One reason we can say this, and even pretend we’re going to no longer accept process services, is because husband-PI-partner is now also a lawyer and, fortunately, his caseload is growing.

But we’re still running [...]]]>

Not All Process Services Are as Whacky as Those in the movie Pineapple Express, but Some Come Close

Sometimes at our detective agency my husband-PI-partner and I wrap up a strange process service and we say, “Never again.”

One reason we can say this, and even pretend we’re going to no longer accept process services, is because husband-PI-partner is now also a lawyer and, fortunately, his caseload is growing.

But we’re still running our investigations agency, and recently another request came in for a process service.  I was chosen to be the server because we both thought I’d have an easier time getting the woman to answer the door, maybe even open it, so I could serve her papers.  We’d been informed that this woman had a serious drinking and drug problem.  So bad, she’d lost touch with friends, family, and even reality according to neighbors who’d seen her at odd hours doing odd things.  She’d also lost an excessive amount of weight in a short period of time, so the drug problem appeared to be serious.

Oh joy.

I debated whether or not we should even attempt this service.  We’ve had our share of people who go off the deep end after being served papers.  Another woman, after receiving divorce papers, followed my husband, pounding her fists on his back as he walked away.  He didn’t stop, didn’t turn around, didn’t speak to her…just kept walking and got into his car.  You see, a process server in our state was murdered a few years ago after serving divorce papers.  The process server got too involved.  He entered the home and tried to intervene in a domestic squabble.  The husband, to whom the divorce papers had been served, killed the process server with a baseball bat.

So we know better than to get involved with the people to whom we’re serving papers.  We serve and leave.

We’ve had people throw the papers back at us.  Okay, fine.  It’s still a legal service.  We’ve even had a public government official get so furious, she shoved the papers back into my husband’s face.  He calmly placed the papers back on the official’s desk and left.  That official is no longer sitting at that desk.  Last we heard, that official was reassigned to a basement office where she has little contact with the public.

Some people will sic their dogs on process servers.

We’ve also had dogs sic’d on us.  We’ve never been bitten, but we also take precautions to not be bitten.

As to my own past experiences, I’ve had people toss papers at me, scream at me, but so far I haven’t been hit.  I like those odds.

But I wasn’t so sure I’d be that lucky with this particular service.  When someone is altering their mind with lots of booze and drugs, and neighbors are reporting “crazy” incidences going on at the home, well…

Without going into particulars, certain law enforcement officers were also interested in this woman being served.  So much so, a detective promised to be parked around the corner “just in case.”  I did my homework, verified the woman had no guns in the house and confirmed there wasn’t a dog.  I contacted the detective, who promised to position his car where he said he would, and my husband drove me to the woman’s home and waited down the street.

I walked up to the woman’s home and knocked on her door.  No answer.  I rang the doorbell.  No answer.  Knocked again, rang again, knocked knocked knocked…

Somebody peered at me through a window next to the front door.

I put on my biggest, brightest smile.  I called out her name.

She frowned.  Her face disappeared.  Reappeared in the now-open door.

“Hello [repeated her name].  I have some legal papers for you.”

“No!” she screamed.

I tossed the papers inside before she slammed shut the door.

And I turned and headed down the steps, down the sidewalk, making a beeline for my husband’s waiting car.

I heard the woman’s voice screaming obscenities right behind me.  With a quick glance over my shoulder, I saw her dressed in a bathrobe, calling me colorful names in between threatening to hurt me.

I picked up my pace.

I saw my husband look out the driver’s window at me, his eyes wide.

“Start the car,” I called out.

Behind me, more screaming and name calling.  I hoped that detective was where he said he’d be.

I hoped that detective was parked where he said he'd be

I hopped inside the car, shut the door and we took off.

I looked out the back car window.  The woman stood in the middle of the street, screaming, and damn if she wasn’t holding a frying pan in her hand!

“That’s it,” I said to my husband as we drove off, “never again.”

“You were awesome,” he responded.

“I mean it, never again.”

“You were fearless.”

“I almost got hit with a frying pan.  I mean it, never again.”

***

Today a law firm sent us papers to serve someone.  ”This should be an easy serve,” the paralegal wrote.

Funny how people who don’t do process services like to say that.

A few years ago, we had an unusual case come into our office.  A private investigations firm in a large metropolitan city contacted us, said they were handling a cyberstalking case for a rock star and were we available to track this cyberstalker who appeared to be hiding in our region? If so, they’d [...]]]>

A few years ago, we had an unusual case come into our office.  A private investigations firm in a large metropolitan city contacted us, said they were handling a cyberstalking case for a rock star and were we available to track this cyberstalker who appeared to be hiding in our region? If so, they’d also like us to serve a retraining order on behalf of the rock star to this individual, who by the way had stolen millions of dollars from the rock star and was apparently “mentally challenged.”

