Die Judge Die: A Fiona Gavelle Mystery Read online

  Die Judge Die

  A Fiona Gavelle Mystery

  Una Tiers

  © 2014 by Una Tiers

  Gavelle Press

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, without written permission from the author.

  Brilliant Cover by Gad Savage, Photograph by Una Tiers

  First Edition, 2014

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, pharmaceuticals and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to protect the innocent and the not so innocent. The information about the magnificence of Chicago, Illinois is real. A few places have been rearranged for privacy and my amusement.

  Chapter One

  “Fiona?” Judge Curie asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you hear the awful news?”

  “No, what happened?”

  “Judge R. Etapage died.”

  Sympathetic sounds came out of my mouth automatically, although I never met Judge R. Etapage.

  With that I had another “date” to a funeral.

  Chapter Two

  The day of the funeral was balmy with a gusty wind kicking up annoying bits of dirt and dust.

  Chicago is often called the windy city but the knick name isn’t about the weather. The phrase was coined due to the Chicago Politicians bragging about the 1893 Columbian Exposition.

  We were the first guests to arrive and got a great parking space.

  When the wind threatened to prophesize my Gone with the Wind hat, we stepped inside the church vestibule to wait for the others. As a result we turned into the sympathy greeters, like a discount department store.

  Naturally, Judge Curie knew everyone. Several people handed me envelopes, and I said thank you, uncertain of who to give them to.

  We didn’t start on time. After fifteen minutes of checking our watches, the mass commenced with barely audible organ music and twelve mourners counting two undertakers but not counting the deceased.

  After mass, the crowd of twelve thinned to three plus the undertakers. The cortege included the hearse and two cars.

  “Hold these, will you judge?”

  “Are these the offerings? Why do you have them?”

  “People handed them to me; I didn’t know who to give them to,” I explained.

  “Someone there must have been family,” he noted, “probably that woman with the red hair ahead of us. She’s the only one I didn’t know.”

  “I thought she had a red hat,” I squinted but could not tell.

  I tailgated the Missouri car with the rather emphatic muffler, trying to get a better look at her hair without rear ending her. We zig zagged north hesitating at each red light, until we came to Pulaski Road. From there the cortege headed north, almost to the city limits.

  “How many cars do you see, Fiona,” the judge asked.

  “The hearse and one car.”

  Because of his declining vision, the Judge stopped driving. He is over eighty and more wrinkled than any elephant I have met at the zoo. Adam Curie is the only part-time judge in the county, and probably the State of Illinois. He is assigned to the probate division, where estates of the deceased and lives of disabled people are administered. He exudes clout, like he invented the system.

  Curie has a kind face and is always alert to being introduced or introducing himself to new people. He smiles even when he is complaining.

  We have a driving relationship. I gave him a ride home after a reception about a year ago. Now, he calls every month or two to tell me about a reception he would like to attend.

  I like the Judge; he’s witty, bordering on the obscene. He is invited to really nice receptions from bar groups and political realms. If I drive him, I have the chance to network with a semi famous person, and dinner.

  There weren’t any mourners to carry the casket from the hearse to the grave so we had to wait until enough cemetery workers were collected. If not for my high heels, I would like to coin the phrase, Paula Bearers, but I digress.

  Once everyone, I mean the three of us were gathered around the casket, the priest opened his bible. The third person was wearing a red hat with a matching dress. Her hair looked reddish too.

  “Brothers and sisters,” the priest started softly. His ceremonial scarf flapped in the breeze while the gold threads danced in the sunlight. He had good posture.

  My mind drifted from his prayers to examining the mourner in the festive red outfit. She wore sunglasses and enormous gold earrings. Tendrils of her hair were the same red color as her hat. Her attitude was victorious, as though she was accepting an academy award instead of attending a funeral.

  While the priest prayed for the soul of the dead judge, I made up a story about the woman in red. She was the twin sister of the decedent, Judge R. Etapage.

  In my daydream, the judge had an affair with her brother- in- law. Her sister divorced, and the cheating ex husband married the evil twin (now dead judge).

  A year later the bad husband died in a suspicious boating accident and the sisters fought over his life insurance proceeds in court for five years. The end result was a lot of attorneys fees.

  As a final gesture, the woman in the red dress was here to dance on her sister’s grave.

  There weren’t mourners since friends and family disowned them after the scandal and the interminable court battle.

  While I daydreamed, I gazed around at the headstones and the pretty clouds. I was lost in a more amusing place. Did people visit graves in real life the way they did in movies?

  A jiggle at my elbow pulled me out of my daydream. The cemetery part was over. The priest extended his sympathies with a two handed hand shake and a head nod. It seemed rude to tell him I was not family, or a friend. So, I thanked him in what I hoped was a funeral appropriate family mannerism.

  The funeral guy said the ceremony was over and that the family invited us to stop at a restaurant a few blocks down Pulaski Road.

