by Una Tiers
Sometimes he watched the trains carry the people away in the evening, escaping to the suburbs. He imagined the commuters reading the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal. Some made lists for the next day, while working on their laptop computers and hand held organizers and of course making annoying cell phone calls.
For a while, he had big plans for his balcony, which he considered a substitute for a backyard. He would do a little container gardening, a little entertaining or simply relax after a hard day on the bench. He loved the smell of chocolate from the nearby factory that perfumed the air.
The flowers that he planted his first spring were ripped out of their containers by the wind and carried away into the night. His first summer in the condo Sophie gave him a gift tomato plant in a balcony planter with about two dozen blossoms promising a bountiful harvest. The plants were more established than the flowers and Laslo’s hope for a garden sprang to life again. But two days later when he went out to do a little farming, the whole plant was gone. He put the container under the kitchen sink and never spoke of flying tomatoes.
After a little reading on the subject, Laslo learned clusters of high-rise buildings can cause a canyon effect, making the wind whip around almost violently on the upper floors whether or not it was windy at the ground level.
On other balconies he saw grills, patio furniture, satellite dishes and bicycles, but never people. Laslo assumed the neighbors were inside watching dirty movies, or maybe the nature channel.
He gave his aluminum and nylon lawn chairs to Sophie after the wind knocked them against the patio window one evening making him think a helicopter was landing on the rooftop.
Hands down the winning feature of his new home was the commute. He could walk to the courthouse in fifteen or twenty minutes. If it was late or bad weather he could take a cab. However, he thought of cabs as a luxury, their use to be judicially managed. Sometimes on the way home, another judge would split a taxicab with Laslo, saving almost three dollars, but making them both quite happy.
Chapter Nineteen
In the morning I woke up with a smile, thinking about the break-in and the dinner (mostly about the dinner). My aunt was out of the house before I went downstairs. Her note, next to my meatloaf sandwich asked about the date.
With the coast clear, I packed a few boxes. In less than a week I would have my own place and wouldn’t feel like Minnie the moocher.
Why was I feeling guilty? Because I hated to impose on my aunt, but also felt like a deserter leaving. I also felt bad because I hadn’t been able to tell her I was leaving yet.
As the first order of business at the office, I made notes in the file about the break-in and recorded my time, placing the crumpled taxi receipt in my tax folder. My earlier letters had recommended changing the locks. It seems like a large part of being an attorney is avoiding blame.
When I looked up, David was leaning on my office doorway with a smile. I hoped he couldn’t read my mind since I went directly to entertaining impure thoughts.
“Good morning Ms. Gavelle,” he grinned. “Do you have time to look at a few things about the break-in?” he asked.
Temporarily speechless I nodded.
Walking in, he closed the door and hung his jacket on a chair. He walked around the desk to stand next to my chair, spreading the photos of the “crime” scene out. I liked the way he was comfortable in my office.
Always the professional, I took the opportunity to feign interest while I looked at him sideways. I concentrated on the tone of his words, copy came out as caw pee. Was he from Boston? His soap or aftershave had a hint of lime.
This wasn’t a Brink’s armored car robbery but it certainly garnered city attention. That was probably because the judge was, well, a judge. David pointed out the ransacking in detail. As his voice grew softer, I turned to him in anticipation.
“You aren’t paying attention to the pictures, Ms. Gavelle.”
Smiling, I feigned paying attention harder, while continuing to spin a hauntingly romantic tale. After lunch we would run away together, picking up bottled water, sandwiches and hard boiled eggs for the road. Would we settle in Taos, New Mexico? Actually anywhere that he would need to wear a t-shirt all day would do just fine.
To cover my lascivious thoughts, I joined him in speculation about the burglary, throwing in my obituary paranoia.
“That happens?” he asked.
I shrugged. Maybe this was the doorway to my life of crime if the law business didn’t work out.
“Weren’t you at the condominium last weekend?” he asked.
“Yes with the three children.”
“Did it look like anyone had been going through things?”
“Not like it did last night.”
“Did anyone make an inventory of what was in the condo?”
“No, but I don’t think there was anything valuable,” I tried to avoid sarcasm.
“But you had keys?”
“I, well, yes.”
“You were there twice?”
“Once with the kids and about a week earlier when I was looking for the condominium management information.”
He tilted his head. I should have admitted to snooping.
“Are your clients hiding things Ms. Gavelle?”
“Fiona, and it’s hard to say. I hope not.” All clients lie. He likely knew that.
“Do you know what was on the wall in the entryway?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“There was an empty bracket.”
“I’ll check with the kids,” I promised.
He left a caw pee of the report for me and a set of the photographs. I resumed my daydream. After we moved to Taos, New Mexico, we would get jobs tending bar and ride wild horses in the early morning and on weekends.
Bob’s awkward figure in the doorway reined me in and I tried to appear deep in thought about the federal constitution.
