SS 18: Shark Skin Suite: A Novel (8 page)

“That would rule.”

“I need a T-shirt gun.”

They reached Tampa two hours later and pulled up to a shopping center. Serge knew that there were cops and then there were
mall
cops. It only took four hundred dollars of Mahoney’s expense money to score a copy of the surveillance video, and only ten more to buy the pawned VCR that had been sitting for eight years with the toaster ovens.

Coleman waddled across the budget motel room with an armload of beer and pork rinds. He dropped down on the end of a bed. “What movie we watchin’?”

Serge inserted the tape and pressed play. “It’s a documentary.
Death of an Asshole
.”

The video opened with the view of a parking lot outside a multiplex cinema. People came and went in black and white.

“This is boring.” Coleman chomped with his mouth open. “Where are the good parts?”

“Just saw one.”

Coleman leaned forward and split his pants. “Where?”

Serge reversed the tape, starting again in slow motion. “Right there. The guy pretending to smoke a cigarette when he’s actually checking out the inside of that Volkswagen Beetle . . . Come on, come on, please be in the frame. Come
onnnnnnnn . . .”

“What do you want in the frame?”

“The car he came in . . . Yes! There it is. That black Lexus.” Serge pressed a button. “Now come to Papa . . .”

“Why are you fast-forwarding?”

“Because I already know the rest of the story and just want to watch the ending.”

On TV, people walked in comical fast motion, like old newsreel footage of the 1919 World Series. Finally Serge noticed something on the screen and switched the tape to super slo-mo.

Coleman leaned closer to the tube. “What are we looking for?”

Serge ignored him. “Still too dark . . .”

The Lexus pulled out of its parking slot and made a patient left turn.

“There it is! The license plate.” Serge hit pause. “Perfect. They drove under that crime light in the lot, knocking out the shadow.”

Serge wrote down the number.

“Now what?”

“Time to spend a little more of Mahoney’s cash.” He picked up the phone. “It’s Serge. I need a plate run for name and address. Here’s the number . . . Yes, tomorrow will be fine.”

Coleman changed the channel to cartoons. “I didn’t know you could call and get info off a license plate.”

“Most people can’t, just because it’s illegal,” said Serge. “But with enough money, there are all kinds of hotlines around this state.”

Chapter
ELEVEN

BROOK

M
s. Campanella completed her law degree in record time at an unprestigious commuter college. She aced the bar exam and celebrated in her apartment with a frozen dinner and a video rental. The next week she joined a local legal aid center, which paid squat. But her dream had come true; she got her first case. They gave it to Brook because it was supposed to be easy.

Three months later, Brook stood on the edge of a commercial parking lot wearing a smart blue pantsuit put together from thrift stores, which was standard attire for the lawyers in her center. The office provided affordable assistance to moderate-income residents fighting the crushing gears of power and bureaucracy. They battled VA cases and untangling wills that people thought they could write themselves.

Brook checked her watch and stared across the parking lot. On the intersection’s other three corners stood a Shell station, a Walgreens and a walk-in clinic. Her mind drifted back to the day she first met the Rockfords. They took her to the breakfast nook.

“I don’t understand it,” said Hilda. “We haven’t even set foot in that bank.”

“There was never a loan on this house,” said Vernon. “We paid in full up front.”

“The letters kept coming,” said Hilda.

“What did you do with them?” asked Brook.

“Threw ’em out,” said Vernon. “We don’t know from those people.”

Brook took shorthand on a legal pad. “And that’s when you got the notice from the circuit court clerk that they had filed against your home?”

Hilda nodded. “The same day the sheriff tacked that thing on our door. And since it was now an official county government document . . .”

“Certified mail,” added Vernon.

“ . . . we figured we better call and explain it was all a big mistake,” said Hilda. “They said they would check into it.”

Brook continued writing. “Then what happened?”

“The notices kept coming. Except these new ones now stated how many days until we had to move out. Then the sheriff came.” Hilda’s hands started shaking. “We kept calling, and they kept saying they would check. It’s like nobody was talking to each other.”

Brook underlined the last part. “Did you ever send them anything in writing?”

“No, we just phoned them because it was a mistake and we’re honest people.”

Brook thought—but didn’t say—honesty doesn’t count. She removed papers from her briefcase. “I’ll need you to sign some documents giving me power of attorney and access to financial records.”

Vernon signed first. “Will this ever end?”

Hilda went next. “It’s made us sick with worry.”