  We were guessing about the luncheon as we drove over to the restaurant. But when we arrived at the restaurant, we were ushered to a small room that had a few coffee urns and sliced pound cake on trays.

  Cheap bastards.

  Judge Curie shushed me when I said I was hungry. He gave the envelopes to the lady in red and we left after murmuring our sympathies.

  The lady in red left right after we talked and roared out of the parking lot ahead of us.

  Chapter Three

  The following day, our picture was in the Chicago Daily, the popular democratic newspaper in Chicago. It was taken outside the church while Judge Curie and I were standing at the top of the steps. We looked good and, my hat was spectacular. For some reason I didn’t think framing this picture was going to be socially acceptable.

  To my chagrin, the caption read: ‘Judge Adam Curie, and his lawyer granddaughter, Fiona Gavelle, attend the funeral mass for Judge R. Etapage.’

  With a little luck, no one else would notice the caption. The judge is a colleague, friend and client, but not a relative. Why do people make assumptions with intergenerational friends?

  When I started to play nine new messages on my answering machine at the office, I realized my friends were ghouls who read the obituaries or maybe just looked at the pictures.

  Peep. “Fiona this is your grandfather,” Judge Curie chuckled softly.

  Peep. “Hey Fi, great picture, but the caption isn’t right, or is it,” Lou Che, a law school classmate gurgled.

  Peep. “Hey Fiona, I had no idea Judge Curie was your grandfather, a really nice man if anyone asks me.” Timothy Venal howled with laughter as he disconnected after his perfect cute but stupid impression.r />
  Timothy is a lawyer I met at a bar group. I am convinced he represents undertakers, not that there is anything wrong with that.

  Peep. “Fiona you should have told me he was your grandfather, I had no idea,” murmured Mildred Shoe, another law school classmate. We never talk about family.

  Peep. “Fiona, I guess if your grandfather is a judge, your fees are safe,” Sally Tax muttered with a thin veil of sarcasm. Another list was needed for Sally, I would think about it later. Sally and I know one another from bar groups and probate court. We only talk about attorneys fees.

  Peep. “This is your Aunt. If Curie is your grandfather is he my uncle?” Aunt Tess pealed with laughter. “I bought three extra copies of the newspaper for you.”

  Peep. “Fiona, Andrew Due here, I didn’t know the judge was your granddad, call me.” Andrew was the only one who received the benefit of doubt award over the picture. We haven’t known each other long.

  Although I was tempted to erase the rest of the messages, I plodded on and was rewarded.

  Peep. “Ms. Gavelle, I didn’t know you were related to Judge Curie. This is Meghan Page, Judge R. Etapage was my mother, god rest her decrepit soul. Could you call me as soon as possible? I want to get probate started and get my inheritance. You may remember me from yesterday, I wore red.”

  Peep. “Mrs. Curie Grabel, I saw your picture in the newspaper and I want to hire you to get me out of this darned nursing home. I don’t belong here, I have a house where I can live. Here is my number, we eat breakfast from eight to nine and lunch from twelve to one. You can also come to see me, I’m an inmate at Know Acres on Central Street in Wilmette. My name is Eddy Szem. Thank you. Please call me as soon as you can. Here is my number.…“

  Chapter Four

  My name is Fiona Gavelle(pronounced ga to rhyme with ma and velle to rhyme with bell).

  I’m an attorney in Chicago, Illinois. Someday I will be prominent with a wildly lucrative law practice, including wills, probate and trusts. Until I am famous, I do many miscellaneous matters to keep the wolf from the door.

  At first I assumed estate planning and probate were an old man’s practice area. Some say the lawyer who writes a will has the chance of being hired to do the probate matter; it’s like a retirement system for lawyers, similar to social security.

  However, I enjoy working with seniors; it feels as if I have dozens of grandparents. Many of my clients trust me because I have a degree and a license. Never mind experience.

  Not only are older clients more respectful of education, they give me money.

  The rent for my law office is on a space for services arrangement. That means the law firm pays the rent, and I do mostly lawyer work for them to cover my share.

  In exchange for twenty hours a month of my time, I have use of a teeny office, reception services, and ‘light’ use of the copy machine. The largest part of my copying is done after the partners go home. The same rule applies to office supplies.

  The work I do is ghost work in a sense, because I never come in contact with the precious clients of the firm. I draft wills, trusts and other contracts from notes made by the real attorneys, the firm’s associates. The work of the partners, is done by the associates. I proof read documents, file new cases, set them on the docket (court schedule) and place service of process with the sheriff. While some of this is clerking and not really attorney work, I don’t mind. I think of court as an adventure whenever I am there.

  About once a month, I appear in court and allege an emergency, preventing the responsible attorney from being there. My job is to appear clueless and to suggest I was called hours or minutes before the case was scheduled. This is a fabrication at best, because the “emergency” is usually decided a week or two ahead of the court date.

