by Jim Stevens
“Me? That’s a big step up. It must mean you have faith in me.”
I don’t dispute her assumption. Why bother? “All I know is there isn’t anyone more qualified to spot a gigolo than you, Tiffany.”
She beams with pride.
I leave ninety percent of my coffee on the table and get up to leave.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ve got to pick up my kids at horse camp.”
“You mean you’re not going with me to investigate Johnny?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Why would I? You’re in charge.”
“But you have to come with me.”
“No. You have to do this on your own.”
“I hate that.”
“Tiffany, time to put on your big girl pants.”
“Mr. Sherlock,” she says flustered. “This reminds me of when I tried to run away from home, but the chauffeur refused to drive me.”
_____
As I pull up between the manure piles, Kelly and Care are sitting on a hay bale. They look depressed.
“Sorry, I’m late.”
They get up and slowly walk to the car. “You’re always late, Dad,” Kelly says as she slides into the back seat.
“So, what’s new?”
“We got kicked out of camp,” Care says.
“What?”
“We got booted,” Kelly concurs.
I stop the car and pull over to the side of the gravel driveway. “What?”
“Rascal bit Janine Bactine on the leg.”
I turn around and face the girls. “Why?”
Care says, “We don’t know. You’d have to ask Rascal.”
“The girl who got bit, her name is Janine Bactine?”
“No,” Kelly says. “But that’s what I call her behind her back.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. The name just seems to fit,” Kelly says.
My next thought is financial. “Did they give you a refund?”
“No.”
“Wait here.”
I jump out and make a bee-line for the stinking office. Dutchy with a “y” is sitting at the desk, probably counting my money like an insomniac counts sheep. “Excuse me,” I say. “My girls told me they got kicked out of camp.”
“That’s the word, pardner.”
“Why?”
“Biting.”
“They didn’t bite anyone, the horse did.”
“It’s their horse.”
“So?”
“You haven’t taught them about responsibility, have you?” Dutchy takes off her cowboy hat to wipe the sweat from her brow. The circular indentation on her forehead where the hat rested makes her look like a cowgirl angel with a broken halo.
“I’ve taught them, but I haven’t gotten around to the horse yet. I thought etiquette lessons were included in the class fees.”
“You thought wrong.”
“This is absurd.”
Dutchy with a “y” flicks pieces of dried manure off her hat with her index finger. “I guess the girls didn’t mention that the attack was provoked,” she says.
“What did they do, tape a carrot to the kid’s leg, and told Rascal to ‘fetch?’”
“We have strict rules about biting.”
“Well, then take Rascal’s horseshoes away for thirty days, but leave my kids out of it.”
“No can do.”
“They didn’t bite anybody.”
“They didn’t do anything to stop the assault, either.”
“What did you expect them to do, jump into the line of incisor fire?”
“Kelly should have pulled up on the reins the moment the horse made a move.”
“Maybe she didn’t know, probably because horse biting hasn’t been covered in horse camp yet. It’s only the first day.”
“Sorry, pard. But rules are rules.”
This is nuts, but maybe there’s a silver lining somewhere in all this bullshit. “I want my money back.”
“No refunds. It says so on the brochure.”
“I didn’t see the brochure.”
“You should catch up on your reading.”
“I want my money back.”
“Sorry, no can do.” Dutchy with a “y” licks the tips of her thumb and forefinger, puts her hat back on, and runs her wet digits across the tip of the brim. “Evenin’, Mr. Sherlock.” Dutchy leans to the left, reaches underneath her right butt cheek, gives herself a scratch, and says “Aaaah.”
Back in the car, the girls wait impatiently.
“What happened, Dad?”
“No, you tell me what happened. She said you provoked the horse.”
Care speaks first, which tells me something immediately.
“Rascal barely bit her. There wasn’t even any blood.”
“What happened, Kelly?” I ask, determined to get to the bottom of the situation.
“Janine is a real bitch.”
