Trophy Widow (14 page)

Chapter Fifteen

I slowed as I approached the Oasis Shelter and carefully weaved my car through the obstacle course of TV news vans double-parked at odd angles along the street. The scene in front of the shelter resembled the aftermath of a highly contained natural disaster, as if a tornado had touched down briefly before leaping clear of the county. All was calm on either side of the pair of two-flats, and all was chaos in between. Jumbled belongings—clothes, toiletries, towels, hair dryers—lay in haphazard piles on the lawn. Small children wandered among the piles, barefoot and in diapers; others cried in their mothers' arms. Some of the mothers were crying, too. Other women were gathered in small groups—confused, angry, peering around warily. First-floor windows were boarded up. Yellow hazard tape crisscrossed the door fronts. Stapled to the front doors of both two-flats were white cardboard signs reading Condemned by Order of Health Department. Arc lights from the TV news crew illuminated the scene, casting jumpy shadows as reporters moved among the crowd, trailing minicam crews behind them.

“Rachel!”

I spotted Sheila Trumble off to the side of the front porch of the two-flat on the right. She was huddled with one of the social workers, Rashita Jordan.

“What is going on here?” I asked when I reached her.

“The health department.” Sheila shook her head in frustration. “They kicked everyone out and closed us down. They've condemned the buildings.”

“Why?”

“Rat infestation.”

“Rats? You've got be kidding.”

“Rats, my ass,” Rashita grumbled. She was a scowling, heavyset black woman. “Bullshit's what that is.”

“Were you here when the health department arrived?” I asked her.

“Oh, yeah,” Rashita said, nodding her head derisively. “Heard 'em banging around down there, claiming they found nests of rats in the basement, rat droppings all over the place. ‘Dangerous infestation,' they say. ‘Gots to call in vector control ASAP,' they say.” She snorted in disgust. “Vector control, my ass. Only evidence they found down there is what they brought in themselves.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“'Cause I know rat droppings, that's why. 'Cause I grew up with rat droppings. 'Cause I been working at this shelter for going on a year now. 'Cause I been in that basement a dozen times, including just last Wednesday. Unless Mayflower moved in a pack of rats yesterday, only rat droppings down there are the ones those deceitful motherfuckers carried in with them.”

“When did they start kicking people out?” I asked her.

“About ninety minutes ago.”

I checked my watch. “After the courts closed. Of course.”

“They called me at home,” Sheila said. “I drove down here as quickly as I could, but they'd already boarded the place up. Just look.” She gestured helplessly toward the scene on the front lawn. “These poor women.”

I shook my head angrily. “Turner.”

“What?”

“The great Nate the Great. He's behind this.”

She nodded distractedly. “We have to find places for these people tonight. I've got Sara calling around to motels, but she's not having much luck. I can put up a few at my house. Oh, this is terrible.”

I fished my keys out of my purse and worked the house key off the chain. “Here,” I said, handing the key to Sheila. “This is the key to my house. There are two extra bedrooms, a couch, and a sleeping bag in the basement. I can put up at least six—more if they don't mind sleeping on the floor. My dog's in the backyard. He'll bark, but he's harmless.”

I turned to Rashita. She had her arms crossed over her chest and was tapping her foot irately.

“So you know rats?” I asked her.

She snorted. “Honey, I grew up with rats. I knew some of them better than my cousins.”

“Then you're coming with me.”

“Where we going?”

“To find a judge.”

She glanced at her watch and frowned. “Where you going to find a judge at seven-thirty?”

“At home. Come on.”

Sheila walked with us to my car. I started the engine and rolled down the window.

“I'll call you on your cell phone when we find a judge,” I told her. “Give us about an hour. See if you can delay things here.”

***

The city judges rotated duty call—a different one each night. That meant that the first thing we had to do was find out which judge was on call. I knew from prior experience that the best place to start was the warrant division of the circuit attorney's office at the Muny Courts, which is what most attorneys called the Municipal Courts Building on Market Street. The folks in the warrant division would definitely have the name and phone number of tonight's duty judge, since the principal judicial function after hours was the approval of search warrants and arrest warrants.

