Elizabeth Webster and the Court of Uncommon Pleas

by William Lashner

  “Ready for what?”

  “To take your place before the bar.”

  “I’m going to be a bartender?”

  He stared at me for a moment like I had just said something in Finnish. “I have to admit that the work occasionally builds up a thirst. In fact, I might be ready for a wee bit right now. Care to join me in a libation?”

  “I’m in seventh grade.”

  “Perfect. I was drinking hard cider at the age of eight.”

  I shook my head as if to shake out a cobweb. Nothing made sense, and yet I could feel a joy bubbling through me.

  “Grandpop?”

  “Yes, my dear?”

  “Where have you been all these years?”

  “Why here, of course. All the time.” He leaned forward on his cane, twisted his face toward me. “Waiting for you.”

  “Why didn’t you ever come to see me?”

  I thought I saw a sadness slip into his eyes, before he brushed away both the question and the emotion as if he were waving away a housefly. “Ask your mother if you want to know the truth. But this is all beside the point. There is work to be done. We have the Hensley Testament to deal with. Are you ready to begin your apprenticeship, young Elizabeth?”

  “What about school?”

  “What is school compared to learning a profession that will last you a lifetime? Or, truth be told, more than a lifetime? What can school give that would ever serve you better?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think I’ll stay in and find out.”

  “You’re not here to sit at your desk?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then…I don’t understand. Why in the blazes have you come?”

  “I’m looking for my father.”

  “Oh, is that all.”

  “Is he here?”

  “No, not today. And not often. Usually, he’s out following the circuit. That’s the path for the young ones, trailing the court as it makes its way about the country. I did it longer than most, but then I got into a spat with that moth-eaten judge and haven’t been in court since. Oh, how I miss the open road: Mobile, Chicago, Duluth. The stories I could tell of Duluth. But the court is due back shortly, so don’t despair. Is there a problem? Do you need the assistance of Webster and Son?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “What exactly is it that you do here?”

  “Why, we’re lawyers, of course.”

  “What kind of lawyers?”

  “General practitioners of a sort, but it is the ‘sort’ that makes all the difference.”

  “It says on your door, ‘Attorneys for the Damned.’”

  “Indeed we are,” he said. “We have the most unusual clientele.”

  “Like the people waiting outside?”

  “All the poor misfortunates who have no place else to turn. But isn’t that what being a lawyer is all about, helping those in desperate need? We, at Webster and Son, for almost two centuries now have helped our clients in their battles with the other world.”

  “What other world?”

  “The world beyond, dear, what is sometimes called the supernatural—a term I always disliked. What could be more natural than angels and demons and devils and ghosts? That is the other world. And when that other world is troubling you, where can you go? Not to the police, surely. Not to a government agency. No, there is only one place to go.”

  “Where?”

  “Here.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes, to Webster and Son. Haven’t you been listening? The story of how we came into this field is better left for a later time, but just know that we are here, all of us, to help the living in their trials with the dead and undead.”

  I thought on what he told me for a moment. It all seemed so impossible, so ridiculous, and yet it made an odd sort of sense. It would explain why Henry’s ghost had muttered my name. It would explain why my father always seemed as if he had been beamed down from another planet.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Precisely. Wow.” He punched feebly at the air. “And tell me, dear, isn’t that why you’ve come looking for your father?”

  “Yes, actually. There’s this ghost—”

  “A ghost?” he said, interrupting me midsentence. “Say no more. Ghosts are right up our alley.” He banged his cane across the floor as he hobbled toward the door, flung it open, and called out, “Barnabas!”

  The tall man in the frock coat was already standing in the doorway when my grandfather pulled open the door. Long-faced and pale, he stood calmly with his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Sir,” he said in a proper British accent.

  “My granddaughter is having problems with a ghost.”

  “Indeed,” said Barnabas, raising one eyebrow.

  “You’re being haunted, I assume,” said my grandfather.

  “Not me,” I said. “A friend.”

  “Oh, a friend. Well, no family discount, then. We are lawyers, after all.”

  “He’s just a kid.”

  “Then maybe something could be arranged. For you. This once. Though the rent must be paid, even to ourselves. And what would your friend have us do with this spirit? Would he have us hurl it into the depths of the underworld for all of eternity?”

  “No, no,” I said. “Nothing like that. I think my friend actually likes it.”

  “You don’t say. Did you hear that, Barnabas?”

  “I did indeed,” said the tall, mournful man.

  “He just wants to make it go away,” I said.

  “As simple as that, is it? Barnabas, get all the particulars from my granddaughter and then draft a complaint for an Action in Ejectment.” When he said the word ejectment he thrust a finger into the air as if the very gesture was all that was required. “An Action in Ejectment”—that finger again—“is just the thing. What do you propose, Barnabas, to make sufficient service of process?”

  “Is this a ghost you have seen yourself?” said Barnabas to me.

  “Oh yes. And she rolled her head at me.”

  “Imagine that,” said my grandfather. “Remarkable.”

  “I propose we use a stake made from the wood of an alder tree,” said Barnabas.