“You can stop worrying now.” Brook slid the papers back into her attaché and stood. “I’ll take care of everything.”

Brook had reason for confidence. She’d done homework before visiting the couple: County records showed no mortgage liens and an unclouded title. But there was the matter of a ticking clock. The Rockfords had relied so much on phone calls and trust in fellow man that they’d let the eviction train roll down the tracks until it almost reached the station. The young lawyer still had a couple days to file a last-second opposition to the proceeding, which meant working through the weekend at home in sweatpants.

The following Monday, Brook collected the final pieces of notarized evidence that a closing company had screwed up a mortgage on the next block and transposed street numbers. The verifying bank officers were under a monthly foreclosure quota and just scribbled their names again without verifying.

Since eviction was set for the following Friday, an emergency hearing hit the docket. A bored attorney stood on one side of the courtroom—annoyed that someone had the gall to fight a slam-dunk eviction and eat into his afternoon tennis time. He cavalierly opened a file of inaccurate documents.

Brook had the correct ones. They both gave their folders to the judge, who took all of ten minutes before removing his glasses and glaring at the bank’s lawyer. “Anything else in that briefcase that might actually be accurate?”

The air went out of the attorney. “I request a continuance.”

“Okay, sell me,” said the judge, holding up the fruits of Brook’s research. “If I grant a delay, what exactly do you plan to introduce to refute this?”

“I would, uh, need to confer first with house counsel—”

“Denied. First American Bank will pay attorney and court costs, and a cease-and-desist order will be filed forthwith.”

The attorney was still stammering when the gavel banged. “Court’s in recess.”

Weeks passed, nothing from the bank. Brook sent a certified letter. The Rockfords called: “We got another notice.”

“Don’t even mail it,” said Brook. “I’ll come by and pick it up.”

More weeks, no check, another notice, rinse, lather, repeat. Brook petitioned the court to enforce its decree. The bank received another order from the judge. Nothing changed. The bank was too big; unless it was the U.S. Justice Department, they didn’t care who had to wait. With billions in assets, what could anyone do to them?

Brook told her bosses her next move. They laughed and gave her the go-ahead:
More power to you.
Brook filed her motion to show cause.

The same bored attorney stood before the judge. “Your Honor, it’s an honest paperwork mistake. You have my word this will be rectified and prompt payment dispatched immediately.”

The judge turned toward Brook for her response. She knew her play. Any major firm would have called it preposterous, because judges rarely go outside the envelope. But Brook knew something else: Judges also don’t like to be ignored.

“Your Honor,” said Brook. “As you can see in the certified receipts before you, as well as in the copy of your enforcement order, First American has uniformly ignored diligent efforts to seek compliance for almost two months. The only possible conclusion is they have no respect for this court.”

The judge liked this. “What do you suggest?”

“May I approach?”

He nodded. Brook handed him her newest motion. As the judge read it, he couldn’t prevent the corner of a grin from escaping. He handed it to the bailiff for the bank’s lawyer.

The attorney read the motion and looked up in alarm. “Foreclosure? You can’t do that!”

The judge raised his eyebrows. “Really? You do it all the time.”

“But we’re a bank!”

“And I’m only a judge?” He leaned back in his padded chair and swiveled slightly. “You should have already been intimately familiar with foreclosure law when you first appeared before this court, and now you will be . . . Order is entered: thirty days to comply or forfeiture proceedings will commence.”

“To recover this tiny amount of money?” protested the attorney.

“No, to get your attention,” said the judge. “I think I’ve got it.”

The gavel banged.

The judge was wrong. All he’d required of the bank was to pay meager legal costs and leave the poor plaintiffs alone. Nope. They were a big bank, after all. The bowels of their bureaucracy even belched out another eviction notice.

So here it was, the morning of the thirty-first day. Brook stood waiting in the corner of the parking lot. A moving truck arrived at a local branch of First American. The truck had a mural on the side of the Empire State Building, Grand Canyon and Golden Gate Bridge. It blocked the whole parking lot. The security guard told the driver to move. Then two patrol cars pulled up. The guard went inside and got the manager.

“What’s going on?”

A sheriff’s deputy handed him the court’s seizure order.

“There must be some kind of mistake.”

“Apparently the judge thinks so,” said the deputy.

The moving guys rolled handcarts up the walkway. The branch manager blocked them. “You can’t take our stuff!”

“Move away,” said the deputy. “Or be arrested.”

