitive, or at least not disrespectful. Of course, everything I thought of was inappropriate. Would you want a larger funeral? How long do you want to live? Could you die in nicer weather? Will you work until you drop dead on the bench? Will we have a proper lunch after your funeral? Can I represent your estate? Do you already own a cemetery plot?
"About eight or nine years ago, I was the head of the department and the committee decided to put me out to pasture. They didn't consult me. They threw a party, a small one, cocktails and snacks only. But between the time of their announcement and the reception, I decided I wasn't ready to retire, so the next day I came to work as usual." He laughed, and I smiled. "Boy, did I surprise them."
The line of cars ahead of us was finally starting to creep out of the cemetery.
I never knew either of my grandfathers, and Judge Curie was the kind of man I imagined them to be, spewing witticisms and stories about their childhood or earlier years.
"Then what happened?"
"Well, my friends at the Supreme Court immediately recalled me to save face, probably theirs more than mine. Do you know what a recall is?"
I knew, but answered "No."
"Recalls, occur when a judge reaches the mandatory retirement age and they can't run for re-election anymore, but they have enough friends to let them stay on the bench. It gives the courts the advantage of some very well-seasoned jurists."
"Like you."
"Like me," he repeated as his pale blue eyes twinkled. I wondered if eyes faded like our other colors as we aged.
"Well, after two more years, they were still trying to get rid of me and they threw a much larger party. They sold tickets and gave me another scales of justice award, just what I needed like a hole in the head. Have you ever been inside the Medina Temple, Fiona?"
"I've driven past it." Actually, I associated Medina Temple with the circus. Briefly I pictured a retirement ceremony, in the same tenor: and in this ring, ladies and gentlemen, the retiree.
"Magnificent building."
"You had the reception there?"
"Yes."
"What happened after the party?"
He laughed and all of his wrinkles joined him. "I came into work the next morning just like I have for most of my life. It was pretty funny because they looked at me like senility had entered the room. I don't want to retire; they may have to carry me out feet first."
"Not you."
He shot me a look and then continued. "Well the very next week, by coincidence, a shortage of judges was announced and the Supreme Court recalled me and appointed me for another year of service. They reappoint me each year. I stepped down as presiding judge, just to meet them half way. Now things are better, I have less of a political role. I only go to the meetings where there is good food. I can miss meetings because I didn't remember or couldn't get a ride."
"So, you pretend to forget things?"
"Keep it to yourself."
"What year did you step down as presiding judge?"
"Maybe eight or ten years ago, hard to remember. Let's see, Laslo was the head for two years, Requin two years, Wall about four. So, it means I stepped down about eight years ago."
"Wall?"
"Judge Wall was in probate for many years. He was a good man. He took over after me as the presiding judge and when he died just a few years later, Judge Requin was appointed."
"I didn't know Requin was ever the presiding judge."
"Oh yes, just before Judge King."
"Is it a two year term?"
"No, it continues until you retire, or drop dead. Oh, he had a terrible time at it and finally complained of health issues to bow out as gracefully as he could to return to being just a judge and not a manager."
"And Judge King was appointed next?"
"Yes, he was a breath of fresh air, integrity, drive, and ambition. We don't see many like him. He should have run for judge earlier in his career. He worked so hard, one time he even drafted an opinion several times before entering it."
"I thought the lawyers drafted the orders."