“Kelly, you’re not allowed to say ‘bitch’, especially around your father.”
“She says it around me all the time,” Care says.
“Shit, Dad. That’s what Janine is.”
I yell, “You’re not allowed to say ‘shit’ either!”
“I’m only trying to be honest,” Kelly raises her voice an octave higher than mine. “Janine Bactine is a shitty bitch.”
“Kelly!”
“What? Just because her dad has a lot of money and bought her a Kentucky thoroughbred horse, doesn’t mean she can diss Rascal anytime she wants to.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“Janine Bactine said Rascal had more flies buzzing around him than a kid on the Save the Children TV commercial. So, I said her horse wasn’t good enough to walk in Rascal’s road apples.”
“And?”
“Rascal must have picked up on my vibe. He went over and bit Janine in her designer jodhpurs.”
“So, it was provoked?”
“Not by me, Dad.”
I don’t know what to do. I better think this thing through, before I get mad and bite someone myself. I start the car and pull out of the driveway.
“What are we going to do, Dad?” Care asks.
“Cancel the check I wrote to this place.”
“No, I mean about the rest of our vacation time with you,” Care qualifies her point.
Kelly jumps in. “Yeah, Dad, what other fun things do you have planned?”
I shudder to think I am raising two more Tiffanys.
_____
First thing Tuesday morning I call the bank. I must push three hundred different prompts, follow the directions of a computerized voice, and try my best to stop payment on Dutchy’s check, but I end up in a “phone hell” worse than any Dante could have imagined. A few times I yell back at the voice in frustration, but it ignores my anger. I hit the O numerous times in hopes of speaking to a human being, but each time I get bounced back into the pit of “phone hell.” Alexander Graham Bell, what have thou wrought?
I wake the girls at eight, yet another unpleasant experience.
“Why are we getting up so early?” Care says through her sleepiness. “We’re on vacation.”
“We have to go to court.”
“Is Mom suing you for more money?”
“Yes, but not today,” I tell them. “Get up, get dressed, and get something to eat.”
“Gee, Dad, you’re no fun.”
“Someday, Kelly, you’ll be a parent, and you’ll be no fun either.”
“Not anytime soon, Dad,” she tells me.
I certainly hope that’s the case.
_____
America is a litigious society. When we have a problem or feel malfeasance has been perpetrated upon us, we have the right to sue in a court of law. The fact that we have this right is a good thing. The fact that everybody seems to sue everyone for anything and everything is a bad thing. To be a good American, you have to take the good with the bad.
Daley Center is packed. With the hol
iday last week, tons of cases got backed up due to vacation days, sick days being taken, and criminals leaving early to get a jump on holiday wrongdoing. At nine-thirty the court is already an hour behind schedule.
As the three of us sit in the back row, two idiots stand before the judge. The guy on the left is suing the guy on the right because he claims the guy’s dogs bark so loud, and so much, that he can’t sleep, which in turn caused him to nod off at work, which in turn was the reason for him being fired from his job as a night watchman.
“What’s taking so long, Dad?” Care asks.
“The wheels of justice can be slow to turn.”
We get “shushed” by the bailiff.
Now the guy on the right is getting his turn, countering with the argument that his dog only barks during the day, when provoked by sirens, traffic, kids, and other dogs; all normal, run of the mill everyday reasons to arf, arf. He’s counter-suing the guy on the left for animal cruelty, claiming he uses a BB gun on Jekyll and Hyde, his two basset hounds.
I am intently following the case, only to be surprised to hear the words I’ve come to loath. “Oh, Mr. Sherlock.”
“Tiffany, what are you doing here?”
“Hi, Tiffany,” my girls call out in unison.
“Aren’t you happy to see me?”
“No.”
And the bailiff throws the lot of us out of the courtroom.
In the hallway, I ask, “Tiffany how’d you know I was here?”
“My dad told me.”
“Did he say you were getting on his nerves?”