Bob was fascinated with the photographs although he saw everything firsthand. Was his interest genuine? Over emphasized? He didn’t remember anything hanging in the hallway. He left me a new set of keys to the apartment and asked about the statue of liberty drawing and reimbursement for the locksmith.
“I’ll get two copies made, you and your sisters can draw numbers for the original.”
“Fine, although I’m certain it’s mine. My father loved that painting.”
“This is a solution. Didn’t you ask your Aunt to write you a reimbursement check?”
“She’s mad at me, would you pay me and get the money from her?” he asked.
To meet him half way, I promised to send the bill to his Aunt marked ‘approved.’
“You know I’m thinking about my father even more now. I imagined I saw him walk past his building after the break-in.” He looked down. “I miss him.”
Bob had never said anything personal before. Briefly I considered telling him I had the same thought but stopped before I did.
After he left, I was making notes in my file when Paul walked in and declined to take a seat when offered.
“Was that a policeman?” he asked suspiciously.
“That was a client.”
“The big guy.”
“Why do you ask Paul?”
“It was my understanding that you handled probate and wills. Now you have criminal matters.”
“I don’t handle criminal matters.”
“We represent a certain kind of client,” he said without convincing me.
“So do I.”
“So I don’t want an estate planning client to sit next to a burglar in the waiting area.”
“He isn’t a burglar and I don’t do criminal matters.” I didn’t give him any more information because his haughty attitude irritated me. I was tempted to mention the clients in his waiting room didn’t know the lawyer they met with didn’t even prepare their wills.
“Please keep our other clients in mind Ms. Gavelle.”
I closed the door and mimicked him in a high pitche
d voice. I bet he would have a fit if he knew I was representing women from the shelter. If he knew I was representing the judge’s estate he would turn green with envy. Like a toad.
After a while my suspicious nature kicked in, my filing cabinet wasn’t locked. Was there a chance that he was snooping in my paperwork? Since I have a talent for taking things apart, I removed the locks from the cabinet and the desk drawer.
Maybe Steve was right, having your own practice is the best security for a lawyer. I asked Annette what happened to the lawyer who used to be in my office and she shook her head.
“I can’t talk about it,” with that she walked away.
I started to work with my door closed. At the end of the day I locked the door, knowing full well Paul had keys. It was my small stand of independence or defiance.
Chapter Twenty
As I was leaving for the day, Annette handed me some filing. Dutifully I packed the file into my case to take care of in the morning.
Bright and early the next morning, when I was handing the clerk the documents, I noticed that they were for the estate of Enelda Chase. They weren’t the court forms I prepared, but done over again on older forms with Paul’s name on the bottom instead of mine.
That rat.
His note said to set the date at the earliest opening. There were dates available in three weeks, but I set it five weeks ahead to a date when I would be out of the office or maybe an office.
Steve wasn’t in the library when I went looking for him. Maybe he found office space.
Saturday I put the new locks on the desk and filing cabinet. If Paul wanted to complain he would have to admit he was trying to open my files or desk.
The quality of my office mail was increasing. One fine Monday morning I received three catalogues for caramel corn in enormous tubs (on sale) and a floor mat catalogue. As I was tossing them into the wastebasket, a letter from the IRS that had apparently been tucked inside one of them fell on the floor.
I stared at it for a few seconds, twitching my nose, blinking and nodding, but the envelope didn’t disappear. My heart was racing at the ‘you got an IRS letter rate.’ The letter was addressed to the Estate of Laslo King c/o Fiona Gavelle. Since we hadn’t filed any tax returns I didn’t make a mistake, yet, and wondered what they wanted.
I have a bad attitude about anything from the IRS because they don’t surprise many people with unexpected refunds. Nonetheless, I decided to act like an adult and open the letter instead of delaying it for another day or a month.
The judge’s tax returns were inside. My heart increased to the ‘lawyer reading a judge’s tax return’ rate.
Scanning the returns I was disappointed because they were very generic with only salary, a little interest income and some stock dividends. They were hand written, suggesting self-preparation.
Two of the years, 1996 and 1998, had unidentified interest income. The 1997 return did not. 1997 was the year that they accused the judge of underreported income. Maybe this was an oversight?
You must admit the IRS is good to be able to spot a flaw in the pattern of three returns. They reminded me of an old western movie, where a man with a white hat relentlessly pursued two handsome bank robbers on horseback all over the wild west and then to Bolivia.
Bob brought in two more boxes of papers that included income tax returns, checkbook registers and bank statements. He attached a note saying his Aunt had the documents at her house. Clients, who can figure them out?
The most useful items were the checkbook registers. In 1996 and 1997 there were somewhat regular monthly deposits for $500. My first guess was this was a loan, probably to one of the children. The flaw with my theory is at 500 a month, it didn’t match the unidentified income the IRS was claiming. And the children likely wouldn’t prepare a 1099 on a family loan.
