by Una Tiers
Honing words is a nice way to make a living even though it takes an inordinate amount of time. Of course I could have copied something from a form book, but it wasn’t good enough for my client.
In the weeks it took to prepare this work of legal art, I copied my weight in materials at the law library. After everything I read, starting with a new document seemed a better idea, but I deferred to the judge’s opinion over my three weeks of legal expertise.
After all the fuss I typed the codicil out on the office IBM Correcting Selectric II typewriter. There wasn’t a computer because Bob didn’t think computers would catch on. As I finished the document he insisted I bring it into his office where he took over and drew violent lines over my nice clean copy and suggested I buy my own bond paper since I was wasting so much of his. He said he would make the corrections before the Judge’s appointment.
For three days, I came in earlier than Bob and continued to revise the document, carrying the drafts home in my briefcase. Occasionally I left copies of Computer World magazine lying around where Bob might see them and update the office equipment. After a week he asked what computers I had at home to bring into the office. I lied and told him I was saving to buy one.
The finished product of my first codicil was magnificent. It wasn’t until weeks later that I realized I did it on my own. My Aunt Tess always says you can only rely on you.
Another problem with the office arrangement was that I wasn’t allowed to meet with clients alone. There was only one office and a reception area. Bob suggested I meet with clients when he was in court or at lunch. However, when I made appointments at those times, he magically had a change of plans and was in the office at the moment the client arrived. He ushered MY client into his office and proceeded to allow me to take notes.
Please stop by the Una Tiers author page, http://www.amazon.com/Una-Tiers/e/B007C8DMDA/ , or drop us a line to receive an email notice when JUDGE VS NUTS, goes LIVE again.
The book trailer http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=55XqIbk0VY4
Dorothy Daisy: A Fiona Gavelle Mystery
Available Now
Synopsis:
Fiona sees red flags and enormous daisies with a new client who alternates between sweet and threatening. Inconsistencies come up and then the client dies. At the cemetery the tide turns. You have to read this to believe what they find in the house and in the mashed potatoes.
© 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
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.”
That 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.
My arrangement is called space for services. That means I do a set number of hours of work for the firm, in exchange for the tiny office (that I love) and minimal copy machine use.
Space for services starts as an advantage for the new attorney and decreases in value quickly as they learn the business. After the attorney learns the ropes, the agreement turns in favor of the firm. The estimated top time for this arrangement is two years, three if the new attorney is kind of dumb.
My work consists of some ghost will and trust drafting, going to court for continuances (making me feel like a pawn or shill), proof reading and filing papers in court. When I go over the limit of hours, I am paid a meager hourly rate. This also irritates Paul, but when we get close to my set hours, he consolidates and makes the associates cover some of the work because they do not get paid extra.
I’m learning about running a business and what to do. When I put in my own phone line, for instance, Paul was royally annoyed. This assured me it was a good business decision. Why should my clients have his telephone number?
His angst affirms my business decisions.
LINK TO BUY THE BOOK AT AMAZON:
http://www.amazon.com/Dorothy-Daisy-Fiona-Gavelle-Mystery-ebook/dp/B00J3CBX5M
Wait...there’s more.
© 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, Photograph by Una Tiers
Chapter One
“Fiona?” Judge Curie asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you hear the awful news?”
“No, what happened?”
“Judge R. Etapage died.”
Sympathetic sounds came out of my mouth automatically, although I never met Judge R. Etapage.
With that I had another “date” to a funeral.
Chapter Two
The day of the funeral was balmy with a gusty wind kicking up annoying bits of dirt and dust.
Chicago is often called the windy city but the knick name isn’t about the weather. The phrase was coined due to the Chicago Politicians bragging about the 1893 Columbian Exposition.
We were the first guests to arrive and got a great parking space.
When the wind threatened to prophesize my Gone with the Wind hat, we stepped inside the church vestibule to wait for the others. As a result we turned into the sympathy greeters, like a discount department store.
Naturally, Judge Curie knew everyone. Several people handed me envelopes, and I said thank you, uncertain of who to give them to.
