Judge vs Nuts: A Fiona Gavelle Mystery

by Una Tiers

  He didn’t understand why the cases were not heard in the district courts but only in the Daley Center. He met with Gena, his current clerk, and they decided on a limit of twelve cases each morning until further notice. He asked her to post a note on the door that courtesy copies were required.

  Knowing that he would have to dig deeper into probate, he had his son Bob order probate books. He thought it looked bad for him to order the books.

  The rest of the world expected a great deal from a judge, and Laslo King intended to fully live up to the expectation.

  He was startled at the number of notices of appointment to judicial committees he received in the next several weeks. There was the probate form revision committee and the ethics committee, the bla bla committee and the bla bla bla committee.

  In addition to the committee assignments, Laslo learned he was expected to attend all weekend continuing education classes scheduled across the state. Apparently the ‘senior’ judges always had calendar conflicts and the new judge was expected to get the notebooks for them.

  He couldn’t be happier. Classes were right up his alley.

  At the first judicial conference he learned hearing only probate cases was elite, bordering on the luxurious. In the smaller counties, the judges could hear different types of cases and often heard civil and criminal matters.

  However since Cook County is the largest county in Illinois, with the largest population and largest number of licensed attorneys, the divisions are smaller.

  The seminars were glorious. Many of them were held in downstate or middle Illinois at college campuses. After dinner the discussions continued over drinks. This was finally judge’s camp.

  Chapter Ten

  March 2000

  I don’t know if I’ll ever know enough law to just start ‘lawyering’ and not be forced to do research with each new matter. I looked up venue, it has to do with being in the right court, and it means picking the right county.

  While I was pondering this issue, Paul Cartofle stuck his head in the door. “Got a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  “I have a file for you.”

  “Great, what kind?” I asked.

  “Probate, that’s what you did at your last office, right?”

  “Yes.” This was partially true. I typed forms out for the miser and trailed along in court with him a few times.

  Since the call from Rosie King, I had about fifteen hours of library time on probate administration. I also took time to pull a few famous cases from the clerk’s office. My meticulous notes from the last office included the name of the case, and case number, I was able to review the court files only to be disappointed at how insignificant the pleadings now appeared.

  “Here is the telephone intake. It’s a neighbor of mine from years back. I’m not sure I even remember her, but she remembers my family. My father wrote the will for her mother and he did the real estate closing for her mother’s house fifty years ago.”

  “Sounds interesting,” I lied.

  “You’re wondering what’s wrong with it, right?” Paul asked.

  “Kinda.” So far, I was a ghost lawyer, doing the heavy lifting while the ‘real’ lawyers met with the clients. I imagined them making cunning misrepresentations about slaving over a hot computer to make their will a masterpiece. Still my review of the ethics indicated that I could do work assigned in this manner as long as I didn’t know a misrepresentation was being made to the client.

  “The client is older, you may want to go to the house.”

  That was why he was giving me the interview, my time was less valuable.

  “Where does she live?” I asked.

  “On the northwest side. You’ll like her, Annette said she is very friendly on the phone.”

  It didn’t sound like Paul even took the time to talk to the lady on the telephone.

  This was the first time I was meeting with a client from the firm. Would the fee be handled any differently or would they get it all? I was afraid to ask. I would take careful note of my travel time, maybe even charge them mileage.

  He smiled and walked out leaving me with a file folder with a pink message slip stapled to it.

  The client was eighty year old Aurelia Pulatavase. She lived in Logan Square. Her mother, 99 year old Enelda Chase died three weeks before. Her father died forty years before. She had two sisters that she did not talk to except when they were arguing. Her mother left bank accounts and a house in her name.

  After practicing what I would say, I made the call.

  “This is Fiona Gavelle.”

  “Yes?”

  “Is this Mrs. Pulatavase?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was asked to contact you by Paul Cartofle, the attorney.”

  “Oh, good, I need to see him, when is he coming?”

  “I would like to meet with you. He is tied up with a trial.”

  She was disappointed silently and I was amazed at how easily I could lie.

  We made an appointment.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon reading more probate manuals and partially filling out the forms for Mrs. Putalavase.

  Because my sense of direction isn’t strong, I left way too early for the appointment, arriving almost an hour before the set time. I rang the bell anyway.

  After introductions, including the cat, we sat in a living room with the most green carpeting I had ever seen.

  “Why don’t we have lunch after the business?” Mrs. Putalavase asked.

  “Well I guess we can. Thanks.” I wasn’t sure Paul would approve of this, but he never said I couldn’t go to lunch with the client.

  “I never learned to drive and since my Henry died, I have only the bus to get around. You can’t imagine how hard it is to carry potatoes.”

  We completed my brand new probate intake forms and then spent fifteen minutes getting ready to leave the house. Cat in, stove off, windows closed (in the middle of winter), keys in hand. Money, but not too much in the inside pocket and not in the purse.

  For more security reasons, I drove the car down the alley and picked her up behind the neighbor’s garage.