As we approached Muny Courts, I recited three names under my breath like a mantra:

Grady, Ritter, or Williams—Grady, Ritter, or Williams—Grady, Ritter, or Williams
.

There were twenty-one judges in the Circuit Court of the City of St. Louis, and eighteen of them were men. The other three—Joan Grady, Carolyn Ritter, and LaDonna Williams—were my top picks to hear a motion for emergency relief on behalf of a battered-women's shelter. Judge Williams was number one on the list. Not only was she black but she had handled domestic abuse cases during her years in the circuit attorney's office. We needed a sympathetic judge tonight.

Grady, Ritter, or Williams—Grady, Ritter, or Williams—Grady, Ritter, or Williams
.

***

The assistant circuit attorney was fat guy in his thirties with thinning hair and a messy brown mustache speckled with food crumbs. He gave me a dubious look as he tugged at the edge of his disgusting mustache. “A civil case? I don't know.”

“What don't you know?” I asked.

“These judges”—he paused, shaking his head—“they don't want to be bothered by some civil case that can wait until tomorrow.”

“That may be true, but this happens to be a civil case that can't wait until tomorrow.”

He raised his eyebrows. “That's what you say. How am I supposed to know that's really so?”

“What you know or don't know about my case is irrelevant.”

“Oh, yeah?” He thrust his chin forward. “Then how am I supposed to decide whether there's really an emergency?”

“You're not. That decision is mine. I'm the lawyer and it's my client and I've decided that it's an emergency.”

He stared at me, his jaws clenched.

Oh, the marvels of testosterone.

Finally, I said, “Are you going to give me the name and number?”

“Are you going to tell me why I should?”

I nodded. “Sure, I'll tell you why. But first tell me your name.”

“Dick.”

“Dick what?”

“Dick Carple, lady. Now tell me why.”

“Sure, Dick. My client is the Oasis Shelter. That's a shelter for battered women. The health department closed them down tonight—kicked all the women and children out. They're out on the front yard right now—children milling about in the dark, clothes and teddy bears and personal belongings piled on the ground. Right now. And guess who else is out there right now, Dick? Reporters and camera crews from every television station in town.” I put my hands on the countertop separating us and leaned forward. “You want to know why you should give me the name and the phone number of the duty judge, Dick? Because if you don't, I am going to go right back over to Oasis Shelter and I'm going to stand on the front lawn, and I'm going to hold a press conference. Once I'm sure all those video cameras are running, I am going to announce that the only reason those poor women and children are stranded out there in the darkness is because of a pompous city attorney named Dick Carple who thinks he's too important to give me the name of the duty judge. And then, Dick, I will tell them exactly where they can find you. Ten minutes later, all those TV reporters with their minicams are going to descend on you like a pack of wolves and you're going to get to explain why you think you're so much more important than a bunch of homeless women and children.”

I leaned back from the counter. “Tell you what, Dick. I'm going to count to ten. Either you give me that name and number before I finish, or I am going to make sure your name and number are the lead story on every newscast tonight.”

Rashita cackled. “You better do like she say, white boy.”

“Ready, Dick? One—two—three—four—”

“Here,” he said, scribbling out the name and number. “Take it, goddammit.”

I took the slightly crumpled sheet of paper and looked down at it. Judge Joan Grady.
Yes
.

I look up and smiled. “Thank you, Dick.”

***

“But I thought you were the duty judge.”

“I am, Miss Gold.” There was static on the line. Judge Grady must have been on a cell phone. “But you're seeking a TRO for the shelter. That makes your case a civil equity matter. You need to call Judge Clausen. I have his number here.”

“But he's not the duty judge.”

“That's okay. The equity judges prefer to control their own dockets. You need to call Judge Clausen. Do you have a pen?”

