Duty to Investigate

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

0700, 11 November 2003

DNS Television Studio

Chicago, Illinois

When Anne Merrill walked into Joe O’Daniel’s office at 7:00 a.m., he said nothing—just picked up the phone. “Frank, can you come down here?”

He tossed Anne some handwritten notes and went back to reading the article on his desk.

Anne already knew a lot about Frank Tobolski. He had worked as a reporter at the Dearborn News Service for 28 years. At 56, he stood five-feet-three inches tall and had a beer-belly, 20 extra pounds, and a balding hairline. He usually wore a clip-on tie and a brown polyester sports coat, the sleeves of which strained against his thick arms. He cut his hair in a flattop and possessed a square jaw and a protruding brow. You didn’t have to be from Chicago to instantly know he was Polish.

“Frank, I want you and Anne to get on this story,” O’Daniel said. “There’s an old lady sitting on her porch who says she will not allow herself to be evicted. The story should make a good lead for tomorrow’s edition. You can let Anne write the story before deadline.”

For the first time, Anne saw Joe look nervous. He obviously expected an argument from Frank Tobolski. Frank said nothing for a long time and then read the handwritten notes.

“OK, Joe. It doesn’t look that interesting to me, but if you want to pay me for wasting my time, that’s up to you. We should be back before noon.”

Frank turned to Anne. “Get your camera, and I’ll get us a van. Meet me in the parking lot in five minutes.”

Anne stood in the parking lot for three minutes before Frank walked out of the building.

“Anne, you drive,” Frank commanded in an impatient voice. “I’ve done a hundred of these stories, and it’s kind of hard to feel sorry for some moron who doesn’t have enough sense to pay their property taxes.”

As the DNS van pulled up to the Oliver home, Anne noticed two Chicago Police cars, a half-dozen neighbors in the yard, and several reporters. Anne got out of the van. Frank walked over, grinned, and whispered in her ear. “Don’t screw this up, sweetheart. It’s your big chance to impress the boss.”

Anne pushed her way through the neighbors and started snapping photographs. Mrs. Oliver sat in a folding lawn chair on the small front porch. She wasn’t crying, but an intense look of pain painted her face. A German shepherd lay next to her chair with a scared look on its face. Anytime someone got within 30 feet of the porch, the dog stood, snarled, and charged, barking and growling. Three police officers stood off to the side; two discussed their options, and the other looked bored. A fourth officer sat in the car, talking on the radio.

Anne Merrill instinctively disregarded Frank’s instructions, took a deep breath, and walked past Mrs. Oliver to the bored-looking police officer. As Anne approached him, the bored look on his face vanished.

“Officer, I’m with DNS,” Anne announced. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

The officer pointed to a man carrying a clipboard. “He’s trying to evict the old lady, but he can’t get past the dog. He called in for help, but it’s a civil matter. Law enforcement can’t do anything without a court order, and then that’s the sheriff’s jurisdiction.”

When Anne looked over, Frank was already talking to the man with the clipboard. She also saw that the officer on the radio had gotten out of the car and was headed toward them.

“The sergeant says to tell him he will have to get a court order,” the officer said. “Let’s hit the road.”

When the police and process server left, Anne walked over to Mrs. Oliver. This time the dog didn’t growl, but wagged his tail instead.

“Hello, Mrs. Oliver. My name is Anne Merrill, and I’m with Chicago News. Maybe I can help you. I’m sure the Cook County Treasurer doesn’t want any bad press. Can you talk to me?”

At that point Frank came over and, in a voice loud enough for both Anne and Mrs. Oliver to hear, explained. “Not a tax sale. The process server said the house was sold at a trustee’s sale three weeks ago because Mrs. Oliver stopped making her mortgage payments. He was just here to take possession on behalf of the new owner.”

Oliver was silently staring into space, tears running down her face.

Frank looked at Mrs. Oliver and Anne. “Better call Joe and tell him this is a bust. Come on. Let’s get back to the office.”

Anne placed one of her business cards on the arm of the chair. “Look, when you feel better, call me at this number,” Anne said. “I promise I’ll do what I can to help you.”

Anne and Frank piled back into the van and headed back to the DNS office as fast as possible. Frank went straight to Joe O’Daniel’s office and reported.

