Going For Broke (16 page)

             
Victoria approached the receptionist without her usual authority.  The African-American woman behind the desk wore a colorful headdress and a navy suit. 

             
“Good morning!” she greeted Victoria with a broad smile.

             
“Good morning,” Victoria replied, without a smile. 

             
“What can we do for you today?” the receptionist asked.

             
“I, uh, need an attorney?” Victoria’s reticence even surprised herself.

             
The receptionist gathered a pile of papers and mounted them on a clipboard.  She handed them to Victoria with a pen.  “Fill these out, and grab a number,” she said, indicating the bakery-style plastic numbers hanging beside her.

             
Victoria sat next to Mike, appreciating his presence for the first time. 

             
“Need some help?” Mike offered.

             
“You’re probably enjoying this,” she said.

             
“Not at all,” he said, laughing.  “Pretend I’m not here.”

             
“Trust me, I’m trying,” she said.

             
She walked through the paperwork, unsure of half of the answers.  Her situation was so extraordinary, there really was no pre-printed form that applied.  She sat with the half-completed forms on her lap, waiting for her turn.  She looked around at her fellow clients.  There was a woman with two small children, who she kept surprisingly well-engaged with books and crayons.  An obese woman sat in one corner, with a walker.  An older man sat with who must have been his middle-aged son.  They sat and talked and laughed.  You would have thought they were at party rather than waiting for free legal advice.  A man in his mid-50s, in a dated suit, with a battered briefcase sat working on a crossword puzzle.

             
She was surprised.  She assumed that the ranks of people needing free legal services would be drug dealers and ax murders.  These people looked, well, normal.  Or as normal as you can be in a vacated Walgreens.

             
Victoria was not good at waiting.  She tried to watch Maury, and although she had a newfound love of daytime television, watching Maury was like watching wrestling.  She knew that she was supposed to be in on the joke, and that the freaks that ended up on the show were fake.  Or at least she hoped they were fake.  She got up and walked around, trying to see what everyone else’s numbers were.  She counted out how many people were ahead of her, and tried to eavesdrop on each new person that was brought back to a desk, to see if they would be finished quickly.    She was not used to waiting.  For restaurants, for doctors, for anyone. 

             
“Come on, sit down,”Mike barked across the waiting room. 

             
“We’ve been here over an hour!” 

             
“It’ll take as long as it takes.  Might as well be comfortable.”

             
“That old man took fifteen minutes just to walk back to the desk.”

             
“He had a cane and a broken leg!”

             
“I could have been finished by the time he got back.”

             
Mike patted the chair beside him.  “Sit down.  I’ll give you a couple of tips on waiting.  I’m a professional, you know.”

             
“I don’t know how you do it.  If I had to sit around and wait for me to do something every day I think I’d shoot myself.”

             
“I’m a patient man.  I know when something good is worth waiting for.”

             
Victoria blushed.  She knew he wasn’t talking about her - well he was, though not in that way.  She blushed anyway. 

             
“Getting the bad guy is always worth it,” he clarified.  He noticed her blush as well.  It suited her.  “Sometimes justice is slow, but it’s always worth the wait.”

             
“Number 43,” called the receptionist.  Victoria held up her plastic number like she had just won the lottery.

             
“That’s me!” she jumped up out of her chair.  Mike stood next to her. “I’m good from here on, thanks.”

             
             
             
             
             
             
###

             
Victoria sat down at Mercedes Flanagan’s desk.  Mercedes was a tiny Hispanic woman with large brown eyes and short curly hair.  Freckles were sprinkled across her nose, and Victoria wondered for a minute if the Flanagan was her maiden name.  She had photos on her desk of two little boys, and a candle with some sort of saint on it.  The desk was covered with piles of paperwork and files that spilled over to the floor.  Mercedes Flanagan didn’t even get up to shake Victoria’s outstretched hand.  She just adjusted her glasses, magically grabbed the correct file from a heap on the floor and looked up at Victoria expectantly. 

             
“Okay, Mrs.--” Mercedes looked over Victoria’s paperwork.  “Vernon.”  She flipped through the mostly-blank pages and looked up at Victoria.  “Why don’t you fill me in?” 

             
Mercedes could tell in an instant that this wasn’t your typical client here at the Illinois Center for Legal Aid.  She caught the red of the Louboutins - even if she could never afford them, anyone who watches Oprah recognizes the telltale red sole.  Even without the shoes, Mercedes could tell.  There was something about the way this woman carried herself that told her she was going to be a giant pain in the ass.

             
“Well, my husband
allegedly
has been involved in some creative bookkeeping at his hedge fund back in New York.”

             
Victoria stopped.  Oh, Jesus, Mercedes thought.  This is going to take all day. 

             
“And...” she offered.