I grew up listening to this rock star’s albums, knew many of the lyrics by heart (as did my friends).  When I researched this performer, I read that substantial (yes, millions) of dollars had been stolen by someone (the person we were to serve the restraining order on) several years ago.  Worse, this performer had been the victim of this thief’s ugly cyberstalking.

We were surprised the PI firm contacted us considering there are hundreds of PIs in our region, but they did, and we were happy to help.

We Made One Critical Mistake

I’ll skip how we found this person (a prolonged process that took several weeks), but I will say we made one critical mistake: we left our investigation business card at a business that forwarded it to the thief-cyberstalker. We’re cautious where we leave our business cards — many times, it’s a useful practice and we need to let people know how to contact us. In this particular instance, it was a questionable business and we had evidence the cyberstalker had been visiting this establishment in person. It also appeared possible that the cyberstalker was “pals” with one of the people who worked there. When we informed our clients, the metro-PI-firm about this, they said not to worry — and insisted we leave our business card with a person who worked there. Despite our trepidation, we complied.

That came back to bite us.

We Thought the Case Was Closed

We located the thief-cyberstalker in a temporary housing shelter (this person had been savvy about hopping from place to place undetected). After serving the restraining order papers, we thought the case was closed.

It wasn’t.

Within weeks, we started receiving email messages from a bogus email account.  The messages were hostile, accusatory, and the anonymous writer promised to destroy our reputations as investigators. We compared the messages to those the rock star had received (in the course of our investigations, we had received copies of several messages sent to the performer).  Same grammatical errors, same style of writing.  We knew we were dealing with the same cyberstalker.

When we checked the temporary housing shelter, the cyberstalker was gone.

But the email messages continued.  We tracked the IP addresses — all were to public computers.  The cyberstalker was writing from computers housed at libraries, coffeeshops, restaurants — places that offered free WiFi.

Tips for Handling a Cyberstalker

This is a good place to stop and review a few tips for dealing with cyberstalkers:

1. Save all correspondence, including header information in emails and other forms of electronic correspondence.

2. If you are 18 or under, let you parent (or an adult you trust) know about the cyberstalking.

3. Respond in writing with a cease & desist request. Then do not engage further with the cyberstalker. Clearly state that the contact is unwanted and that the cyberstalker should immediately stop all forms of communication. Check the filtering options on your email (and other communication services, such as social media) and apply the filtering options to halt the cyberstalker’s messages from reaching you.

4. Contact your Internet Service Provider (ISP) and file a complaint. If you’ve learned the cyberstalker’s ISP, also file a complaint with their ISP, too. ISPs have policies in place to handle cyberstalking, such as eliminating incoming messages from the cyberstalker, if known.

5. If the cyberstalking continues, contact your local law enforcement or local prosecutor’s office to see what charges (if any) can be filed. Save these communications as well, including any police reports.

6. Consider changing your email address, phone numbers, ISP, and other contact information the cyberstalker is using. Also considering using encryption software.

In our particular case, our cyberstalker took it to the next level and started sending emails to professional organizations we belonged to, clients, others…all stating nasty fabrications (lies) about us and our investigation services. This cyberstalker had done exactly the same thing to the rock star…some of those nasty, made-up allegations about the rock star had also made it into the media.

We Took an Additional Step

We don’t recommend this to others being cyberstalked, but it’s an additional step we took: We contacted our professional organizations and let them know we were being cyberstalked. We also informed a few key clients. Everyone was appalled at the emails they’d received. They also let us know that it was obvious to them that a troubled person with “issues” was launching an unfounded attack, and they were ignoring the missives.

We had also contacted the PI firm who’d hired us, explained that the rock star’s cyberstalker was now cyberstalking us (thanks to the business card we had left with the questionable business, the cyberstalker learned our identities and contact information). The investigators contacted the rock star’s law firm who sent their own threat to the cyberstalker (they now had numerous email addresses at which to contact this person). In a nutshell, the law firm stated that as we were employees of the rock star, we were also covered by the terms of this performer’s restraining order. If the cyberstalker continued harassing us, the stalker would go to jail.

The Cyberstalking Stopped

After the law firm sent their own threatening letter to the cyberstalker, the nasty emails to us and our associates and

The cyberstalker disappeared, just like smoke.

clients stopped.  Just like that.  Poof.