I drafted a response to the IRS letter, requesting a copy of the 1099 that they had. Form 1099 reports annual income. It would be hard to tell them that we didn’t owe any taxes with the lack of records and a dead taxpayer.
A practical way to look at tax bills is to compare how much it will cost to fight them against the amount of tax allegedly due. Sometimes it’s cheaper to pay instead of getting to the bottom of the issue. From the standpoint of a client, I thought this would be a hard item to sell. Clients tend to get wrapped up in principles and ignore practicality until they receive the attorney’s bill.
I made a note to write to Sophie and then returned to daydreaming. This was easier to do it with my new close the office door program.
The break-in stayed in my mind and raised a lot of questions, so I called Bob.
“Bob, its Fiona, do you have a minute?”
“Sure, but I’m real busy,” he complained impatiently.
“Okay. You said that the police called you about the robbery?” I confirmed.
“Yes.”
“Do you know what time they called you?”
“It was before five, because I was at work.”
“How did they know to call you?” I asked.
“It was my father’s condominium.”
“Bob, how did the police know that?”
“Well they probably knew my father was a judge. Why are you asking?”
“I don’t know. Thanks. Oh wait, do you know who called you?”
“No. I have to run.”
It was two minutes to high noon, I probably threatened Bob’s lunch hour.
His answers made things seem more out of order. If the police didn’t get inside until Bob arrived, how did they know there was a burglary?
Who told them where Bob worked? A neighbor?
And if the door was locked how would the neighbor know or suspect there was a burglary?
Didn’t David say the door was locked when they arrived?
Maybe the burglar called the police?
Delighted with an excuse to call him that sounded professional and not like I was swinging my purse on the corner, I called. The call went to voice mail and unfortunately I wasn’t in when he returned the call.
His answer was an emergency call came in to 9-1-1 about a burglary at the judge’s apartment. When the police arrived, Bob was waiting in the lobby, and they assumed Bob called the police. Bob said he came into the lobby to find the police waiting for him.
Is there an explanation that allows for both versions of who called first?
I examined the pictures of the mess again but saw nothing new and didn’t see any judicial shorts. Probably some professional undergarment courtesy.
It wasn’t necessary to toss everything around to see what was in the boxes or bags. Maybe the burglar was disappointed not to find anything nice enough to steal and the mess was an expression of his displeasure?
Or, maybe the break in wasn’t about stealing something. Maybe someone was looking for something. Was it the library police about a few overdue books?”
Bob left a message saying he had repacked and removed all of the boxes for his sisters. He said his family” had made a decision to donate everything remaining in his father’s apartment. He promised to contact the Salvation Army for an appointment and said he would drop the lawyer things at my office.
Unwilling to trust Bob, I sent a confirming letter to the daughters and Aunt about the furniture.
As I was trying to clear my desk (not too successfully) I looked up to find David standing in the doorway again. Although I am usually suspicious of really attractive guys, my brain seemed to go on automatic or brainless when he was around. Maybe that’s where my suspicion originates.
“We should lock that outer door," I teased.
“Almost everyone is gone. Paul answered the door.”
“Did he ask you anything?”
“Yes but I didn’t answer.” He seemed pretty serious with a furrowed brow and pursed lips. Once again I was at the wrong end of the emotional scale.
"I thought we could have a talk.” He closed the office door, sat down and waited. We stared at one another. The chills
I was feeling weren’t romantic.
Placing a manila file on my desk he said, “I brought you a copy of the autopsy and corrected death certificate.” He sat perfectly still. I couldn’t see his chest moving. Our eyes locked.
The phone distracted us. Why did I turn the volume up? The call was from Rosie saying her Aunt was in the hospital and she would be in Chicago in a few days.
“I talked to her earlier,” David noted.
“Autopsy?” I questioned.
He nodded.
“You aren’t from burglary are you?”
“Homicide.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Although I felt stupid for not paying attention, things made more sense now. Evidence technicians, reports ready the next day complete with my own personal copy of the color pictures after the break in. I wasn’t paying attention to much more than David’s big brown eyes.
“How long have you been working on this?” I asked David.
“Since his body was found.”
When I was too young to know better, I wanted to be a doctor. But growing up I recognized I have a major problem with needles and blood. That’s why I picked law where I have to deal with only one of them.
Today I am politely considered squeamish. In my own defense, I’ve made progress, I don’t always need to cover my ears and sing to avoid hearing gory details.
With full appreciation of my challenges, why did I ask him any questions?
“It wasn’t a heart attack?” I squeaked out.
“It was a severe allergic reaction that caused a heart attack. The toxicology reports just came in.”
“An allergy?” I repeated.
“To peanuts,” he added.
“He died from an an allergy?” I stuttered. I thought peanuts were good for you.
“Yes.”
“If he died from an allergy why are you involved David?”