So much for sisterhood solidarity
.

I wrote down the phone number. Rashita and I were at the pay phone down the hall from the circuit attorney's office. I fed more coins into the slot and dialed the number.

Judge Clausen's wife answered the phone with all the warmth she no doubt displayed for telephone solicitors. “He's not the duty judge tonight, young lady.”

“I know that, Mrs. Clausen. I called the duty judge. When she heard that I had an equity matter, she instructed me to call your husband.”

“Oh, really? Which one is she?”

“Judge Grady.”

“Hmmph,” she sniffed. “Well, hold on.” And then, in a muffled voice, “It's for you. I don't know—some
lady
lawyer.”

I could hear the television in the background. Sounded like the Honorable Martin Clausen was watching a
Seinfeld
rerun.

“Hello?” The voice was raspy with age and cigarettes.

“Judge Clausen?”

“Who is this?”

“Rachel Gold, Your Honor. I have an emergency motion for a temporary restraining order.”

“Who's the defendant?”

“The city of St. Louis—or at least the health department.”

“What's the emergency?”

I told him who my client was and described the current predicament of the residents. He listened quietly and said nothing when I finished.

“This can't wait until tomorrow,” I said. “I've got homeless women and children on the lawn.”

I heard a deep inhale. “Okay, but I want the city represented.”

“How do I arrange that?”

“Call someone in the city counselor's office. Tell them I'm hearing your motion in my dining room in one hour. Tell them to send someone.”

“That office is closed, Your Honor. How do I get a home phone number?”

“Go down to the Muny Courts, young lady. There'll be an assistant circuit attorney in the warrants division. Tell him you want the home phone list for the city counselor's office. If he can't find it, then tell him he's it.”

“Pardon?”

“Tell him that I expect him in my dining room when the hearing starts. Got it?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“See you in one hour, Miss Gold.”

Click
.

I hung up and turned to Rashita.

“Well?” she said.

I glanced down the hall toward the warrants division. “Guess who we get to talk to again?”

***

Judge Clausen was seated at the head of the dark walnut table in the dining room of his brick bungalow in south St. Louis. The polished surface of the table gleamed in the spotless room. Like most of his neighbors, the Honorable Martin Clausen was of German descent and no doubt a blood relative to some of the employees of Anheuser-Busch, whose enormous brewery and corporate headquarters anchored this part of town. I was used to seeing Judge Clausen in black robes. Tonight he could have passed for one of those brewery workers in his faded khakis, scuffed brown loafers, and black and gold Missouri Tigers T-shirt stretched tight across his ample belly. His thinning gray hair was slicked straight back. I watched him tug absently on one of his pendulous earlobes as he read through my three-page, handwritten Petition for Temporary Restraining Order, which I'd drafted up on my yellow legal pad between my phone call to him and the drive to his house. His wire-frame reading glasses were perched halfway down his broad nose, which was webbed with tiny red veins.

I'd appeared before the Honorable Martin Clausen twice before—both times on motions in a lawsuit that settled before trial. What had been most striking about him in court was the absence of anything striking about him. He didn't dominate the courtroom with his presence; instead, he seemed just another member of the courthouse staff, albeit one who happened to be seated higher than the others. He entered and left his courtroom without fanfare, leafed through papers or jotted notes as you presented your motion, appeared mildly distracted, rarely asked questions, and generally ruled from the bench without giving any reasons—just “motion denied” or “motion granted.”As he called the next motion, the winning lawyer would take an order form and draft up a terse order—
Motion to dismiss called, heard, denied
—and hand it to Clausen's clerk, who'd pass it up to the judge as the lawyers in the next motion droned on. He'd glance at it for unnecessary words, scratch out any he found, scribble his name at the bottom, and pass the order back down to her, never once acknowledging the attorneys. After an hour in Judge Clausen's courtroom, even a trip to the license bureau felt like an opportunity for profound levels of human interaction.