Judge vs Nuts: A Fiona Gavelle Mystery Read online

  Judge vs. Nuts

  A Fiona Gavelle Mystery

  Una Tiers

  © 2015 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. Forms include but are not limited to electronic, photographic, crayon, lipstick or other mediums.

  Brilliant Cover Gad Savage, Photograph by Una Tiers

  Second Edition, 2015

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places 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 amusement.

  Prologue

  Friday, Midnight.

  The lock clicked with the finality of a coffin closing.

  Chapter One

  January 2000

  My name is Fiona Gavelle (pronounced Ga to rhyme with Ma, and velle to rhyme with bell). I’m an attorney in Chicago, Illinois. I passed the bar about a year ago and am building my very own law practice.

  On the advice of a friend, I started to attend bar group meetings and receptions. Bar groups are lawyer clubs. There are more than thirty-five of them in the greater Chicago area including the collar counties. They are organized around geography, ethnicity, religion, area of practice and gender.

  I’m certain many groups were formed after an argument in another group. Lawyers are opinionated.

  While some lawyers belong to five or more groups, I belong to two. Both offer especially low dues to new lawyers. Each group offers different amenities from discounts on car rentals and magazine subscriptions to continuing legal education. Some groups own real estate and others meet in restaurants.

  Despite the range of differences, the groups have common threads. Most groups elect officers, have receptions, in-fighting and golf outings. Almost every group has what’s called Judge’s Night. It’s a reception where the judges are honored, meaning they get in free. The lawyers buy tickets to cover the cost of the evening which always includes a nice meal. Rumor has it at some receptions, the judges outnumber the lawyers. Competition is stiff to have the judges attend because if large numbers of them attend, membership in the group will increase and there will of course be publicity. Lawyers like having their picture in the paper.

  On a snowy Friday night in late January, I attended my first Judge’s Night reception hosted by the Water Law Club. It was held at a yacht club on the shores of Lake Michigan about two blocks east of the famous Prudential Building.

  The reception started at 5:30. I arrived early and was mistaken for wait staff. After a seven dollar gin and tonic, one judge nodded at me. I didn’t know his name until later in the evening. This nod was the start of an adventure.

  My plan for the evening was to work the room and introduce myself to everyone. I had a bulging pocket full of business cards and the rest of the box in the trunk of my car.

  However, when I saw the judges clustered together, and the lawyers wearing thousand dollar suits, they scared me. As plan B, I introduced myself to lawyers standing alone, in two’s or three’s wearing cheaper, often ill fitting suits. Some plan. Most of them wandered away when I announced that I was new to the practice and a solo practitioner.

  Dinner consisted of a modest buffet. With my plate stacked shamelessly high, I sat at a table of lawyers who had similar large portions. Our focus wasn’t networking, but trying to get the price of the ticket back in food. Heads were bowed and the food was shoveled in.

  But when Mildred Shoe and Charlie Boock joined the table, Charlie jumped in with a war story. This ignited a series of other war stories. I feigned interest while smiling, nodding and wondering when it was acceptable to attack the dessert table.

  After the fork and knife clatter died down, the dignitaries at the head table were introduced. Everyone thanked another person, like a Groucho Marx routine.

  At last, they introduced the judge who nodded at me earlier, and he was given an award. Several people from the head table clapped and stood. The applause continued until everyone stood up. Before sitting down, I helped myself to a few chocolate covered strawberries and a slice of lethal cheesecake. Judge King, the awardee and nodder thanked everyone, warned us about the snowstorm and adjourned the meeting rather abruptly.

  While I was waiting in line for my coat, I saw another familiar face, my friend, Adam Curie.

  “Can you give me a lift home Fiona?”

  “Sure judge, I didn’t see you earlier,” I answered.

  “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 forty of them. He is very politically connected, has a great sense of humor, and is as wrinkled as any elephant at the Lincoln Park Zoo.

  We have a driving relationship; I drove him home from a reception a month ago. He doesn’t drive, but is invited everywhere, not just bar group activities. We liked one another instantly. He actually hired me to write a codicil (an amendment to a will) for him. I think of this as good fortune and not just a driver and passenger meeting.

  The storm increased before the car warmed up enough to heat the passenger area. It was howling and blowing in swirls instead of snowing from heaven to earth.

  Judge Curie was nervous, “Take your time, especially on the bridge.”

  Bridges have the quirk of getting slippery before the rest of the roads because the cold goes through the pavement from the top and bottom. At one time, Lake Shore Drive sported one of the few bascule (double deck) bridges. 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, judge.”

  “You know I need to finish my codicil before I die too. I wondered what happened to you.”

  “It’s almost ready. When would you like to sign it?” I asked.

