Another typed with two fingers, hunting and pecking at a keyboard. The third sorted documents into color-coded bins. The woman at the front counter looked up as Camille approached. Her name plate read Sharon Puit, chief clerk in brass letters on fake wood grain.
Sharon Puit, 52 years old, 18 years at Durham County Justice Center, married to a construction contractor who'd won three county building projects in the last 5 years. Member of the courthouse employees union negotiating committee and though Camille didn't know this yet, close personal friend of Elliot Chandler, senior city attorney. Good afternoon. I'm here to file an emergency temporary restraining order in Hughes v. Greenfield Properties.
Sharon's eyes stayed on her computer screen. Her fingers kept typing for another 8 seconds before she stopped and looked up. Proceed? No. Filing on behalf of my client through Duke Law School's clinical program.
You certified? Camille pulled the student practice certification from her folio. North Carolina General Statute 84-4.1 allowed third-year law students to appear in court under supervision. The document had the State Bar seal embossed in the corner.
Professor Washington's signature at the bottom. Valid through May. Sharon took the certification and held it at arms length, squinting. Read every word slowly.
Turned it over to check the back even though nothing was printed there. Finally set it on the counter. We're backlogged. Come back tomorrow.
The statute requires same day filing for emergency TROs if submitted before 4 p.m. Camille kept her voice level. It's 2:51. Sharon's expression shifted. Not much, just a tightening around the eyes, a flattening of the mouth.
She glanced at the clock on the wall, one of those institutional models with a black frame and white face, the second hand ticking in audible jumps, then back at Camille. Honey, I've been doing this 18 years. You want to tell me how to do my job? The word honey landed like a slap.
Camille placed her filing on the counter. Anyway, the motion was 32 pages. Tab markers stuck out from the edges in rainbow colors. Red tabs for cases, blue for statutes, yellow for exhibits, green for procedural rules, 12 cases cited, four statutes.
All verified at the law library yesterday, then verified again this morning. Not at all. I'm just following North Carolina Rules of Civil Procedure, rule 65. Sharon pushed the papers back across the counter without looking at them.
The motion slid until it hit Camille's hand. Missing a signature page. Can't accept it. Camille flipped to page six.
Her signature in black ink dated that morning. Below it, the notary stamp from the Duke Law Administrative Office with the notary's signature and seal. The date was clearly visible.
October 10th. She turned the document around so Sharon could see it. Said nothing. Just let the evidence sit there between them.
Sharon's eyes flicked down to the page for maybe half a second. Come back when you've practiced law more than 5 minutes. Behind Sharon, one of the other clerks, a younger man whose name plate read Mitchell, glanced up from his typing. He looked at the document, then at Sharon, then went back to his keyboard without saying anything.
Movement in Camille's peripheral vision. A woman walking past the counter heading toward the elevators. Court reporter based on her stenography case. She slowed when she heard Sharon's voice, turned her head slightly to see what was happening.
Her eyes met Camille's for just a moment. Something passed between them. Recognition maybe or understanding. The court reporter's pace slowed even more as she passed, but she didn't stop walking.
Camille pulled out her phone and opened the notes app, typed while Sharon watched, each word deliberate. October 10th, 2:53 p.m. Clerk Sharon Puit refused emergency TRO filing. Claimed missing signature page. Page six present.
Notarized. Dated 10:10. Witness. Court reporter.
Name unknown. Clerk Mitchell. Sharon's face flushed. You recording me?
Taking notes for my case file. Camille's thumbs kept moving on her phone screen. Is there a supervisor I can speak with? I'm the chief clerk.
Sharon's voice rose slightly. There is no supervisor. The phone at the desk behind Sharon rang. Four rings.
Five. Sharon ignored it. Neither of them moved. The younger clerk, Mitchell, picked up the phone on the sixth ring, his eyes darting between Sharon and Camille.
Camille finished typing and lowered her phone. Then I'd like you to formally reject this filing so I can note the specific grounds for my appeal to the Court of Appeals. The words hung in the air. Sharon's jaw worked.
10 seconds passed. 15. The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed. Someone's shoe squeaked on the tile floor in the hallway outside.
Then Sharon snatched the motion from the counter hard enough that the pages bent. She grabbed the filing stamp from beside her computer, positioned it over the top page, and brought it down with enough force that the sound echoed off the walls. The stamp left a red impression filed OCT10 with the time 2:57 p.m. And Sharon's initials. She shoved the document back across the counter.
Hearing set for next Tuesday, Judge Hargrove, Courtroom 4B, 9:00 a.m. Sharp. Don't be late. Camille took the stamped copy and placed it carefully in her folio. Thank you.
Sharon had already turned her back, returning to her desk. The younger clerk, Mitchell, was staring at his computer screen so intently, it was obvious he was pretending not to have witnessed anything.
Outside, the October afternoon sun felt too bright after the fluorescent gloom of the clerk's office. Camille walked to her car in the courthouse parking lot, got in, locked the doors, and sat for a full minute with her hands on the steering wheel. Then she opened her laptop, and pulled up the Hughes case file. Yolanda Hughes, 62 years old, disabled since a car accident 5 years ago that crushed three vertebrae and left her dependent on a wheelchair and supplemental oxygen, fixed income from disability payments, no family within 200 miles.
She'd lived in her current apartment for 4 years, a ground-floor unit with wheelchair accessibility and low rent that had stayed stable until 3 months ago. 3 months ago, the building was sold to Greenfield Properties, a real estate investment company based in Charlotte. New owners meant new management. New management meant rent increases.
Mrs. Hughes's rent jumped from $950 to $1,300 overnight. She couldn't pay. Fell behind three months of unpaid rent. Two weeks ago, she found an eviction notice taped to her door, not delivered by hand, not sent via certified mail, taped to her door with masking tape.
The notice gave her 72 hours to vacate. North Carolina General Statute section 4226 required 30 days written notice for month-to-month tenancies. Mrs. Hughes had a month-to-month lease. The notice she received gave her 3 days.
Camille had tried negotiating with Greenfield Properties, called their property manager six times, left voicemails, sent emails, finally got a call back from someone who identified himself only as Mark from legal and informed her that Mrs. Hughes had waived her notice rights in her lease agreement. Camille found the lease, read it cover to cover, found the clause on page 14. Tenant waives all statutory notice requirements and agrees to vacate within 72 hours of written notice for non-payment. Standard boilerplate in Greenfield's leases.