Apologies to all, but there was a little kerfuffle around here that caused the whole 12 Days to go MIA. I found it, so just remember that this installment is January 6.
I know that laws are to be obeyed. Even the stupid ones.
I also know when I am being shined on, especially by an over-important prosecutor, masquerading as the answer to everyone's impression of their favorite star of CSI, NCIS, Law and Order, with overtones of Car 54 Where Are You? and the stellar deputy sheriff made famous by Don Knotts. Throw in Monk, Columbo and my personal favorite, Rockford, and you have an idea of the results Snidely Whiplash, founder of Chicago's branch of Dewey, Cheatem and Howe, and you have the "expert" occupying the counsel and client room outside Billy Mitchell's courtroom.
The thing was, the Expert, who was going to show how the tracing had been done, and why there were 24 possible John Trueloves walking the planet, required the documents that were in the case he tried to bring into the courthouse.
The Expert had committed the crime of a sealed vial of piping hot coffee. In hit briefcase. Which should have gone through the metal detectors just fine, as it was a glass inside glass vacuum bottle, custom blown and filled with Expert's favorite blend of exclusive coffee. These facts go a long way to explaining the fees that Expert was demanding.
Which is where the dumb laws came in. As the Expert, the investigator was tracing the various bits and bobs of evidence to see if there was a way to identify the source of my holiday gifts, which were currently eating me literally out of house and home, he stumbled on some really revealing facts. His investigation was supposed to get me damages for running the Chicago branch of MacDonald's Farm, the Christmas Edition, due to hungry animals and hungry maids, leaping lords, pipers, ladies and while the animals were, in conjunction with the people, turning house and home into a bio-hazard site, while I faced possible charges of operating a feed lot, chicken breeding site, goose haven, swan shelter and indoor pear orchard. But, it seemed that none of the evidence had been tested for any information it might render after such tests, and the security idiots at the doors to the courthouse had confiscated the lot, because documents that had fingerprint detection junk on them, weren't packaged in the correct envelopes to be allowed entry into the building. And, the gourmet coffee, in sealed glass, were liquids that violated the 'no liquids allowed' rule.
I guess someone might want to build an explosive device if this was the way important documents and things were treated. However, the inclusion of French roast coffee was likely not part of the boom-boom.
For the life of me, I couldn't figure out why coffee was banned. And, I also knew that without the documents, the judge would never, ever believe the story about the multiple Trueloves, that would be whittled down to just one, if and only if, comparisons could be made to exclude the "not quite John Trueloves" that were served. Then, just like in the comics, the light bulb over my head went all bright and lighted, and I realized it was my job to get rid of the coffee and convince the security geeks that the powder was just spilled eyeshadow. You know, the powdery kind, not the creamy stuff.
I was only wearing Sleepless Night eyeshadow myself, and it was glaringly obvious all around my eyes that the dark circles now reached from chin to forehead. I had to try.
I also ordered coffee from the coffee shop on the second floor to be delivered to the rent-a-cops in the lobby, plus donuts, brownies and cookies.
We needed the documents that I had gotten from Lakeside Livery surely needed testing for handwriting and for possible trace elements to determine the location where the animals originated. Ditto the various trace bits taken from hooves, feet, webs and claws. All that, and I needed to rule out the "not quite John Truelove" types. And get every last penny from the real one, to pay the psychiatric bills that could amount to tens of thousands if the herding, swimming, milking, leaping, dancing, piping, egg collecting and listening to the incessant "Can you hear me now" of the calling birds, didn't stop immediately.
Like yesterday. Which wasn't going to happen because yesterday was just another horrible memory, with Scotland the Brave thrown in for good measure.
Anyway, the hearing was pretty uneventful. Irrational, sometimes off the wall idiotic, confused from the numbers confessing to be "John Truelove," or alternating with confessing to be "John Smith" if I'd be "Mrs. John Smith." Those confessions, as they were, came from a group that was clearly sent in for their clowning ability, right down to Santa suits, boots and all.
There was one defendant though that caught my eye. I knew him. I even knew the lawyer representing him. Alas, I could not come up with his name.
The investigator that the promise of whatever number of sets of F-EYE-VE GOOOOOOOOOOOLD RINGS covered the bill, got his permission to complete the fingerprint, and other analysis. That permission came when he explained that the powder coating the fingerprints on the various papers, and that seemed so sinister at the security checkpoint down in the lobby, and that I had insisted was likely eyeshadow, did turn out to be eyeshadow. Who knew?
Anyway, after an hour of this, the hearing was dismissed and everyone got their stuff together to go home for the night. Nothing would be finally settled until the next hearing. Tomorrow.
Nope, make that day after tomorrow.
By then, the Twelve Days of Christmas would be over. Kaput. Done and dusted. I'd be financially ruined, homeless from the cost of damages to the building where I lived, but that was small change in the legal system of today.
As the elevator hit the bottom floor, there was a huge gathering in the lobby. It seemed like there was a line of various groups for a performance. Banners declared in huge letters, HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL -- NOT FOR TWELVE BUT ALL DAYS OF THE NEW YEAR!!!
And, Lillibet, this parade's for you.
Oh no, I thought. This is it. Find me a bed in Bedlam.
And then it started, the whole Magilla, the parade, dance, concert and my immediate psychological demise.
Twelve drummers drumming, then Eleven Pipers piping, Ten Lords Leaping (this time in full British 'livery' which was topped off with those odd hats and wigs, robes, and each with a leader type staff, making them look like overly prosperous judges mocking shepherds.) Next, Nine ladies dancing, Eight maids and their milk pails, Seven swans, swimming in seven blow up pools that were atop Radio Flyer wagons.
Then, the Six geese laying on a bed of straw, and Five GOH-OOO-OLD RINGS that were really five papier mache' representations, Four calling birds -- this time on a little float like cart with the logos of every major cell phone ocmpany (giving me a possible source of funding of this disaster), and Three French hens, also in a bed of straw atop a very large Radio Flyer wagon. Bringing up the rear were Two turtle doves in a large bird cage on wheels, and finally a Pear tree with a little partridge in a little cage hooked to the branches.
Then, the final coup de grace, very much without any grace whatsoever.
There was a sign, a large sign, carried by members of the council of Russian Orthodox Reading Program members, a literacy program at the local Orthodox church in my part of town.
Behind them, another pear tree, and a sign. January 7 is Christmas Day. Merry Christmas to All!
Behind them, another sign.
There are only eleven more days to Christmas. Of course. It is January 6, Christmas Eve. Yikes!
I passed out. Just hit the floor like a Civil War heroine wearing a too tight corset, or learning that neither Ashley nor Rhett gave a hoot. Or a partridge, a pear tree, or piper, drummer, maid, hen or chicken.
To be continued....or not.
No comments:
Post a Comment