Chapter 4 - The Return In The Rain
By 6:45 PM, the Chicago drizzle had transformed into a relentless, freezing autumn downpour.
The wind off Lake Michigan whipped through the alleyway behind the building, rattling the industrial metal trash bins and sending sheets of gray water across the pavement.
Marcus and I were sitting inside the first-floor administrative office, the overhead lights turned off, watching the building's exterior security feeds on the high-definition wall monitors.
On camera four, which pointed directly at the loading dock, a heavy pickup truck pulled into view.
It was my father's silver Ford F-150, towing a two-wheel open utility trailer covered with a green plastic tarp.
Behind the wheel sat my father, his wipers slapping frantically against the windshield.
In the passenger seat sat Tyler.
And in the back seat of the extended cab, I could clearly see the silhouette of my mother alongside Melissa, who was holding an umbrella against the glass.
"They brought the whole family," Marcus murmured, leaning closer to the glowing screen.
"They brought Melissa to show off the master bedroom," I said, sipping a cup of black tea.
"They wanted her to see the walk-in closet before the rain soaked the furniture."
The truck stopped near the loading dock doors.
The driver's door swung open, and Dad stepped out into the pouring rain, pulling a baseball cap down over his graying hair.
Tyler jumped out of the passenger side, wearing work gloves and a bright yellow raincoat.
Mom and Melissa remained inside the heated cab of the truck, laughing and pointing toward the fourth-floor windows.
Dad walked to the back of the trailer, untied the heavy bungee cords, and pulled back the green tarp.
Beneath the plastic sat a white wooden baby crib, an unassembled changing table, three large plastic storage tubs marked "Baby Clothes," and two plush nursery armchairs.
"They brought the entire nursery," Marcus observed.
"They're fully committed."
"Watch camera one," I instructed, pointing to the monitor displaying the fourth-floor hallway.
On the screen, Dave's high-security lock gleamed beneath the corridor lights.
The bright white legal notice from Northline was prominently visible on the dark wood of door 4B.
Below, on the loading dock feed, Tyler and Dad hoisted the white baby crib between them, struggling against the gusting wind.
They carried it through the heavy rear security door, using Mom's emergency fob to gain access to the service elevator.
For three minutes, the hallway monitor remained empty.
Then, the elevator doors on the fourth floor slid open with a chime.
Dad and Tyler emerged, carrying the white crib down the carpeted hallway, their wet boots leaving dark tracks on the runner.
Dad was talking animatedly, gesturing with his head toward the apartment door.
"Once we get this crib inside the master alcove, we can set up the changing table by the window," Dad's voice came through the hallway intercom microphone.
"Jesse will come around by Thursday."
"He's family."
"He's not gonna let his nephew sleep on the street."
Tyler laughed, his chest heaving with the weight of the furniture.
"I still can't believe he took photos with his phone like a cop."
"That was hilarious."
"He was shaking, Dad."
"He looked like he was about to cry when you told him to leave."
They reached the door of Unit 4B.
Dad set his end of the crib down on the carpet and reached into his coat pocket for the brass emergency key Mom had returned to him earlier—or rather, the spare copy they had secretly made without my knowledge.
Dad stopped dead in his tracks.
His eyes locked onto the crisp white paper taped directly over the brass peephole.
Tyler set his end of the crib down, frowning.
"What is that?"
Dad leaned in closer, squinting through the dim hallway light to read the bold black lettering.
"OFFICIAL NOTICE TO VACATE IMMEDIATELY... UNLAWFUL DETAINER..." Dad read aloud, his voice dropping into a harsh, raspy whisper.
"What the hell is this?"
Tyler grabbed the corner of the paper, ripping it slightly as he pulled it closer to his face.
"Northline Property Management?" Tyler muttered, his face suddenly draining of color.
"Dad... it says my name."
"How the hell does Northline know my name?"
"Jesse called them," Dad growled, his knuckles turning white as he clenched his fists.
"That little snitch actually called the management company."
"He went behind our backs and complained like a spoiled child."
"Dad, it says two hundred and fifty dollars a day in liquidated damages," Tyler said, his voice rising in an octave of pure panic.
"It says immediate eviction proceedings!"
"Calm down!" Dad snapped, slapping the paper away with his palm.
"It's an automated form letter."
"These corporate management companies send these out whenever a tenant files a noise complaint or brings in an unauthorized roommate."
"It means nothing."
"We have the key."
"We move the stuff in tonight, we pay Jesse's rent on the first of the month through his online account, and nobody from this corporate office will ever know the difference."
Dad pulled out a shiny, brand-new brass key—a duplicate he had clearly cut at a hardware store before arriving.
He jammed the key into the deadbolt cylinder.
The key went in half an inch and stopped completely.
Dad frowned, jiggling the brass key violently.
He pulled it out, inspected the teeth, and jammed it back in.
It didn't turn.
It didn't even slide into the keyway.
Dad cursed loudly under his breath, grabbing the brass door handle and rattling it with both hands.
The door remained immovable, locked tight against the structural frame.
"What's wrong with it?" Tyler asked, stepping back nervously.
"The lock is jammed," Dad said, his face turning an angry shade of purple.
"Jesse changed the deadbolt."
"He couldn't have," Tyler argued.
"He left twenty minutes ago on foot!"
"He doesn't have tools!"