  It was my first codicil and I was working on it for three weeks. To prepare, I took a class on wills, looked unsuccessfully for appellate cases on codicils and read the easier books on estate planning until the information started to repeat.

  “Where do you work now?” he asked.

  “The same place,” I answered slowly. Was my famous client losing it?

  Conversation paused while I allowed a car going too fast to merge in front of us from the ramp on Grand Avenue. The judge grabbed the overhead strap and braced his feet, like a cartoon.

  When the other car fishtailed across two of the four lanes, I cut my speed another five miles an hour.

  Lake Shore Drive is a small, four-lane highway (in each direction) that is exquisite. It runs parallel to the shores of Lake Michigan and three of the largest parks in the city. It’s over twenty miles long. The scenery is phenomenal year round. The absence of trucks makes it feel very civilized and certainly safer. The only feature it lacks is a respectable shoulder. So if you have car trouble, pulling over is pretty scary.

  Lake Shore Drive is unlike other expressways in Chicago. It only has two connections to other highways. It is also free of overhead roads since the only place they could lead to is the lake. There is a stretch where tunnels connect the street for people on foot to get to the parks and beaches. The tunnels smell awful.

  The speed limit is forty-five miles an hour. This means the average speed is about sixty in clear weather. The speed limit is reduced in the winter, not for driver and passenger safety, but to prevent a lot of road salt from splashing and ruining the foliage in the center planters.

 
“I called you this afternoon and Holadollar told me you didn’t work there anymore.” The judge looked over at me in inquiry wearing a poker face.

  Horrified, I managed to remain calm. I was breathing so heavy, I fogged my own windows. I casually turned the fan up on the defroster.

  “He’s hard of hearing and your codicil is ready to go. We can sign it whenever you have time.” Considering how new I am to the business, I considered this high diplomacy. Was the old skinflint telling people I didn’t work there? Would the judge notice the codicil that was almost ready five minutes ago was now ready?

  “Good,” he responded with the confidence I didn’t have.

  I dropped the judge off at his luxury senior residence still seething over Holadollars’s treachery.

  My lawyer job is not exactly glamorous. While I don’t practice in a shoe store, I work in a sleepy, dusty office on the north side of Chicago over a diner with another lawyer. To say the least it sets a new low in terms of prestige and what you see on television.

  After graduating law school with a solid C minus grade average and passing the Illinois bar examination, it was a surprise I didn’t have a lot of choices for lucrative employment. I misunderstood the lawyer job process and assumed the law school admissions office would help me land in the lap of luxury. After all, I had a law degree and a license to practice in all branches of the Illinois courts. I didn’t realize the competition for good lawyer jobs was at least as cut throat as competition for grades. Oh, and big firms expect really perfect grades.

  Way too late I learned some students know by the first day of school where they will work after graduation. Others interview for jobs in the first year of the three year program. A few have relative lawyers ready to take them in and, the bravest plan to hang out the shingle right out of the gate. A few have worked in politics and have connections to get a government job.

  Other students had plans to help the poor and some had plans to put the very same people in jail.

  In contrast the students I studied with were only concerned with graduating before tuition was increased.

  After I passed the Illinois bar examination, I went on a few dismal interviews 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 me.

  When I saw “the ad,” placed by a senior practitioner, I cringed, thinking that wills and probate were for old lawyers. Really old ones.

  “Senior practitioner close to retirement seeks young associate to share space for research, document drafting, occasional court appearances. Training included.” Still thinking ahead, maybe a lawyer on the verge of retirement would need some bright young mind to take over when he headed for Miami Beach and polyester horizons.

  Thinking it over, trying to placate my disappointment, I reasoned probate looked better than being unemployed. I assured myself that wills were a lot like contracts, the only subject that made sense to me from the first day of law school. Still I have never seen a widget although we talked about them for two semesters of contract law.

  After the interview I bought two suits on sale, a nice raincoat and with my graduation briefcase in hand, was ready to go.

  The first day I was shocked at the office. Things looked different in a distorted way from the interview.

  The furniture had chips and the carpet was threadbare at the door and under the desks. The light fixtures were yellowed and I only saw one office, a storage room and the secretarial area. The place didn’t seem forlorn at the interview. The secretarial desk, turned out to be my desk.

  The lawyer, Bob Holadollar, was moderately well dressed about ten years earlier. He was congenial unless the issue of money came up. He picked up the phone whenever I made a call and followed me when I went to the supply cabinet. He said I could bring my bar group journals to share and cleared a shelf for my books. He said I should start a nice library, maybe a new book each week. He said we would discuss them after he read them. He would even recommend books for me to buy. Right.

  Our good relationship lasted about two weeks, then I felt like a prisoner. Initially he said his secretary left to have a baby. Later I realized she must have died from boredom. I assumed he would hire another one although there wasn’t another desk.