  We had a remarkable lunch special at a nondescript restaurant. Afterwards we stopped at the drug store, because it was ‘on the way.’ I had to say I liked this lady.

  She offered to buy me some soap that was on sale. I declined but realized that I should start buying more things for the house where I lived.

  “You know my nephew used to be an attorney,” Mrs. Putalavase mentioned.

  “No kidding. Did he retire?”

  “No kidding, he said it was too much for too little money but I think it was the stress. He was a nervous child. He works at the public library now and other weird places. Can you imagine shelving books with a law degree?”

  It was late afternoon before I made it home intending to park the car for free and return to the office. Since my Aunt’s car was not there I decided to skip the office and enjoy the privacy.

  After a long hot shower, I had a few glasses of wine, copied my notes over from the interview and went to sleep.

  I felt like a real lawyer after meeting with Paul’s client. It looked like a nice case. The client was certainly personable. If this continued, I would be really happy because I would be indispensible to Paul, providing a little job or office security. The door to door attorney. Maybe I would look into magnetic signs for the side of my car. Wills on Wheels would be my logo.

  I filled out the probate forms, feeling guilty knowing I hadn’t talked to the client about fees. Considering the lunch special and the coupons at the drug store, this could be a problem.

  Since I was the designated proof reader for the office, I asked Annette to take a look at my forms for the case.

  “I’ll ask Mr. Cartofle,” she said with an expression I couldn’t read. It wasn’t agreement.

  I took the judge’s will out again. I wished I could ignore it, after all, no one was paying me for all this thinking. In his will, Laslo K
ing, the testator, announced he was of sound mind and memory, revoked all prior wills, was divorced twice, had not remarried and lived in Cook County, Chicago, Illinois.

  He must have moved to Lake County after he wrote the will. He named his three children, Rosie, Lilly and Bob and left them equal shares of his estate.

  There were three witnesses, a notary clause and the required attestation (“I swear”) clause. It was dated June 24, 1975. There were a few letter shadows that suggested a correcting typewriter. They could be from the fax transmission too.

  I couldn’t find the witnesses or notary in the phone book or lawyer directories. Considering the date on the document they could have moved, retired, died or all three.

  Out of curiosity, I called the Lake County clerk's office, and asked if they had a phone number for the man who filed the judge’s will. No information was available over the phone.

  The next morning I promised myself I would not spend any more time on the imaginary case. What made me think that they would hire someone like me?

  As soon as I sat down the phone rang.

  “Ms. Gavelle, this is Rosie King. Did you find any more information?”

  “Oh hi, I thought you…hired an…another attorney.” The words stuck in my throat like a wedge of lemon, and my eyes swelled up with tears while I struggled to find my composure.

  “Who said that, was it my brother?” Rosie asked suspiciously.

  “Well no but his will was filed.”

  “Who filed his will? Why didn’t you call me? Did you get a copy?”

  Great, I thought, criticism at 9:05 AM ruining my otherwise perfect day.

  Smiling, and inhaling deeply, I turned into a lawyer again.

  “Okay, let’s start again. Your father’s will was filed in Lake County, I got a copy over the weekend. I assumed that you hired an…another attorney.” The words still stuck in my throat.

  “No,” was the bleating answer like a goat.

  I wasn’t sure where I should apply the no.

  “Didn’t you know that the will was filed?” I asked.

  “No, I was waiting for a call from you, you promised to call me, you promised to check the clerk’s file.”

  There was a curious pause while I pondered whether or not I had promised to call since I didn’t write down her telephone number. Nonetheless I did promise to check the court file. I had to make a better system for phone numbers and promises.

  “Did my father divide things equally? Can I have a copy of the will?” Her voice betrayed her fear.

  “It’s an equal division. I can fax it to you.” Maybe I still had a chance of landing this client, but I was afraid to ask.

  “Who’s the executor?”

  “Robert King, is that your uncle?”

  “Well he was, Uncle Bob is dead.”

  “Sophie King is the successor executor,” I mentioned.

  “Well, she can barely see or walk. Is she getting part of Dad’s estate? She has plenty of her own money,” Rosie whined brimming with indignation.

  “The will is dated in 1975.” This statement was to force Rosie to do the math to see she would have been four or five years old when the will was written. An executor has to be eighteen years old.

  “When did your uncle die?”

  “Oh, it was before Lilly and I went to law school and moved to New York, so at least five years ago. Does that matter? I could call my Aunt if you need the date,” she offered.

  “No, I was just curious.” To fill the silence, I added, “I guess that was your Dad’s brother.” I felt stupid as the words came out of my mouth.

  “No, Sophie’s my Dad’s sister, her married name was also King. That’s why the names match.”

  I smiled to myself. “I can mail a copy of the will to your Aunt.” That was smooth! I bet she didn’t even know that I was trying to contact the named executor.

  There was another long pause. Apparently this did not impress Ms. King. “Rosie?”