"He hired someone, you idiot!" Dad roared, kicking the bottom of the solid oak door with his heavy work boot.
The wood thudded with a dull, solid impact, but the frame didn't budge a millimeter.
"Jesse!" Dad shouted, pounding on the door with the side of his fist.
"Open this door right now!"
The hallway intercom carried his furious bellow straight into the first-floor office.
Marcus looked at me, his eyes wide.
"Should we go up?"
"No," I replied, watching the monitor with cold detachment.
"Let him show his true colors on the security recording."
Dad pounded on the door three more times, his breathing heavy and ragged.
"Jesse, I know you're in there!"
"Stop playing these childish games!"
"You open this door this instant, or I swear to God I will kick it off the hinges!"
Down the hall, the door to apartment 4D cracked open.
An elderly woman named Mrs. Gable, who had lived in the building for twenty-two years, peered out into the corridor, looking alarmed by the violence in the hall.
"Excuse me!" Mrs. Gable called out, her voice trembling.
"What is going on out here?"
"Do I need to call the police?"
Dad turned around, his eyes wild with rage.
"Mind your own business, lady!" Dad yelled down the hallway.
"Go back inside your apartment!"
Mrs. Gable immediately slammed her door shut, the deadbolt clicking loudly into place.
Tyler grabbed Dad's arm, his eyes darting frantically toward the security cameras mounted in the ceiling.
"Dad, stop!"
"There are cameras everywhere!"
"Mom and Melissa are waiting in the truck!"
"What are we going to tell Melissa?"
"Her parents bought that crib!"
Dad ripped his arm away from Tyler's grip, breathing heavily through his nose like a cornered bull.
He looked down at the white baby crib resting on the hallway carpet.
Then he looked at the Medeco lock that had completely shut him out.
"Call him," Dad ordered, pointing at Tyler's phone.
"Call your brother right now."
Tyler pulled his phone from his raincoat pocket with trembling hands.
He tapped the screen three times and held the device to his ear.
Inside the quiet first-floor office, my smartphone began vibrating against the wooden desk.
The caller ID displayed a picture of Tyler from three years ago, smiling at a family barbecue.
I let it ring once.
Twice.
Three times.
Marcus held his breath, watching my face.
On the fourth ring, I slid my thumb across the screen, tapped the speakerphone icon, and set the phone gently on the desk between us.
"Speak," I said calmly.
Tyler's voice came through the speaker, desperate, ragged, and trembling with barely suppressed fury.
"Jesse, where the hell are you?"
"I am currently attending to building business, Tyler."
"What did you do to the door?" Tyler yelled, his voice echoing through both the speaker and the hallway intercom above.
"My key doesn't work!"
"There's a crazy piece of paper taped to the wood saying I owe two hundred and fifty dollars a day!"
"Dad is kicking the door down!"
"You need to come back up here right now and unlock this apartment!"
"I am not unlocking anything, Tyler."
Before Tyler could respond, the phone was ripped from his hand.
My father's furious, booming voice exploded through the tiny speaker, vibrating the desk surface.
"Jesse, listen to me very carefully!" Dad roared into the microphone.
"You have five minutes to get your miserable tail up to this floor and open this door!"
"Melissa is sitting in the truck in the freezing rain with your unborn nephew!"
"We have two thousand dollars worth of nursery furniture sitting in the hallway!"
"If you don't unlock this door right now, I will take a crowbar from my truck and pry this entire frame out of the wall!"
I waited two full seconds before answering.
When I spoke, my voice was as smooth and unyielding as polished granite.
"If you strike that door with a crowbar, Arthur, you will be arrested for felony destruction of property before you finish the first swing."
Dad went dead silent for a fraction of a second, shocked by the use of his first name.
"What did you just call me?"
"You heard me," I replied.
"You are currently trespassing on private commercial property."
"You have placed unauthorized personal property in a common egress corridor, which violates the municipal fire code of the City of Chicago."
"You have threatened physical violence against the structural fixtures of this building."
"And you have harassed an elderly tenant in unit 4D."
"Every single word you just spoke, every kick against that door, and every threat you shouted has been recorded in high-definition video and synchronized audio."
Dad let out a strangled, furious sound that was half-gasp and half-growl.
"You think a recording scares me?"
"I am your father!"
"I don't give a damn about your corporate management company or your little legal notices!"
"This is family business!"
"No," I replied, standing up from my chair and looking directly at the security monitor.
"It was family business when you asked me for money at Thanksgiving."
"It ceased being family business the moment you forced your way into my home, packed my private life into cardboard boxes, and treated my survival like disposable garbage."
"You wanted to know who owns this property, Dad?"
"You wanted to know who has the authority to dictate who lives behind that door?"
Dad sneered into the phone.
"Yeah, Jesse."
"Who?"
"Some faceless corporate landlord who doesn't give a damn about you either?"
"Step into the elevator, Dad," I said quietly.
"Press the button for the lobby."
"Come to the administrative office behind the mailboxes."
"And I will introduce you to the owner."
I tapped the red end-call button.
The line went dead.
I looked at Marcus, who was adjusting his tie and straightening the formal files on his desk.
"Are you ready, Marcus?"
Marcus took a deep breath, his knuckles cracking as he laced his fingers together.
May you like
"Jesse, I've managed commercial real estate in this city for fifteen years."
"I have never been more ready for a meeting in my entire life."
