by Una Tiers
The ground had been violently disturbed by the digging machine, 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 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 that 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 high heels. Where were her boots?
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 was the first to come to her rescue and he was rewarded with what I think was a dirty look.
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 see her in church.
She introduced me.
“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 and a scowl.
The artificial turf was full, and we huddled together for a little protection from the wind.
I scanned the crowd, guessing which ones were judges. They wear an attitude, kind of like pigeons, but scary.
The sun reflected against an unnaturally black spot.
“Who’s the guy with the Herman Munster hair?”
“Judge Requin,” Mildred answered.
“Probate?”
“Uh huh. Fiona did you see Judge Peur lose her shoe?” Mildred smirked.
I didn’t recognize Peur as one of the probate judges. 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. 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 wore 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 that my church attendance isn’t too regular. While my intentions are good, I barely manage my social, work and love life. Was there was still time to repent?
The phrases “valley of death’ and “judgment day,” reverberated in my ears.
The priest bowed his head, signaling the end of the holy portion of the service. I bowed my head solemnly pretending to grieve, happy that it warmed my chin.
“That 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.
Sophie was dwarfed by her fur coat that nearly touched the ground. Her hair was coiffed and sprayed and didn’t 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 regular job with a small law firm. She was paid a salary in exchange for long hours. I’m jealous of all that but only while I forget that I don’t work well under normal working conditions.
We heard every word Mr. Burns said because he was shouting in competition with the howling winds. Perhaps it was 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 where it was warm.
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.
Mr. Burns went on to recite additional accolades of Laslo’s humble beginnings and ascension to the bench, resembling an ordination or at least an epiphany.
“And 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.
END OF EXCERPT
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Not Safe for the Bank(er)
© 2013 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 in writing from the author.
Brilliant Cover Art Gad Savage
First Edition
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 my amusement.
Chapter One
The police car parked on the sidewalk didn’t suggest anything out of order, but the crowd inside the bank did. As the door hit me in the ass, I stopped like a cartoon character.
Feigning confidence to cover my indecision, I scanned the room. Ten or twelve police and an equal number of humorless guys in suits were watching me with at least scorn. Mr. Fives, the bank manager was sitting in the lounge area squeezing his face in his hands, then running them up through his hair making it stand up in goofy clumps.
His eyes widened, "Ms. Gavelle you need to help me." He stood up part way and sank down in resignation.
Relieved to see a friendly face, and inappropriately curious, I started over to him.
"Are you okay Mr. Fives?"
Before he answered, a large man stepped between us fuming with exasperation.
“You can't talk to him."
"He's asked to speak to his lawyer." I searched for a poker face to apply. Oh how I love when my mind works at lawyer speed.
After some mumbling and discussion among the suits and uniforms, the large man stepped aside and Mr. Fives and I went into his office. The floor to ceiling glass walls would drive me crazy but in a bank I guess they were necessary. Mr. Fives looked considerably less handsome with a splotchy face than when sitting at his desk printing out extra copies of my monthly statements or hawking a new credit card feature.
“I don’t know what happened…” he started.
A slight blur of movement distracted me. “Wait,” I held up my hand.
"They think I…" He blundered.
"Stop."
"Why?"
"Ssh.” I whispered impatiently.
For a few seconds he looked confused. Looking through to the curious crowd inching closer to the glass, watching us without shame, he figured it out. Turning his back to the glass window, he continued. "Carol’s dead. She was murdered in the vault this morning." His nose was running and he wiped it on a real handkerchief wadded up in a death grip in his hand.
"Carol?" I started. “Murdered?”
"Dead, murdered, gone, and they think I did it because I was the last one in the vault last night."
"You didn’t
admit anything did you?”
His wretched look suggested he had. Didn’t he watch television? Innocent questions and honest answers always get people in trouble.
My fingers were less than steady when I pulled out my cell phone and called Bob Noodle, an attorney who actually practices criminal law. I’m just a reasonable faker because I watch lawyer and cop programs and reruns of Police Woman.
“Tell the client to dummy up. He can afford me, right?” Bob growled with smooth confidence and a chuckle. After a pause, he said he was thirty minutes away. Click.
Embarrassed at the capitalism of my brethren, I slowly put my phone away.
Chapter Two
My name is Fiona Gavelle; I’m a fairly new lawyer in Chicago, Illinois. My practice consists of writing wills, probate, real estate closings and ghost lawyer work for a small firm in what is called a space for services arrangement. That means I do a set number of hours of their work, in exchange for use of a rather small office. My work is invisible to their clients resembling the man behind the curtains working the levers.
My office has one filing cabinet, built in bookshelves, a crummy green metal desk, two client chairs and my chair. If either of the client chairs is moved, the door won’t close. My window looks out at a brick wall with chipped and peeling white paint. Why was a wall on the second floor of a building facing the alley painted anyway? Was it covering up an old Burma Shave ad?
Soon I plan to put up a curtain or a poster of the John Hancock building for the potential charm.
My law library consists of eight books, all stacked haphazardly on my desk to make me look smart. Half of them are very outdated but law books are terribly expensive and clients don’t look too closely at them. A dryer sheet inside the older books conceals the basement aroma.
Despite the age of most of the books, if you need a contract to sell chickens, I can help you.
A few weeks ago I put in a private phone line and brought my answering machine from home to catch those important calls. The managing partner was really ticked off at my initiative. This makes me believe it was a good business decision; after all I am building my own practice. Due to a special through a bar group, I even have a cell phone on my office equipment list. To me this is the big time, although I know others think it is routine.
