T Is for Trespass

Perdido took nineteen minutes instead of the usual twenty-six. There’s no nice reason I can think of to be dragged into court, but by law a defendant in a criminal or civil suit must be given proper notice. I delivered summonses, subpoenas, garnishments, and assorted court orders, preferably by hand, though there were other ways to get the job done—by touch and by refusal being two.
    The address I was looking for was on Calcutta Street in midtown Perdido. The house was a sullen-looking green stucco with a sheet of plywood nailed across the picture window in front. In addition to breaking the window, someone (no doubt Vinnie) had kicked a big knee-high hole in the hollow-core front door and then ripped it off its hinges. A series of strategically placed two-by-fours had since been nailed across the frame, rendering the door impossible to use. I knocked and then bent down and peered through the hole, which allowed me to see a man approaching from the other side. He wore jeans and had thin knees. When he leaned toward the hole on his side of the door, all I could see of his face was his stubble-covered cleft chin, his mouth, and a row of crooked bottom teeth. “Yeah?”
    “Are you Vinnie Mohr?”
    He withdrew. There was a brief silence and then a muffled reply. “Depends on who’s asking.”
    “My name’s Millhone. I have papers for you.”
    “What kind of papers?” His tone was dull but not belligerent. Fumes were already wafting through the ragged hole: bourbon, cigarettes, and Juicy Fruit gum.
    “It’s a restraining order. You’re not supposed to abuse, molest, threaten, stalk, or disturb your wife in any way.”
    “Do what?”
    “You have to stay away from her. You can’t contact her by phone or by mail. There’s a hearing next Friday and you’re required to appear.”
    “Oh.”
    “Could you show me some ID?”
    “Like what?”
    “A driver’s license would suffice.”
    “Mine’s expired.”
    “As long as it bears your name, address, and likeness, that’s good enough,” I said.
    “Okay.” There was a pause and then he pressed his license against the hole. I recognized the cleft chin, but the rest of his face was a surprise. He was not a bad-looking guy—a bit squinty through the eyes, but I couldn’t afford to be judgmental as the photo on my driver’s license makes me look like I top the list of the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted.
    I said, “You want to open the door or should I put the papers through the hole?”
    “Hole, I guess. Man, I don’t know what she said, but she’s a lying bitch. Anyways, she drove me to it, so I’m the one should be filing papers on her.”
    “You can tell the judge your side of it in court. Maybe he’ll agree,” I said. I rolled the papers into a cylinder and pushed them through the hole. I could hear paper crackle on the other side as the document was unfurled.
    “Hey, come on now! Dang. I never did what’s wrote here. Where’d she get this? She’s the one hit me, not the other way around.” Vinnie was assuming the “victim” role, a time-honored move for those who hope to claim the upper hand.
    “Sorry I can’t help you, Mr. Mohr, but you take care.”
    “Yeah. You, too. You sound cute.”
    “I’m adorable. Thanks for your cooperation.”
    In the car again, I logged the time I’d spent and the mileage on my car.
    I drove back into downtown Santa Teresa and parked in a lot near a notary’s office. I took a few minutes to fill out the affidavit of service, then went into the office, where I signed the return and had it notarized. I borrowed the notary’s fax machine and made two copies, then walked over to the courthouse. I had the documents file-stamped and left the original with the clerk. One copy I retained and the other I’d return to Lonnie for his files.
    Once in my office again, I found a call from Henry waiting on my machine. The message was brief and required no reply. “Hi, Kinsey. It’s a little after one and I just got home. The doctor popped Gus’s shoulder back in, but they decided to admit him anyway, at least for tonight. No broken bones, but he’s still in a lot of pain. I’ll go over to his house first thing tomorrow morning and do some cleaning so it won’t be so disgusting when he gets home. If you want to pitch in, great. Otherwise, no problem. Don’t forget cocktails after work today. We can talk about it then.”
    I checked my calendar, but I knew without looking that Tuesday morning was clear. I diddled