The courtroom went dead silent. Even Brenda realized she'd gone too far. Her eyes widened.
Saul smiled, a terrifying shark-like grin. "No further questions, Your Honor."
The jury took twenty minutes to deliberate. I think they just went back there to grab coffee and laugh. They found in my favor on all counts.
Judge Ramirez read the verdict. She awarded the full cost of the window, $3,450.12, plus legal fees, which, thanks to Saul's padding and Brenda's antics dragging things out, were now nearly $8,000, plus $4,000 in punitive damages for her willful, malicious, and frankly bizarre behavior. Total judgment against Brenda: $15,450.12.
As the verdict was read, Brenda turned a shade of purple I'd never seen in nature. She stood up, pointing a shaking finger at me, at Saul, at the judge.
"This is a kangaroo court. I won't pay. You'll never see a dime. I'll appeal to the Supreme Court. I'll declare bankruptcy. You'll rot before you get my money, Satan spawn!"
Judge Ramirez banged her gavel so hard I thought it would break. "One more outburst, Ms. Johnson, and I will hold you in contempt, and you can spend the weekend in county jail. Judgment is entered. Case closed."
Brenda stormed out, her scarves trailing behind her like the tail of a defeated kite. Saul high-fived me right there in the courtroom.
Winning the judgment is one thing. Collecting is another. Brenda, true to her word, refused to pay.
A month passed. No check. I checked her Facebook page. She hadn't blocked me, probably so I could see her posts. She was posting daily about the corrupt judicial system and how she was a martyr for suburban peace.
She posted photos of herself on vacation in Cabo, sipping margaritas with the caption, "Living my best life. Can't keep a good woman down. #Unbothered #DebtFreeMentality."
I showed the post to Saul.
"Debt-free mentality, huh?" Saul leaned back in his creaky office chair, cracking his knuckles. "She thinks because she doesn't write a check, the debt doesn't exist. It's cute."
"How do we get the money, Saul? She's just going to ignore it forever."
"Jack, my boy, you're thinking like a normal person. You have to think like a creditor. We don't ask her for the money. We take it before she even touches it."
Saul did what he called a financial colonoscopy. It turned out Brenda wasn't just a stay-at-home nuisance. She had a job. She was a mid-level logistics manager for a regional trucking-supply company. Not a huge salary, but steady.
"Two incomes. Bingo," Saul said, tapping the screen showing her employment information. "She's got a payroll department. We don't need her permission. We need a judge's signature on a writ of garnishment."
A week later, Saul had the paperwork. It was a court order directing Brenda's employer to withhold a lawful portion of her disposable earnings from every paycheck until the $15,450.12 judgment, plus accruing post-judgment interest, was paid in full.
"Now for the fun part," Saul grinned. "Delivery."
I wasn't there for this part, obviously, but Saul recounted it to me with relish, having heard the details from the sheriff's deputy who served the papers. The deputy didn't serve Brenda. He walked into the corporate headquarters of the trucking-supply company at 10:00 a.m. on a Monday.
He asked to see the head of human resources and the payroll director. He laid the court order on the HR director's desk. It was an official mandate from the state. Ignore it, and the company could become liable for the debt. Companies do not like becoming liable for their employees' crazy neighbor disputes.
According to the deputy, the HR director sighed, rubbed his temples, and said, "Oh God. Brenda again."
Apparently, she wasn't a peach at work either. They called Brenda down to HR. She walked in, probably expecting a promotion or a complaint about someone's K-Cups. Instead, she found her boss, the HR director, and a uniformed sheriff's deputy.
They explained the situation. The meltdown was allegedly legendary. She screamed that it was illegal. It wasn't. She screamed that I was stalking her. I wasn't.
She threatened to sue the company if they garnished her wages. The HR director, bless his corporate soul, reportedly told her, "Brenda, this is a court order. We have no choice. We are withholding the required amount from your pay starting this Friday. If you don't like it, take it up with Judge Ramirez. And if you scream at me one more time, you're fired for cause."
She went silent. She needed that job. Her Cabo trips and beige Prius didn't pay for themselves. She was trapped.
The Kraken had been harpooned by bureaucracy.
It's been six months now. The house is finished. The new bay window is beautiful, gleaming in the sun, stronger and better reinforced than the last one. Tony and his crew did amazing work.
I was getting the mail yesterday. It was a crisp autumn afternoon. I heard a door slam. It was Brenda coming home from work. She looked tired.
The fight seemed drained out of her. Her helmet hair looked a little deflated. She looked up and saw me standing there. For a second, I saw the old spark of rage.
She opened her mouth, probably to shout something about Satan or dust. Then she stopped. She must have remembered that every outburst now had consequences. She closed her mouth, glared at me with the intensity of a dying star, and marched into her house.
I walked back inside and checked my banking app. There it was, like clockwork every two weeks: a direct deposit for $287.50. The transaction note simply read, "Garnishment B. Johnson."
I did the math. At this rate, with interest still accruing on the balance, Brenda was going to be buying me coffee, paying my electric bill, and funding my Steam library every two weeks for quite a while.
I sat down in my finished living room, sunlight streaming through the window that started it all. I took a sip of coffee that Brenda paid for and smiled.
Some people invest in stocks. Some invest in crypto. I invested in a brick.
And let me tell you, the dividends are spectacular.