  Carrying a huge chip on my shoulder, I shouldered on since I was without options for employment. Most of my time was spent answering the phone, making copies and other non lawyer work. Any law student is adept at making copies and drinking coffee simultaneously. I wasn’t learning anything.

  After poking around the office when he went to lunch, I learned his secretary was gone since 1975 and may have been his second ex-wife.

  At the six-month mark, despite the distribution of one hundred business cards, I had six clients. Three are relatives, but they refuse to take the family discount, so I call them clients.

  I haven’t learned much about how an office runs economically, because he keeps the checkbook locked away. Fear restrains me from asking questions.

  Another downside of the office sharing agreement was half of any fee I generated, belonged to the miser. He said this was standard, but didn’t mention it until I wrote a will for a neighbor. He insisted on negotiating the check through his account. While I knew better, I was frightened by the word “comingling.”

  At the end of six months, my income covered pantyhose, purchased in bulk through the mail, and my bus pass. Each week I drew a little more out of my dwindling savings account. Where was the big money lawyers on TV made?

  Judge Curie is my best client. If people knew this, they would flock to my door and beg me to represent them. The problem with this idea is the requirement of confidentiality. So, I have to hope he tells a lot of people how wonderful I am.

  A codicil isn’t a big deal, but I drafted, edited and redrafted it about a dozen times. It took a lot of paper, as Bob pointed out as he hovered over me complaining I should buy my own paper.

  Another problem with the sharing arrangement was that I couldn’t meet with clients alone. We initially agreed I would meet with my clients when Holadollar was not in the office since there was only one respectable attorney work station.

  Bob said he was in court a lot and out to meetings regularly. He said sharing the office wouldn’t be a problem. However, each time I made client appointments when he planned to be away, he magically and coincidentally had a change in plans. He rushed in as the appointment was starting and insisted in taking over. He did allow me to sit next to the clients and take notes.

  After two of these catastrophes, I learned to schedule phantom client appointments. They canceled minutes before Bob appeared.

  In despair, I read the want ads again, but now entry level positions required two to three years experience. I wouldn’t last another eighteen months without being charged with some kind of felony.

  The storm increased after I dropped the judge off and I was muttering to myself while driving slower and slower. Simultaneously I tried to slow my breathing and my heart rate. The only positive thing I could conjure up was that there weren’t other cars on the road. They were smarter.

  Once home, I was between tears and needing a gun.

  All the lights were out in our apartment even though it was only nine PM. Walking in, I turned on every light in my path.

  “I need help,” I told Jack.

  “Now what?” he squinted while he shielded his eyes from the light. Jack was tucked away comfortably. Towels, were piled on my side of the bed, thank you. Was folding them really so hard?

  After explaining the grave injustice to him, he wasn’t outraged.

  “He fired you?”

  I’m pretty sure Jack snorted with laughter before he tried to cover it with a fake sneeze.

  “I worked today, my things are still there,” I pled with ardor.

  “He’ll change the locks by Monday, wait and see,” responded Jack, the poster child for unsupportive
husbands.

  While I stood trying to decide what to do, he rolled over and went back to sleep. He mumbled, “I have to go in tomorrow to check a few things at the office. Looks like you need the help wanted ads.”

  After three years together, one of them married, we’ve reached a dismal existence. There is no partnership, but a dictatorship since he brings in the money.

  Jack has a job with a large law firm, but his heart isn’t in it. He does the minimum to get the paycheck. As a result, everyone around him suffers.

  Jack has great aspirations for me. He thinks I’ll work at a mildly demanding but well paying job. He thinks I’ll catapult myself home ahead of him in time to don an apron and cook a Julia Childs type of dinner, like boned duck wrapped in pastry.

  When the children come, I will stop working. He is ready for children; I am not. He assumes I will learn to cook. Really, I have spent more time learning to make mixed drinks than meatloaf because the glow is gone.

  Children are an enigma to me, confusing at the best of times. I expected this to change in the warm embrace of marriage, but I was wrong.

  I surprised myself and headed for the office. Jack wouldn’t notice until he saw the coffee pot, unwashed from that morning.

  At first the wind taunted me, and then it started to taper off, almost making a path for me to follow my heart. I started to appreciate the beauty of several inches of fluffy snow, provided I didn’t get stuck. It perplexed me that I was now talking to snow.

  The office hallway seemed foreign although I was there as recent as three in the afternoon. Holadollar left early and I drove home to change for the reception. Now I wasn’t sure what I would find. A security system? Changed locks? A dog? A pail of water over the doorway?

  My key turned easily in the lock and I peeked inside before I walked in and locked the hallway door. A swat team usually announces their presence.