“Keep it down.” He held the plastic bucket in one hand and opened the ice machine with the other. “Vermont is good. It’s not a community property state.”
“What’s that mean?”
Something they don’t want you to know about, Luke thought. There’s so much they don’t want you to know about. Once you’re stuck on the flypaper, that’s where they want you to stay. He grabbed the plastic scoop inside the door of the ice machine and pretended to be breaking up chunks of ice. “The cards he used, were they in his name or yours?”
“His, of course, but they’re still dunning me because we’re still legally married, and the account numbers are the same!”
Luke began filling the plastic ice bucket . . . very slowly. “They say they can do that, and it sounds plausible, but they can’t. Not legally, not in Vermont. Not in most states. If he was using his cards and his signature was on the slips, that’s his debt.”
“They say it’s ours! Both of ours!”
“They lie,” Luke said grimly. “As for the calls you mentioned—do any of them come after eight o’clock at night?”
Her voice dropped to a fierce whisper. “Are you kidding? Sometimes they call at midnight! ‘Pay up or the bank’s going to take your house next week! You’ll come back to find the locks changed and your furniture out on the lawn!’ ”
Luke had read about this, and worse. Debt collectors threatening to turn aged parents out of their nursing homes. Threatening to go after young adult children still trying to get some financial traction. Anything to get their percentage of the cash grab. “It’s good you’re away most of the time and those calls go to voicemail. They don’t let you have your cell here?”
“No! God, no! It’s locked in my car, in . . . well, not here. I changed my number once, and they got the new one. How could they do that?”
Easily, Luke thought. “Don’t delete those calls. Save them. They’ll be time-stamped. It’s illegal for collection agencies to call clients—that’s what they call people like you, clients—after eight o’clock at night.”
He dumped the bucket and began to fill it again, even more slowly. Maureen was looking at him with amazement and dawning hope, but Luke hardly noticed. He was deep in the problem, tracing the lines back to the central point where those lines could be cut.
“You need a lawyer. Don’t even think about going to one of the quick-buck companies that advertise on cable, they’ll take you for everything they can and then put you into Chapter 7. You’ll never get your credit rating back. You want a straight-arrow Vermont lawyer who specializes in debt relief, knows all about the Fair Debt Collection Practices Act, and hates those bloodsuckers. I’ll do some research and get you a name.”
“You can do that?”
“I’m pretty sure.” If they didn’t take his computer away first, that was. “The lawyer needs to find out which collection agencies are in charge of trying to get the money. The ones that are scaring you and calling in the middle of the night. The banks and credit card companies don’t like to give the names of the stooges they use, but unless Fair Debt’s repealed—and there are powerful people in Washington trying to do that—a good lawyer can force them to do it. The people phoning you step over the line all the time. They’re a bunch of scumbags working in boiler rooms.”
Not all that different from the scumbags working here, Luke thought.
“What are boiler—”
“Never mind.” This was going on too long. “A good debt relief lawyer will go to the banks with your answering machine tapes and tell them they have two choices: forgive the debts or go to court, charged with illegal business practices. Banks hate going to court and having people find out they’re hiring guys just one step away from leg-breakers in a Scorsese movie.”
“You don’t think I have to pay?” Maureen looked dazed.
He looked straight into her tired, too-pale face. “Did you do anything wrong?”
She shook her head. “But it’s so much. He was furnishing his own place in Albany, buying stereos and computers and flatscreen TVs, he’s got a dolly and he’s buying her things, he likes casinos, and it’s been going on for years. Stupid trusting me didn’t know until it was too late.”
“It’s not too late, that’s what—”
“Hi, Luke.”
Luke jumped, turned, and saw Avery Dixon. “Hi. How was the trampoline?”