“Yes. How’d you know?”
“I’m a detective.”
“It’s like you have a sixth detective sense.”
“Tiffany, will you take us shopping?” Kelly asks.
“Later maybe. Right now your dad has given me an assignment on the case we’re working on together.”
“Can I help?” Care asks.
“I don’t see why not.” Tiffany says. “I like working as a team, better than by myself.”
At that moment, the bailiff comes out the courtroom door. “Stroup versus Richmond Insurance,” he announces loudly.
I tell the girls, “You people stay out here.”
From the opposite direction I hear, “You got the pictures, Sherlock?”
I look to my left, and see Dewey Didier, Esq. in his thousand dollar suit, standing in the aisle with Leonard Louis. “Is he trying to sell you some pictures?” I ask.
“How’d you know?” Dewey says.
“Mr. Sherlock is a detective,” Tiffany answers.
Leonard gives me a “hello there” smile.
“Hand ΄em over, Leonard.”
Leonard Louis separates his stack of photos, and hands me the top half.
“Don’t I get all of them?” I ask.
“No.”
“Why not? I paid for them.”
“I never said you got all of them,” Leonard says. “I need enough to go around for everyone.”
It is pointless to argue. Why bother?
I follow Dewey into the courtroom, and the three girls follow me. So much for staying behind.
Judge Hopkins must have ruled in favor of the guy on the left, because he jumps up and down, and points his index finger at his nemesis, “I told you, you were going down.”
Woof, woof.
Now it’s our turn.
Dewey and I proceed through the swinging half-gate into the inner sanctum of the courtroom. The girls take a seat in the front row.
Dewey Didier is one of the many attorneys employed by Richmond Insurance. He was hired not due to his law school pedigree, or his background in civil law, but mainly on the basis of the “It takes one to know one” theory of law. Dewey is as dishonest as a jailhouse snitch. He has no problem lying, cheating, avoiding the truth, or stretching it. His biggest problem is trying to remember which lie he just told, so he doesn’t tell another lie that may or may not negate his previous whopper. He and Leonard Louie make perfect bookends.
I sit at the defense table. Dewey approaches the bench.
Ralph Stroup, the Plaintiff in the case, slowly makes his way up the aisle with the use of a walker. His wife, a plus-sized older woman who wears what resembles a flowered tent, follows closely behind. This dumpy, dour woman with a built-in bad demeanor wheels Ralph’s portable oxygen tank, the tubes of which run from the top of the tank to Ralph’s belt, up his back, around his head, and into his nostrils. Ralph’s face resembles a sick catfish. He wears a pair of stained slacks that haven’t met a hot iron and one of those dress shirts that has a square bottom ending at the beltline. Every time Ralph moves, a flash of white pasty stomach or back fat is revealed. He has no attorney present, but does carry a copy of Lawyering for Dummies on the top of his walker.
Ralph Stroup sure looks a whole lot different than the last time I saw him.
The bailiff reads the spiff on the case. Ralph moans. Dewey shuffles his papers. Judge Hopkins tries to look interested, and I keep the photos of Ralph at the motel hidden for maximum dramatic courtroom effect. The gavel comes down. “Proceed,” the judge orders.
Ralph calls his only witness to the stand — himself.
“Mind if I stand on the stand, Your Honor?” he asks after he is sworn in. “The pain, Your Honor. The pain.”
“Whatever.”
“I was severely injured in the performance of my duties as the night janitor while working at the Groupon Corporation.”
“What happened?” the judge asks, although he’s not supposed to.
“I was plunging the number three toilet in the ladies bathroom, when I was crippled for life. The sign clearly says, Do not flush tampons in toilet, but these uppity, cyber-spaced-out women don’t pay attention. Just when I thought I had the clog cleared, the pressure backed up and the toilet exploded like a volcano, knocking me back into the stall like a circus clown shot out of a cannon.”
I turn around to see Tiffany holding her hands over Care’s ears.