  “Precisely,” said the old man. “The alder stake. Quite effective and indisputable in court. Now go along with Barnabas, Elizabeth, and give him the particulars. He’ll tell you how to advise your friend. We’ll let Barnabas handle the difficult bits. I would take this up myself, but right now I have much to do. The Hensley Testament cannot wait another second. Where is that blasted thing? Avis, you swallowtailed kite, you,” he called through the door. “Where have you put the Hensley Testament?”

  “This way,” said Barnabas.

  I began following as Barnabas led me out of the office but then hesitated a moment before I turned around to see my grandfather, aged and stooped and leaning heavily on his cane, staring at me.

  I rushed back and gave him a hug that lifted his cane right off the floor.

  “Grandpop,” I said.

  “What is an Action in Ejectment?” I asked the next night at dinner.

  My stepfather, Stephen, froze in his seat, a fork-speared piece of baked chicken floating halfway to his mouth. He was a terrible actor, which is the only thing that made his acting enjoyable.

  “Is something the matter, Stephen dear?” said my mother. “Do you need more gravy? Can I get you some peas?”

  “Peas please,” said Peter. “Please peas.”

  “Do you want more peas, Peter?”

  “No, I just like saying it. Peas-peas-peas—”

  “Puh-leeze,” I said, stifling my irritation not at my brother but at my mother. I was still feeling the excitement of yesterday’s adventure, but I was also just so mad at my mother. I tried not to show it, but it was hard.

  “Peas,” said Peter in a whisper.

  “First I was surprised to hear our daughter speak,” said Stephen. He placed the chicken back onto his plate. “And then what came out of her mouth was even
more shocking. Action in Ejectment. I haven’t heard that one since I studied for the bar exam. You might as well have asked about the Rule Against Perpetuities.”

  “What’s the Rule Against Perpetuities?” I said.

  “Heck if I remember. If it’s not in the patent law, it’s pretty much been flushed out of my brain. Where did you hear about ejectment?”

  “It was in a book I was reading.”

  “Something by a Brontë, I’d bet. If I remember, you bring an Action in Ejectment to kick someone off your land, but I don’t think anyone uses it nowadays. It’s a common-law action, which means it’s not based on a statute, just old-time practice from merry old England. No one really does too much under the common law anymore, since there’s a written law for everything and written laws count for more.”

  “It’s nice to see you taking an interest in Stephen’s profession,” said my mother.

  “Ejectment is something you learn the first year of law school, get tested on in the bar exam, and then never deal with again. Sort of like legal ethics.”

  “Stephen!”

  I narrowed my eyes at my mother. Ethics indeed. Over the entire course of my life she had been keeping the whole Webster & Son thing a secret from me. The time for a confrontation with my mother over that would come, but it was not tonight. If she knew I had visited my grandfather she would blow a fuse and I wouldn’t be leaving the house again until I was in high school. So tonight was for keeping my secret and serving process with an alder stake upon a headless ghost, whatever that meant.

  “What’s service of process?” I said.

  “Elizabeth, my lord, where did all this interest in the law come from?” said my mother.

  “Both my dads are lawyers,” I said. “I guess it’s genetic.”

  I caught a smile breaking out on Stephen’s face and it puzzled me for a moment until I figured it out. I guess I slipped.

  “Service of process,” said Stephen, “is a cornerstone of the law.”

  “Oh no,” I said. “This sounds like a lecture.”

  “It’s not enough to file a lawsuit with the court,” said Stephen. “You also have to serve the complaint on the person you’re suing. If you don’t, the case could go on without that person even knowing about it, and that wouldn’t be fair. There’s a whole bunch of rules about how to do it, but usually you just hire someone to hand it to her. If she hides from you, you can sometimes nail it on her door.”

  “Doesn’t that leave a hole?” said Peter.

  “I suppose it would.”

  “Cool. Can I do the hammering for you?”

  “Well, Peter, if we can’t find Apple next time we try to sue it for patent infringement, I’ll fly you out to California and you can nail the complaint on their big glass door.”

  “Crash,” said Peter with a laugh.

  “Exactly.”

  “More chicken, Elizabeth?” said my mother.

  “No, thanks. Actually, I have to be going.”

  “It’s a school night.”

  “Is it?”

  “And I thought we’d start working on that quilt for the school fair.”

  “Whose idea was that?”

  “You used to love quilting.”

  “When I was six.”

  “You were so cute when you were six.”

  “Yeah, what happened to me?” I said.

  “Where are you off to?” said Stephen.

  “To Henry’s house.”

  “Henry Harrison? Again?”

  “I don’t know if I like that idea,” said my mother. “You weren’t acting quite normally when you came home from there the last time. And you were covered in grass stains and dirt like you had been rolling down the hill.”

  “It’s a big hill,” I said.

  “Can I come, Lizzie?” said Peter. “Tyler has a hill behind his house and we roll down it until we get sick. But his hill is small.”

  “Maybe next time,” I said. “We’ll make a party of it.”

  “If you do, bring a bucket,” said Stephen.

  “Is something going on between you and this Harrison boy?” my mother asked.

  “Yes. It’s called linear equations. But don’t worry, Natalie’s coming along.”

  “What does Natalie know about linear equations?”