In exchange for this lap of luxury, I do the work the other lawyers think is menial. The wills are all drafted by me, and I proof read a lot of documents. I’ve drafted a few collection suits, and have been sternly reminded (over and over again) never to mention them. Clearly chasing people to pay bills is not prestigious.
Some of what I do includes filing motions and new cases and setting dates on the court calendars. This is clerk work but since I like to go over to court in the Daley Center, I don’t mind. I usually pretend they are all my clients.
The firm is rather petty about office supplies, forcing me to claim what I need in the evening or on weekends. Staples are okay to take, but they have stapler issues if mine is jammed and I dare to use one of theirs. Missing staplers are hunted down in commando groups.
Copying has to be either after the managing partner leaves or in five page increments.
As mediocre as this may sound, it’s a giant step up from my last (also my first) lawyer job.
Money is getting better and I am covering my expenses and for that I am really thankful.
Writing wills and doing probate for a living makes death almost a part of my job. Probate is the management of dead people’s money. Wills of course, give instructions about who inherits the money you don’t spend before you die. Thinking it over most of what lawyers do is to deal with problems and death and of course money.
My probate clients, as a rule, call me after a civilized funeral of people who have as a rule, lived a long life, prosperous in a different way for each of them. The death of someone like Carol, who was not even retired, was disturbing.
While we waited for reinforcements, I could feel my hair and nails growing. Occasionally we made small talk, and switched places, turning our backs to the window until the crowd lost interest and moved away from the windows. My social worker side was losing interest. Must I wait with him? Could I still make a deposit?
Mr. Fives apparently needed to talk. "This morning we found Carol dead in the vault." He repeated while tucking his chin into his necktie.
The reminder settled over me like a toxic waste, unimaginable and with nothing I could do about it. I couldn’t even ward off a shudder. My stomach sent up warnings while I tried to appear cool and collected.
“Carol.” The impact of what happened was triggered by her name making my ears ring.
"She was cold. I touched her hand." His chest started to shake and he clenched his lips together fighting for control or fending off a sneeze.
"You found her?" Did I believe simple questions would keep him calm until Bob arrived? Was it a mistake to let him talk?
"I did, I was the first one in today. It was my turn to open. We take turns," he added quietly.
"I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. How early did she come in?"
"No, no, she couldn’t come in early, she doesn't have the keys to open. She doesn’t have the code."
Carol was the vault clerk. When the bank was in their original location, the vault was in the basement and she was pretty much invisible.
END OF EXCERPT
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Dorothy Daisy
© 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 Art Gad Savage
First Edition
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. Newspaper stories provided morsels for the plot.
Chapter One
Did she fall asleep every night fear pounding in her ears, or did she fall asleep washed with relief that her secret was safe one more day?
Those questions were never answered.
About a year ago, I met Dorothy Daisy and her story lingers in my mind.
From the start, she was a different sort of client. Most clients call me, but Dorothy’s neighbors called me and seemed intent on telling me what she wanted. Trying to avoid the neighbors, I looked for her.
Turning down the 2700 block of Asbury, I saw rows of small, frame houses. Getting closer, an enormous three story Victorian house loomed well above the rest. What made me assume she would have a small house?
The name Daisy was printed on the bell. I rang and waited. The house seemed aloof and then I thought it whispered RUN.
“Who are you and what do you want?”
Startled, I saw a small woman who had materialized along the sidewalk next to the porch and was glaring up at me.
“Hi, I’m looking for Dorothy …Dorothy Daisy.” This eloquence came out with my heart pounding louder than the Clydesdale’s hooves on a cobble stoned street.
Silence. The woman continued to beam her annoyance at me. She looked every day of ninety, if not more. Her thick hair was white, and appeared natural. She wore glasses with enormous lens, contributing to an odd duck image. Her sweater seemed too heavy for the weather and her pedal pushers seemed too light.
Her aura carried menace and she carried a rusty garden spade clumped with mud.
“Are you Mrs. Daisy?” I tried to sound friendly to prevent attack.
“No, it’s Miss Daisy, Miss. I never married. And who are you? Are you from the city?”
“Fiona Gavelle. Your neighbors called and said you wanted to speak to a lawyer.”
“A lady lawyer?” She asked sweetly.
“Yes.”
Th
at netted me an invitation to return in two days. With that edict she disappeared as quickly and soundlessly as she appeared.
Chapter Two
My name is Fiona Gavelle, I’m an attorney in Chicago, Illinois. In law school I was somewhat lackluster about my career direction, and as a result, I have yet to land in the lap of luxury enjoyed by lawyers on television. With my solid C minus grade average, I didn’t have job offers after graduation and the bar exam, so I went to work for an older attorney who basically took advantage of me.
The job fell apart about the same time that I walked out of my marriage. For what seemed to be a long time my life was in shambles, I was living with my Aunt and feeling bad all the time.
Now I have an office sharing arrangement, my own apartment and a little of my dignity back. I don’t date well since I pick the wrong guys. Or maybe they pick me. I still hold hope for someone to love me and make a life together.
My office is with Cartofle and Cebula, a firm of four lawyers: two partners and two associates. Partners have an ownership interest and receive a part of every fee generated, resembling a kick back. Associates are paid less, and need to work long hours with the hope of being invited to the partnership level.
One of the partners likes me, but he is only around a day or two a month (apparently I am more charming in bits and pieces). The other partner, Paul Cartofle, seemed to like me when the arrangement started, but lately he has been increasingly impatient with me. If I was really smart I would start to look for office space elsewhere.
The two associates eye me with contempt.
The bad attitudes toward me are probably more sexist than anything else. Despite the growing numbers of women in law, the glass ceiling, in my opinion, is still firmly in place. I am also outspoken, or try to be whenever possible.