  “I’m surprised my Aunt is in charge. I mean, my sister and I are both lawyers.”

  “Could there be a later will? This one is twenty-five years old.” It was funny she didn’t mention her brother was a lawyer too.

  “I don’t know. My father was a very private person. Bob said he would check the apartment again.”

  “Did you talk to Joe Wall?” Actually I wanted to know if anyone had hired him.

  “Who?”

  “Joe Wall, he filed the will.”

  “I don’t know the name.”

  “He filed the will up in Waukegan. I couldn’t find a listing for his law office, although I’m only guessing he’s the lawyer who wrote the will.”

  “Waukegan?”

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Why was it filed in Waukegan? Shouldn’t it be filed in Chicago?”

  “Did your father have any real estate in Lake County?”

  “No, just the condominium in downtown Chicago. Why?”

  I explained venue and Rosie promised to call me after she talked to her sister.

  While I was in the conference room faxing, Bob King left a message. I returned his call (since he left his number) and had an identical conversation with him.

  After I finished the two calls and faxes I realized that no one had talked about hiring me. Was I giving away the store? How were you supposed to get them signed up? Was this too basic a question to ask Judge Curie? Could I charge for this time although we didn’t have a fee agreement?

  When I’m stuck I turn to routine items like working on timesheets, and backing up the computer. As I was closing up for the day, the messages piled up.

  An apartment I saw would not be available for several months. Sophie King left a message saying that she did not care to be the executor. I duly noted this information on the file, and mocked her tone most of the way home.

  Rosie called the next morning, she said she would be in charge.

  “Have you talked to your brother?”

  “My sister and I already agree,” she murmured with threatening confidence, “And we have the majority.”

  That explained the duplicative calls, the sisters and brothers weren’t talking to one another.

  “We should probably meet when you are in town,” I mentioned casually.

  “I don’t have plans of coming to Chicago.”

  “How will you do the estate work?”

  “Well Bob can do a lot of it and we can hire you to do the rest.”

  Something seemed wrong with her plan, but I kept my mouth shut.

  “Ms. Gavelle, are you able to accept this case?”

  “No, well yes, I would like to represent you.”

  I wanted this case despite all of the red flags on it. I also liked having a new bell on my bike when I was a kid.

  As soon as the call ended, I started a timesheet on the matter and prepared a fee agreement letter. I love it when I get my priorities straight and at least look like an attorney to other people.

  I was really happy the rest of the week because I had the coveted dead judge’s estate even though I didn’t have a signed agreement or a deposit yet. Maybe I was wrong and the case was a loser and no one else wanted to represent them.

  The following Monday, Bob called. He launched into another soliloquy right after I said hello and we did a replay of the last Rosie/Fiona conversation. I urged him to talk to his sisters.

  “I...I am unsure what to do,” Bob stammered.

  Fumbling around a little more, we set an appointment for Bob to come into the office and for Rosie and Lilly to join us through a conference call. He would bring the financial papers from his father’s house. I felt smart enough for a seat on the United Nations.

  On the day of the appointment, Bob was a half-hour early. His tall awkward posture didn’t resemble his father’s confident one. He didn’t make much eye contact, and he reminded me of a cross eyed cat that I once knew well.

  From the size of the box he was carrying, he had located a lot of paperwork.
I was startled when I saw Sophie step out of his shadow, scowling. She wasn’t wearing her politically incorrect fur coat.

  Her eyes darted around the office indicating disapproval. When Bob moved his chair I couldn’t close the door. There was barely enough room for my ego, bruised as it was.

  We started out on a bad note when the aunt made it clear that I was not to call her that. She interrupted my explanation of the probate process saying that her brother, bla bla bla.

  Bob jumped in and explained they knew a little about probate from his father, the judge, and they wanted to sell the condominium right away and split the proceeds. In the meantime, the two daughters joined us via the speakerphone. They had the same goal, to finish quickly and to do as much of the work as possible. When they talked about keeping the costs low, I guessed they meant my fee.

  Rambling through the high points of my probate lecture, I mentioned that while a will could waive bond, an administrator had to buy a bond. That woke everyone up.

  “Ms. Gravel,” the Aunt began.

  “Gavelle,” I interrupted to correct her with a raised eyebrow for emphasis.

  “My brother was a highly respected judge. He was the head of the probate department and I assure you that we will not need a bond. He talked about attorneys who ran up the fee and dragged things on. You may simply draft an affidavit about the bond.”

  I carefully eyed the sour little person before I answered. “I’ll be happy to look for an exception for politically connected families if you want.”

  Have I mentioned my skill at inappropriate (while amusing) remarks?

  A voice sprang out of the speakerphone. “If we understand you correctly, it would be better for Aunt Sophie to serve as Executor to save the insurance premium.” I don’t know if that was from Rosie or if it was from Lilly.

  Four eyes bored into me with arduous pecuniary thrift.

  “Uh, yes,” I answered without any poise at all. “If better means less expensive.”

  “What exactly does the executor do?” Bob asked.