“Due to the incidence, I suffer from sciatica, gout, lower back pain, COPD, nerve damage, and ED. That’s erectile dysfunction, Your Honor.”
“Thank you for the added explanation, Mr. Stroup,” the judge says. “I’m sure the last remaining person on earth who hasn’t seen a Viagra commercial is appreciative. Continue.”
Ralph takes as deep a breath as he can. “And although I have given them ample proof, along with doctors’ statements and test results, the Richmond Insurance Company refuses to pay out on my disability policy.”
The bailiff takes a folder filled with papers and notes from Ralph.
“Your Honor,” Dewey interrupts. “The defense in this case has not been privy to the contents of the file, Plaintiff is offering as evidence.”
The judge opens the file carefully. He picks up one sheet from the pile, and holds it up by the tip of the right hand corner for all to see. It’s covered with enough bodily fluids to fill a research facility.
“Why don’t you take the originals, Mr. Didier, and make me copies.”
Dewey takes a long look at the moist pages and refuses the file. “On second thought, Your Honor, I’m good.”
“Let’s move on.” The judge is losing patience.
Ralph continues to give unneeded details concerning his ailments. The comments describing his current phlegm are especially graphic. His story is punctuated by grunts, groans, and verbal disclosers including “I’m not sure I can go on any longer,” and “I’m living in a torture chamber.” He finishes by trashing Richmond Insurance as a part of an evil conspiracy of big business intent on cheating the little man in America out of what he’s due.
If I’m grossed out, I can only imagine what my kids are thinking, listening to all this. I turn around and see Tiffany totally engrossed and hanging on every Stroup description as if it were a plot point in a soap opera. Kelly couldn’t care less, and Care is busily preparing to give her sister a wet willie.
“Mr. Stroup, do you rest?”
<
br /> “No, not very well, Your Honor.”
“I meant your case.”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Didier, your witness.”
Dewey approaches Ralph and asks, “Mr. Stroup, are you forced to use your walker on a twenty-four hour basis.”
“No.”
“No? You don’t use it twenty-four-seven?”
“I don’t take it to bed with me,” Ralph explains. “Although I might as well since I can’t sleep.”
“I thought you might be a sleepwalker.” Dewey’s attempt at humor falls flat.
“You can’t be a sleepwalker if you can’t get to sleep,” Ralph counters.
I see to my left Leonard Louis is speaking in hushed tones with Ralph’s wife.
Dewey moves on. “Mr. Stroup, one week ago did you register as a guest at the Sleepy Hollow Motor Motel on West Madison Street in Chicago?”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Ralph, in a fit of panic, sneezes out a nose-full of snot, backing up the oxygen tube.
The entire audience in the courtroom literally pushes back in their seats to avoid the spray.
Dewey repeats the question.
“I really couldn’t say,” Ralph responds.
“Did you, or didn’t you?”
“I can’t say because I also have memory lapses. . . on account of the accident.”
“Why didn’t you mention that in your list of ailments, Mr. Stroup?”
“I forgot.” Ralph smiles, thinking he may have won on this point.
I pull out the stack of eight-by-tens from the envelope Leonard gave me and hand them to Dewey, who carefully keeps the photos out of Ralph’s line of sight, until he begins to reveal them one by one.
“This sure looks like you entering the Sleepy Hollow, and checking in for their Nooner special,” Dewey says, holding the picture up for all to see, including Mrs. Stroup.
Ralph coughs. Mrs. Stroup and Leonard Louis shake hands, as if settling on a price.
“And this looks like you in the room you rented.”
Ralph keeps coughing. Mrs. Stroup waits impatiently for the next photo to be revealed.
“And your friend, who joined you at the motel…” Dewey says pointing her out in the next photo. “Please tell her I love her beehive hair-do.”
Judge Hopkins has already had enough, but he allows Dewey to go through the rest of his show and tell, ending with the last photo of a naked Ralph in manly splendor.