Chapter 15 - The Eviction on Astor Street
On December 28th at precisely 9:00 AM, the Peterson family's forty-year reign on Astor Street came to a grinding, public halt.
The temperature in Chicago was fourteen degrees. A bitter lake-effect snow was falling, coating the sidewalks in a treacherous layer of white powder.
Parked outside the historic brick brownstone were two Cook County Sheriff's Department transport vans and a twenty-six-foot commercial moving truck operated by a court-appointed liquidation service.
Frank Peterson sat on the bottom step of the limestone porch, wearing a worn wool coat he had pulled from the back of the closet, his belongings packed into two scuffed leather suitcases sitting beside him in the snow.
His face was gaunt, his skin gray, and his posture utterly defeated.
Behind him, two uniformed sheriff's deputies were systematically carrying out the Peterson family heirlooms under the supervision of a court-appointed receiver: the antique grandfather clock, the oil paintings of ancestors who had never worked a day in their lives, the silver tea sets, the Persian rugs.
Everything was being cataloged, tagged, and loaded into the truck to be taken to an auction house on Michigan Avenue to satisfy the outstanding mortgage deficiency judgment held by Hayes & Sterling Capital.
Carol Peterson stood on the sidewalk, held back by a female deputy, clutching a plastic shopping bag containing her personal toiletries and three framed photographs.
She had spent three weeks in the Cook County psychiatric holding ward following her arrest at Lily's school, only released yesterday on her own recognizance under strict electronic ankle monitoring. She looked twenty years older, her spirit completely broken, her haughty society posture replaced by the trembling, vacant stare of a woman who had lost her mind and her world in the span of thirty days.
A black town car glided to the curb and stopped.
The driver stepped out, opened the rear door, and Arthur Vance emerged, holding a leather folder containing the final **Writ of Possession and Eviction Certificate.**
Frank didn't look up as Arthur’s polished leather shoes stopped on the limestone step beside him.
"The locks have been changed, Frank," Arthur said calmly. "The deed has been formally transferred to HSC Real Estate Holdings. The property will be renovated and converted into a community arts center for underprivileged children from the South Side, funded by the Hayes Family Foundation."
Frank let out a dry, rattling laugh that turned into a wet cough.
"A community center," Frank whispered, staring at his frozen shoes. "My grandfather’s home... turned into a charity project for street kids."
"Your grandfather’s home was built with money from honest labor, Frank," Arthur said. "It’s only fitting that it returns to serving people who actually understand the meaning of the word."
Frank slowly looked up, his watery gray eyes meeting Arthur’s. "Where is Mark? Have you heard from him?"
"Mark was arraigned in federal district court yesterday morning," Arthur replied without an ounce of pity. "Bail was denied due to the risk of flight and the gravity of the wire fraud charges. He has been remanded to the Metropolitan Correctional Center downtown. His trial is set for April. The federal sentencing guidelines suggest twelve to fifteen years without parole."
Carol let out a low, pathetic whimper from the sidewalk, clutching her plastic bag to her chest as the snow fell onto her bare head.
"And Megan?" Frank asked, his voice barely audible over the rumble of the moving truck.
"Megan’s plea deal was rejected by the State’s Attorney this morning," Arthur said. "She goes to trial on felony aggravated battery of a child on January 15th. With Julian Davies and three former sorority sisters testifying against her regarding prior uncharged acts of violence, she is looking at four to seven years in the state penitentiary at Logan Correctional Center."
Arthur turned and gestured to the deputy sheriff.
"Escort them off the property, Deputy," Arthur commanded. "This site is now private property."
Frank Peterson slowly stood up, took his two battered suitcases in his trembling, frostbitten hands, and walked down the steps of the brownstone he would never enter again.
May you like
He took his weeping, broken wife by the arm, and together, the two fallen monarchs of the Gold Coast shuffled down the snowy sidewalk toward the nearest CTA bus stop, disappearing into the gray, freezing Chicago winter.
***