“Not her fault, Joe. It was just a wild goose chase. No interview. No story. Nothing.”

Joe looked at Anne.

“Joe, I agree it’s not the story you envisioned,” Anne stated, “but I’m not so sure that there isn’t a story here. My story concept is a series on how elderly people are losing their homes.”

Joe looked bored with Anne’s response and looked at Frank. “You can follow up on elderly people losing their homes. You know—does the government have statistics, foreclosure records, and know that people are moving into care facilities because mortgage companies and banks are putting the bite on ‘em. Just don’t let it interfere with your other assignments.”

Anne smiled, but Frank rolled his eyes as they walked out of Joe’s office.

1130, 11 November 2003

DNS Office

Chicago, Illinois

Anne returned to her office and checked her voicemail. Mrs. Oliver had already left a message, and Anne immediately returned the call.

“Mrs. Oliver, this is Anne Merrill at DNS. Can you tell me more about your problem?”

Mrs. Oliver seemed confused, but after a moment she started talking. “Honey, I’m scared. I always pay my mortgage. This is just a mess. I don’t have any place to go.” Mrs. Oliver started bawling in the phone.

“Who has your mortgage document, Mrs. Oliver?”

“Well, honey, I just don’t know. I’ve never seen it. I guess my husband had it, but he never showed it to me. It might be in the safe deposit box at the bank.”

Anne asked Mrs. Oliver questions for 30 minutes, but the old woman clearly didn’t have much of a grasp of business or record-keeping.

“Mrs. Oliver, would it be possible for you to come down to my office and bring all of your records?”

“Well, that is awful sweet of you, but I don’t have the money for a cab right now. Maybe I can come see you when I get my check on the first of the month.”

“No, we can’t wait. Would it be all right if I came back to your house tomorrow morning to talk about this?”

“Yes, dear, you come back anytime you want.” Her voice was kind but sad.

“Great. We’ll be back tomorrow. Bye now.”

1115, 12 November 2003

Oliver Residence

Cicero, Illinois

Mrs. Oliver beamed from ear to ear when she opened the front door and the Shepherd dog wagged his tail. “Please come in. This is my dog, Handy.”

Anne knelt down to pet Handy, and Frank waited on the porch, sighing.

“Please come in,” Mrs. Oliver said.

The reporters entered the home.

The immaculately clean house had not been remodeled in 50 years, and the living room was an homage to fake wood paneling and shag carpet. The room was a shrine to her deceased husband and included a wooden box with an American flag, another box with ribbons and medals, and dozens of photographs on the walls. On the opposite wall was an assortment of other items that had the Marine Corps emblem printed on them. Frank Tobolski carefully examined the medals and turned back to Mrs. Oliver.

“It looks like your husband was a Marine,” he said

“Yes. Gerald was a Marine. He served in Vietnam.”

Anne asked every possible question and learned that Mrs. Oliver lived off her deceased husband’s military retirement and Social Security. On the first day of each month she called a cab, rode to People’s National Bank, cashed the check, and obtained cashier checks to pay her mortgage and utilities. She asked for the balance in cash and picked up her groceries on the way home. This was the only time she left the house. When she returned home, Mrs. Oliver mailed the mortgage payment to Newport Financial. She had no payment coupons and no proof of any kind that she had actually made the payments, but she insisted that she’d sent $185 every month.

“Mrs. Oliver, do you have family or friends to help you?” Anne inquired.

At that, Mrs. Oliver started crying. “My family is all gone, and Gerald and I never had children. I don’t want to go anywhere. You probably know that none of the apartments will take pets. I just can’t lose Handy. He’s all I have left.”

She lowered her head and continued sobbing.

0930, 1300 November 2003

Forrester & Seubert Law Office

Chicago, Illinois

John Forrester read the weekly billing report as the firm’s most junior associate sat down and tried to adjust the broken conference room chair. He sat the billing report down and looked at his partner, Bob Seubert.

“How are we progressing this month on the Newport foreclosures?” Forrester asked.

“We completed six, but one went sideways. For some reason, our process server called for police assistance, and several news reporters showed up. The debtor is an old lady in Cicero and won’t leave the premises.”

“Did the TV station cover the story?”

“Not yet.”

“Look, Bob, you know we can’t have any publicity on these Newport cases. Do whatever it takes to get her out—and do it fast.”