  “Less than Henry, if that’s possible,” I said. “I figure if Natalie understands what I’m saying, then it should be able to slip through Henry Harrison’s thick skull. And Natalie wants to see the house.” I quickly stood from the table and gave my brother a kiss on the head, which he squirmed away from. “Bye.”

  “Did she just kiss her brother?” said Stephen as I was leaving the kitchen.

  “I believe so,” said my mother.

  “Does she have a fever?”

  “She must.”

  “Maybe aspirin would help.”

  “Or a cold compress.”

  I could still hear the chuckleheads chuckling about me as I grabbed my backpack and headed out the door.

  “How do I look?” said Natalie as we made the long walk up the drive to the Harrison house. The monster’s head was darker than the dusky sky about it, dark as a warning. “Are my sneakers sparkly enough?”

  “They don’t really fit with our evening plans,” I said.

  “You don’t like them?”

  I looked down. Even at night the red sequins glittered. “Actually, they’re amazing.”

  “And what about the jacket? It’s my favorite denim jacket. A little hippie-ish. A little hot rod–ish. I wanted to look just right.”

  “We’re not going to the fall dance.”

  “I know that, because Henry Harrison would never go to the fall dance. But I feel like something big is going to happen tonight. Something earthshaking.”

  “Oh, something’s going to happen all right. We’re going to give a legal document to a headless ghost, and she won’t be happy about it.”

  “But how romantic will that be, me and Henry Harrison and the shrieking moans of a headless spirit. Maybe I’ll faint and he’ll cradle me in his arms and cry out my name and when I open my eyes he’ll be staring longingly at me.”

  “I can’t believe you’re looking forward to this evening.”

  “Of course I am. I mean you’ve already seen the ghost, and you’ve had this great meeting with your missing grandfather, and you got to spend gobs of time with that dreamboat with the funny collar. What was his name, Barney?”

  “Barnabas.”

  “All I got to do was sit across from the lady with the hairy eyeballs.”

  “Sandy. The eyeball thing is a little gross, true, but you have to admit she has a great head of hair.”

  “She was giving me shampoo advice,” said Natalie. “The key, she said, is rosemary and lavender.”

  It was a little shocking that Natalie didn’t seem freaked out about her coming encounter with a ghost, but it wasn’t only Natalie who was taking this whole supernatural thing in stride. In a way, it all seemed kind of normal for me, too. It was as if everything that had happened in the past few days was supposed to have happened. As if, maybe, the ghost who had mentioned my name to Henry Harrison had somehow known me better than I had known myself.

  “I’ve been waiting,” said Henry, who had answered the door at the first knock.

  “Family dinner,” I said. “I couldn’t get out of it.”

  “Hi, Henry,” said Natalie, smiling a little too brightly. “It’s me, Natalie, remember? From the lunchroom? You thought I was her but I wasn’t. I was me. Wasn’t that funny?”

  Henry looked at Natalie for a moment and then turned to me.

  “She’s my assistant,” I said.

  “How much does she know?”

  “Everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “That about sums it up,” said Natalie.

  “And you’re not scared?”

  “Sure I’m scared,” said Natalie. “Like at a haunted house on Halloween. What would be the fu
n if I wasn’t scared?”

  “A haunted house is not so much fun when you’re living in it,” said Henry, stepping back so that a shadow covered his face. “Can we get started? My parents are at a school board meeting, and I want to get this over with before they come home.”

  We sat around the kitchen table. With an official flourish, I took a file out of my backpack and handed it to Natalie. For Henry’s benefit I was pretending that I knew what I was doing. Who said I wasn’t an actor?

  “First,” I said, following a script I had been given by Barnabas, “you have to sign a contract with my grandfather’s law firm.” I snapped my fingers and Natalie handed me the first document in the file.

  “A law firm?”

  “I know, it sounds batty, but that’s the only way he can help you. You’re going to sue the ghost.”

  “Sue it?”

  “Sue it right out of the house. This just says that you’re hiring the law firm of Webster and Son to represent you, and that you’re willing to pay them what they charge.”

  “Pay?”

  I brushed the hair away from my face. “Just your firstborn son.”

  “What? You’re kidding, right?”

  “Yes, I’m kidding. My grandfather agreed to represent you as something he called ‘pro bono.’”

  “Who’s Bono?”

  “Isn’t he the Irish guy with the glasses who’s always talking about Africa?” said Natalie.

  “The guy from U2?” said Henry.

  “That’s him, yeah,” said Natalie.

  “What does he have to do with anything?”

  I looked at them, first Henry, then Natalie, then Henry again. “You two make quite a couple.”

  Natalie beamed.

  “It means my grandfather is not charging you,” I said, “as a favor to me.”

  “Thanks, Webster,” said Henry. “My wallet appreciates that.”

  “Sign,” I said.

  I took a feather pen and a bottle of ink from my pack, unscrewed the top of the ink, and handed them to Henry. He looked at me as if I were handing him an armadillo.

  “My grandfather is a bit old-fashioned,” I said.

  After a little hesitation, Henry took the feather pen, dipped the tip into the ink, and scratched his name across the bottom of the paper.