Chapter 8: The Morning of the Hearing
Small claims court was held in a low building downtown with fluorescent lights and plastic chairs and a clerk who called names from a clipboard without looking up.
Carrie had offered to come.
I told her I'd be fine.
She came anyway, and sat two rows behind me, and didn't say a word about it.
Denise arrived seven minutes late.
She was dressed carefully — a blazer, her hair done.
She sat on the opposite side of the room and didn't look at me.
When our case was called, we both stood.
The judge was a woman in her sixties with reading glasses on a chain around her neck.
She looked at the paperwork in front of her, then at Denise, then at me.
"Ms.
Carol," she said.
"You're claiming two hundred and eighty dollars for repair of a KitchenAid mixer.
You say the defendant borrowed it and returned it damaged."
"Yes, Your Honor."
"Ms.
Denise.
You're contesting this claim on the grounds that the appliance was already in poor condition before you borrowed it."
"Yes," Denise said.
"It's a very old machine.
I think it was already failing."
The judge looked at me.
"What documentation do you have?"
I handed over the folder.
Roy's written assessment.
The itemized repair estimate.
Photographs of the dried cream in the gear housing — Roy had taken them himself when I asked.
Linda's photos of the casserole dish.
Patricia's written statement.
A printed copy of Denise's neighborhood group post, with her comment that the mixer had been a gift.
The judge read through it without rushing.
"This assessment from the repair technician," she said, "states that the damage was caused by overuse on thick batter without adequate rest intervals.
Is that your position?"
"Yes, Your Honor.
Roy — the technician — is available by phone if the court needs to speak with him directly."
The judge looked at Denise.
"Do you have documentation supporting your claim that the appliance was already damaged before you borrowed it?"
Denise straightened.
"I have my own account of what happened.
The machine stopped working while I was using it.
I returned it."
"You returned it without notifying the owner.
Without cleaning it.
And you subsequently told at least one neighbor that the owner had given it to you as a gift." The judge held up the printed post.
"Is this your post?"
A pause.
"Yes."
"And this comment — 'It was a gift.
I'm very lucky' — you wrote that?"
"I may have phrased it poorly."
"You told a neighbor directly that the owner had offered it to her because she was getting a newer model.
Is that accurate?"
Denise's jaw moved.
"I may have misremembered the conversation."
The judge set the papers down.
She looked at Denise for a long moment.
"Judgment for the plaintiff," she said.
"Two hundred and eighty dollars, to be paid within thirty days."
Denise's chair scraped back slightly.
"Your Honor, I think—"
"The ruling stands." The judge moved to the next file.
It was over in eleven minutes.
Outside in the hallway, Carrie put her hand on my arm and didn't say anything.
I didn't need her to.
Denise came out a minute later.
She walked past us without stopping.
Then she stopped.
She turned around.
"You know this isn't over," she said.
"You've turned the whole street against me over a mixer.
I hope you're proud of yourself."
I looked at her.
"Pay the two-eighty, Denise."
She left.
Carrie and I walked out into the morning together.
The sun was low and bright.
I put my sunglasses on.
"Breakfast?" Carrie said.
"Yes," I said.
May you like
"Somewhere that isn't on our street."
She laughed — a real one — and we walked to the car.