We didn’t start on time. After fifteen minutes of checking our watches, the mass commenced with barely audible organ music and twelve mourners counting two undertakers but not counting the deceased.
After mass, the crowd of twelve thinned to three plus the undertakers. The cortege included the hearse and two cars.
“Hold these, will you judge?”
“Are these the offerings? Why do you have them?”
“People handed them to me; I didn’t know who to give them to,” I explained.
“Someone there must have been family,” he noted, “probably that woman with the red hair ahead of us. She’s the only one I didn’t know.”
“I thought she had a red hat,” I squinted but could not tell.
I tailgated the Missouri car with the rather emphatic muffler, trying to get a better look at her hair without rear ending her. We zig zagged north hesitating at each red light, until we came to Pulaski Road. From there the cortege headed north, almost to the city limits.
“How many cars do you see, Fiona,” the judge asked.
“The hearse and one car.”
Because of his declining vision, the Judge stopped driving. He is over eighty and more wrinkled than any elephant I have met at the zoo. Adam Curie is the only part-time judge in the county, and probably the State of Illinois. He is assigned to the probate division, where estates of the deceased and lives of disabled people are administered. He exudes clout, like he invented the system.
Curie has a kind face and is always alert to being introduced or introducing himself to new people. He smiles even when he is complaining.
We have a driving relationship. I gave him a ride home after a reception about a year ago. Now, he calls every month or two to tell me about a reception he would like to attend.
I like the Judge; he’s witty, bordering on the obscene. He is invited to really nice receptions from bar groups and political realms. If I drive him, I have the chance to network with a semi famous person, and dinner.
There weren’t any mourners to carry the casket from the hearse to the grave so we had to wait until enough cemetery workers were collected. If not for my high heels, I would like to coin the phrase, Paula Bearers, but I digress.
Once everyone, I mean the three of us were gathered around the casket, the priest opened his bible. The third person was wearing a red hat with a matching dress. Her hair looked reddish too.
“Brothers and sisters,” the priest started softly. His ceremonial scarf flapped in the breeze while the gold threads danced in the sunlight. He had good posture.
My mind drifted from his prayers to examining the mourner in the festive red outfit. She wore sunglasses and enormous gold earrings. Tendrils of her hair were the same red color as her hat. Her attitude was victorious, as though she was accepting an academy award instead of attending a funeral.
While the priest prayed for the soul of the dead judge, I made up a story about the woman in red. She was the twin sister of the decedent, Judge R. Etapage.
In my daydream, the judge had an affair with her brother- in- law. Her sister divorced, and the cheating ex husband married the evil twin (now dead judge).
A year later the bad husband died in a suspicious boating accident and the sisters fought over his life insurance proceeds in court for five years. The end result was a lot of attorneys fees.
As a final gesture, the woman in the red dress was here to dance on her sister’s grave.
There weren’t mourners since friends and family disowned them after the scandal and the interminable court battle.
While I daydreamed, I gazed around at the headstones and the pretty clouds. I was lost in a more amusing place. Did people visit graves in real life the way they did in movies?
A jiggle at my elbow pulled me out of my daydream. The cemetery part was over. The priest extended his sympathies with a two handed hand shake and a head nod. It seemed rude to tell him I was not family, or a friend. So, I thanked him in what I hoped was a funeral appropriate family mannerism.
The funeral guy said the ceremony was over and that the family invited us to stop at a restaurant a few blocks down Pulaski Road.
We were guessing about the luncheon as we drove over to the restaurant. But when we arrived at the restaurant, we were ushered to a small room that had a few coffee urns and sliced pound cake on trays.
Cheap bastards.
Judge Curie shushed me when I said I was hungry. He gave the envelopes to the lady in red and we left after murmuring our sympathies.
The lady in red left right after we talked and roared out of the parking lot ahead of us.
http://www.amazon.com/Die-Judge-Fiona-Gavelle-Mystery-ebook/dp/B00OP8PO2C
This really is the end. Thank you.