Poetic justice
is a term cheaply flung, but this was a sweet sonnet. Inside the building, a legal bank robbery. Deputies ordered all employees to move away from their workstations. The moving company began unplugging computers and loading furniture. The only thing they couldn’t touch was the money, because it belonged to depositors. A clock came down off a wall.

Inside a glass office, the manager burned up the phone lines to district and regional headquarters. In the middle of a call, the manager stood because someone took his chair. Then someone else unplugged the phone and removed the receiver from his hand.

People began lining the sidewalk. News trucks arrived. Brook was soon joined by the rest of her staff from the legal aid center, which had closed early because this was just too good. As word of the foreclosure worked its way through the crowd of onlookers, laughter and applause.

The manager darted back and forth across the parking lot like an animal in a wildfire. He saw Brook standing with the sergeant.

“I can pay you from the cash drawers!”

Brook shook her head. “You of all people should know that isn’t proper foreclosure procedure. Once seizure has commenced, it’s our property. You can’t suddenly run up and pay the balance due to stop everything. But you already know that because evicted homeowners have requested the same mercy from you, and what is your trained response? I’ll refresh your memory: ‘We have to raise funds from the auction of seized property to satisfy the judgment.’ ”

“But you’re taking way too much to cover what we owe! It’s not fair!”

Brook shrugged. “They’re your rules. The best laws campaign money can buy. And you never know how little people are willing to bid for this stuff, so we have to take it all to make sure. But I promise to return the extra—
trust me.
”

A special van arrived. Electrical workers propped ladders against the front of the building and climbed. The branch manager’s eyes popped. “Not the sign!”

Emergency phone calls crisscrossed the state. “I’m watching it on the news right now,” said an executive vice president. “What are we paying you for?”

Lawyers were dragged from lunch and golf courses. Soon they arrived in force, pulling up to the bank in a wing formation of BMWs and Jaguars. They surrounded Brook with checkbooks.

“Too late,” she said. “But maybe you can go to the auction and be the high bidders.”

“When’s the auction?” asked a man in pinstripes.

“I can probably get it on my calendar for next month.”

“But the branch will be closed all that time.”

“Branch? Singular?” She pointed north. “We have two more scheduled today, and another three tomorrow.”

The attorneys huddled. Eventually, they started nodding. The one with seniority deferentially approached Brook. “There’s another way to resolve this outside of foreclosure. Without admitting any liability, what if we offered a settlement for your client’s time and emotional suffering? In return, you stipulate to make a tax-deductible donation of the property, which is rightfully yours, to one of the bank’s many charitable foundations.”

“What kind of settlement?”

He threw out a number.

Brook did worse than reject it. She just stared.

So he doubled it. Then tripled.

No response.

“Be reasonable,” said the attorney. “That’s ten times what we originally owed.”

Brook looked over his shoulder at burly moving men. “Nice conference table.”

The lawyer turned and watched it disappear into the back of the semi. “Okay, here’s my final offer . . .”

Brook scrunched her eyebrows, then looked up. “Add a zero.”

“What?” More furniture clanged loudly into the trailer. “All right!” He got out his checkbook.

Brook shook her head. “I’m afraid it will have to be a certified check.”

The attorney huffed and started toward the bank. He met the branch manager in the middle of the parking lot.

He returned to Brook. “You already took the printers they use to make the checks.”

“Then I guess you’ll just have to go to another bank.” She checked her watch. “Better hurry. They close notoriously early.”

“Can you at least stop loading until I get back?”

Another empty stare.

“Fine!”

By the end of the afternoon, Brook held a check for $850,000. She was interviewed by all three local TV affiliates as workers in the background unloaded the truck. Ladders went back up against the front of the building.

The Rockfords arrived.

“We can’t thank Brook enough,” Vernon said into a camera. “Me and Hilda would have been out on the street if it wasn’t for—”

A loud crash made everyone turn. The electric First American sign lay in pieces. The worker on one of the ladders pointed at the worker on the other ladder.

It grew dark as the last news trucks pulled away. The legal aid team congratulated Brook and headed for their cars. They began leaving the lot en masse as a lone vehicle entered the other way.

The black stretch limo parked, and a chauffeur opened the back door.

A distinguished man with salt-and-pepper hair stepped out. “Brook Campanella?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Ken Shapiro of Shapiro, Heathcote-Mendacious and Blatt . . .”

Brook thought:
Jeez, you don’t have to tell me. It’s one of the biggest firms in the state, in all the Southeast.