  After doing six or seven of these emergency motions, I learned to hesitate when asked to take the assignment. This raises my fee. I don’t mind doing something shady if I am really well paid.

  The other things I do include serving process, like a subpoena or summons. Serving these papers has to be done by a person not connected to the law firm making the request or demand. The idea that the person serving the paperwork cannot be directly involved tells you a little bit about the conduct of our profession. Think about it.

  Serving process is not my favorite way to make fifty or even seventy five bucks, but everything adds up. If the neighborhood is not respectable, I will insist on a ride with the motor running from the person hiring me.

  My bet is that a person is more likely to take a set of papers from a woman in a suit instead of a man wearing a t-shirt in the middle of winter with one eye half closed and a pack of cigarettes rolled into his sleeve.

  Once in a while I do small jobs or research for other lawyer friends at a modest hourly rate. Income taxes are a part of my work although I don’t really like them.

  It delights me to report that I can cover my office and home overhead expenses. This is good in terms of capitalism and building my practice. There isn’t much left for luxuries, such as flavored coffee beans, but I manage and am happy.

  Although my office is in a mildly run down, never renovated building in the south loop of Chicago, Illinois, I love it. While it is clean and somewhat charming, the exposed stairwells worry me in the event of a fire. If it comes to renovation, I will have to move.

  My office is nestled in the firm of Cebula and Cartofle. There are four lawyers, two are partners and two are associates. The partners get a part of every fee earned, like a kickback. The associates want to be partners. If they fail to make the grade within two or three years they are O-U-T and have to start all over again somewhere else. At this point, some lawyers move to other professions.

  As hard as it is to believe, some firms have associates they employ for two or three years and then boot them out and hire newly graduated attorneys at a lower salary. This loathsome pattern is widespread. In the law field there are a lot of underhanded employment practices. Actually, there is a lot of every kind of underhandedness in the law business.

  The staff at the office consists of Annette, the office manager, two secretaries, and a weekend bookkeeper. I’m certain the bookkeeper is a relative, probably someone’s mother from the firm.

  My office is small and charming. There is a ratty green metal desk, likely Army surplus, my ergonomic chair, one filing cabinet and two client chairs. My window overlooks a brick wall with chipped paint. The alley is right below us. I put a lace curtain across the window that drives the managing partner, Paul Cartofle insane. It looks better than the chipped wall (to me). One wall of the office has built in bookcases with cabinets at the bottom.

  Several months ago, I put in a telephone line under my very own name. It infuriated Paul, so I think it was a good business decision. Paul opined I should use their telephone lines and contribute a percentage toward the bill. In my estimation, it was teaching my clients to call his firm and not building my practice. Someday I hoped to move on to better digs.

  I have a shiny new cell phone that I use more pretending to make calls than making calls because of the extraordinary cost.

  On the personal side, I was married to a lawyer for two years. We’ve been divorced for about a year. There were no children and Goldfinger, my goldfish was mine before the marriage. Therefore, I have full custody and there are no visitation rights.

  My home is a small studio apartment not too far from the downtown area.

  I don’t have much family but for my Aunt Tess who is worth a dozen mediocre relatives. She lives nearby and is retired and mysterious. Her house is a dream with a high tech kitchen and a flower and herb garden. She has matching furniture and a real library. She let me freeload at her house while I was in transition to single. Since I moved to my own place, our friendship has returned to very amicable.

  My friends are all lawyers. We meet in a professional capacity, like seeing one another in court, at a bar group meeting or a continuing legal education class. This seems to double as socia
lization since the practice demands so much time. Add that to the fact that few people want to be friends with lawyers unless they are unsavory. I’m not talking about the lawyers.

  While I don’t have many goals beyond paying the bills and saving money sometime soon, I do aspire to live in a really cool house. There will be a high tech kitchen, the skill to use it properly, a garden and a pony. Maybe a happy silly dog. I will need a new husband to walk the dog in bad weather.

  I’d like to find a really good husband the next time around, like the ones in paperback novels. I want a soul mate. You never know.

  Getting married again isn’t looking too promising. Maybe I need to apply lawyer analytics to the whole process. I date like a teenager, giggling with my brain in neutral. Once in a while I scare guys off with my brain and independence. If the guy is suitable, I don’t recognize it until we stop dating. Unconventional men appeal to me, but they have to be reliable, a combination that seems unlikely. As a result, I spend many weekends home alone, sulking, daydreaming and plotting.

  Chapter Five

  The first call I returned was to Eddy Szem. He was very chatty and described himself as single and a little too popular with the ladies at the nursing home. He is a veteran, owns his own home and the government is forcing him to live in a nursing home.

  “I was never allowed to court to talk to the judge and tell my concerns, because, hold on…what,” his voice was muffled as though the telephone receiver was pressed against his chest.

  I heard a voice in the background and before he could finish his thought, he told me the nurse called him to take his blood pressure, and he hung up the phone rather unceremoniously with an invitation for me to stop by as soon as I could.