             
“
And
, the FBI has frozen all of my assets.”  Mercedes figured that this lady had a lot of assets to freeze.  “... and seized everything I own.  They came into my apartment with some bogus paperwork and took almost everything.”

             
Mercedes rifled through the file and found the paperwork authorizing the seizure.  Everything looked to be in order.  “This happened in New York,” she said, putting down the file. 

             
“Yes.” Victoria sat up straight and put her hands in her lap.  She was a woman wronged, and wanted to give a good impression.

             
“We’re in Illinois.”

             
“Right, well, they took everything I had, and I really didn’t have anyplace else to go.”
             

             
“So you came to Illinois?” 

             
“My mother lives here,” she explained.  She was reluctant to offer that her mother lived in Tenaqua.  It was a known fact that any time someone found out you lived in Tenaqua they added 20% to their bills.  Not that Victoria was getting a bill here.

             
“I haven’t done anything!  I shouldn’t be the one they punish,” Victoria was on the verge of tears, although Mercedes suspected they were manufactured for her benefit. 

             
“Where does your husband figure into all of this?” Mercedes asked.

             
“Lord knows.  I can’t find him.  Neither can the FBI.”  Victoria nodded her head toward Mike, who was engrossed in a complementary “Chicago Parents” magazine.  “The FBI even has someone tailing me 24/7.”

             
“At least you got a cute one,” Mercedes said as she gave Mike an appreciative once over. 

             
Victoria was indignant that this attorney (at least she assumed she was an attorney) wasn’t horrified that her privacy was being infringed.   She thought Mike was cute?  Most importantly, wasn’t this about her?

             
“Lucky me,” Victoria said.  “Uh, about my case?  Is there anything you can do?”

             
“I’m going to need quite a bit more information Vicky.   Do you have any paperwork from the FBI?” Mercedes asked. 

             
Victoria fished out an envelope from her bag and handed it to Mercedes.  “Oh, it’s Victoria,” she corrected. 

             
Mercedes ignored her as she reviewed the paperwork.  Everything seemed to be in order.  The FBI agent had done an excellent job, although she had only a couple other run-ins with the Feds with which to compare.  She got out a legal pad and got to business, starting list upon list. 

             
Victoria tried to look over her shoulder to see what she was writing, yet couldn’t decipher the chicken scratch on the yellow pad.  She sat petulantly and waited until Mercedes finished.  Her fate was in this little woman’s hands.  Her hands that probably had never seen a manicure.  If they had, it was probably some crazy $30 for a mani/pedi place where they don’t sterilize the instruments and had walls of polish that were almost empty. 

             
“Okay, do you have a pen and paper?” Mercedes asked and startled Victoria out of her thoughts. 

             
Mercedes’ phone started ringing.  She ignored it.  Victoria assumed it would stop after five rings or so, but it kept on going.  And going.  She was almost going to lean across the desk and pick it up herself, then it finally stopped.  Mercedes didn’t even flinch.

             
Victoria fished a leather journal out of her bag.  Mercedes also knew enough to know an authentic Birkin bag when she saw one.  In her neighborhood they all came from China.  She could tell from across the desk how beautiful the leather looked.  She kicked her purse that she had just bought at Target - she thought it was adorable only yesterday, although today, it just looked like a bag from Target.

             
“Okay, shoot,” Victoria was ready to be a part of the plan.  She loved that Mercedes had a plan.

             
“Here’s what I need from you.  All bank statements; investment accounts; a list of all real property, both domestic and international; any vehicles; life insurance and annuities; a list of insured jewelry; any trusts, either in your name, your husband’s or your children's’; any outstanding debts, including mortgages, car loans, margin trading.”

             
Wow, she knows her shit, Victoria thought.  She was sure that any lawyer who worked for legal aid must have gotten their degree online, suddenly Victoria felt like she had won the legal jackpot. 

             
“Okay!” Victoria said a bit too loudly.  Mike looked up from ‘Michigan Avenue Woman’ magazine and raised an eyebrow. 

             
“I don’t know what we can do for you Vicky,” Mercedes tried her best to be grave.  “Your situation doesn’t look good.  The FBI usually has all of its ducks in a row before they get to this point.  And your friend there doesn’t look like he’s going to let anything slip by.”

             
“I’ll get this all to you as soon as possible.  Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do.  Really, I can’t thank you enough.  Thank you,” Victoria said, pumping Mercedes hand.   She was so grateful she didn’t even feel like tackling the “Vicky” thing. 

             
Mercedes got up to walk Victoria to the front door.  “After I get a better idea of what we’re dealing with, we’ll assess the situation.”  She handed Victoria her business card.  “Here’s my email address, it’s the best way to contact me.  As you may have noticed, I never answer my phone.”