There are no answers in eviction court

A young mother cried alone in a booth in a fast-food restaurant. Court started soon. She stared at her legal documents and touched them so often her fingerprints were their own stories of an immeasurable pain.

Now, she saw two others in the next booth with coffee. They were unaware that pain like the youthful mother's had a certain regularity in Eastern Iowa, a pattern of hopelessness, a stew of hurt but breathing and clothed.

“I’m sorry,” she said to the two, “I don’t know anyone here, I don’t have no family.”

They listened to her tale about a one and a four-year-old waiting at home.

One document demanded eviction. The other asked for $5,000.

The young mom spilled her life out, tears eroding her cheeks, as if Mary had returned in a timeless plea about her son soon to be crucified.

“I lost everything in the hurricane.”

Her thoughts tumbled. The senselessness of her dilemma was a scourge, flesh torn where once was a family and humanity. She said her father was in hospice. She said the landlord agreed to help. Her pretty eyes filled to the brim.

“Where are you from?”

“Texas, I aint been here long. I took photos when I moved in. I got taxes comin.’”

The two strangers agreed to walk to court with her.

At 10:40 a.m. the judge began. She wore a gray smock. Her brown hair hung in ringlets down her temples. Her somber mouth addressed the first case — owner possession demanded. Rent due.

The owner was not new to the room.

“You don’t have valid service,” the judge said.

His request was not mailed. Dismissed. The 30-ish landlord nodded. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Three rows shuffled in silence. Pained faces in the shadows. The death sentence of eviction squared in shifting files crunching across the clerk's table.

A video eye set above the judge’s chambers.

“Are we next?”

Corporate ownership issued like sputum into the seats. The entity owned a hundred locations. Now, its hungry attorney swung her streaked blond hair across her neck, twisted it till it fell evenly. She pushed at paperwork. Her thin smile was given as a facade. The judge called. The young woman took 10 steps to face the judge.

“ … three day notice …” the words sputtered in slow motion. Six hundred dollars or out on the sidewalk. The woman projected helplessness. Darkness stamped her eyes now cast to the floor. The hovering judge, brokering hope in still, tight language, asked about payment. The impassive attorney agreed. Pay by Monday.

As Dickens wrote in Hard Times, only the facts may be housed.

Now the lawyer was enlivened by the word, money.

Each of her typed lines were leveled by accountants that mattered. Folders, files and numbers, kept by clerks and legal minds, intelligence about precise fact.

None cried for the children.

“Exhibit one …” drolled the lawyer. “Copy of three day …” the cold tone. “Posted Feb. 6,” shrugged the law, “Mailed Feb. 14,” said the silent hollows.

The ashen faced mom struggled for breath. The clock showed 10 minutes to eleven. No wasted time.

“Would you like a contested hearing?” The judge asked.

Meekly came a “Yes.”

The ravenous corporation, who owned more dreams than the crossroads where the devil made his deals, raised up in the lawyer’s chuckled voice.

The poor mom said she swore to tell the truth.

“I didn’t understand,” she said.

The lawyer asked if she had a boyfriend or fiance.

“Money somewhere, perhaps?”

Eviction Monday decreed the judge … but if the money is paid, the message now a binding shackle. Remorselessness filled the echo.

Five-thousand dollars would be decided later.

Now the two advocates cheered. Hope on the hill at Golgotha. Water to wine. Money from a miracle.

“I have photographs. I didn’t damage that apartment,” the pretty young mom said, weary as a torn flag.

The three walked from the courthouse that day with a prayer.

There were no answers.

Tim Trenkle has been an instructor in the community college system in Iowa, at Iowa Central and Northeast Iowa Community College.