We were lucky in that we had immediate legal pull. We’ve known other people who continue to be cyberstalked, and they’ve set up new, protected email accounts, new phone numbers, new social media IDs, and so forth.

I sometimes read stories of this rock star, see venues where the performer is appearing, read articles about the latest music release.  This performer is a legend, has a place in the rock n roll hall of fame, and I suppose to others this person might seem to lead a sweet ‘n easy glitter-filled life.  But we know there was a period of time this star was a person like anybody else, dealing with a cyberstalker who had a dark agenda. And after our experience, we learned how dark.

Minding Spot, a fun site for book reviews and all kinds of giveaways, is featuring The Zen Man through April 5. Win an e-copy of The Zen Man and a cool “Zen Man” T. Wendy Hines, who runs the site, also posted this review for The Zen Man:

One thing we’ve learned at our investigations agency is to never provide details about an investigation task to clients until after the task is completed. Years ago we learned the hard way when an overly emotional client spilled the beans about a surveillance to the subject of that surveillance, which not only killed the investigation [...]]]>

One thing we’ve learned at our investigations agency is to never provide details about an investigation task to clients until after the task is completed. Years ago we learned the hard way when an overly emotional client spilled the beans about a surveillance to the subject of that surveillance, which not only killed the investigation but put us in jeopardy (that’ll be another post someday).

Unfortunately, years ago one of our lawyer-clients spilled the “investigation beans” to his/our client, which caused all kinds of problems…

The Day The Sheriffs Escorted Us to Another County

A lawyer hired us as investigators in a nasty divorce case. The husband had recently moved out of his home, leaving
his wife and two small children there. The problem was, the wife was overly fond of cocaine and vodka, staying up partying for long periods before crashing for day-long sleeps. The children, both under six years old, had told their dad that on “Mommy’s sleep days,” they were going outside to play by themselves.

The attorney asked us to conduct a trash hit, see what evidence there was of alcohol and drug use. In preparation to visit the home, we learned it was remotely located in the mountains (very dangerous for young children to be outside for long periods by themselves). We also learned the soon-to-be ex-wife had a history of drug and alcohol abuse.

In preparation for a trash hit, we learned the day the trash was set out and where the trash cans would most likely be located. As the wife didn’t work, it was likely she’d be at home, so we planned to work quickly (“How to Conduct a Trash Hit” explains about trash hits in more detail).

It was going to be a long drive to the mountains, so we decided to take our Rottweiler (our female, now 7 years old, named Aretha Franklin).

Imagine Our Surprise When We Saw…

The home, located in the mountains, was accessible by a single dirt road that snaked around hills, boulders, trees. When we finally hit the last stretch leading to the house, imagine our surprise to see several sheriff’s units, including a K-9 unit and a van.

These dudes, and dog, were waiting for us.

Our Rottweiller, Ms. Big Bad Herself, jumped over the backseat and huddled in my lap, shaking with fear. The sheriff who was approaching our vehicle saw Ms. Big Bad clear the backseat and placed his hand on his holster.

This was going to be one of those days.

My husband poked his head out the driver’s window and said loudly, calmly, “The Rottweiller is docile — she’s cowering in my wife’s lap.”

I smiled at the sheriff, a hundred-plus pounds of Rottie trembling in my arms.

Wife Added All Kinds of Sinister Story Twists

For the next hour or so, the sheriffs interviewed my husband and I about what we were doing there, who we were, who sent us, etc. etc. etc. From the questions, it became obvious that our attorney-client had informed the almost-ex-husband that we were heading up the mountain to conduct a trash hit on his former residence. Seems in a rage-fueled conversation with his estranged wife, he’d blabbed everything the lawyer had said, down to the expected time of our arrival.

The wife then called the local sheriff’s house and added all kinds of sinister twists to her husband’s tale, leading the sheriff’s office to believe we were everything from potential burglars to kidnappers.

Lovely.

The sheriffs, upon learning we were actually private investigators and that this was about a nasty divorce case, decided the best recourse was to escort us to another county, which wasn’t so bad as that next county was the one in which we live and work. They set up a caravan of sheriff’s vehicles, in front and behind us, and our happy convoy proceeded down the mountain.

Along the way we called our attorney-client, explained that his telling the client about the trash hit had resulted in this sheriff-fest. “Are they putting you in jail?” he asked, “’cause if they are, call me. I’ll represent you, no charge.” He thought that was pretty funny.

We continued in our sheriff-PI caravan down the mountain, our steel-nerved Rottweiler refusing to leave my lap. As we crossed the county line, one of the sheriffs honked and waved good-bye.

Friendly folk, those mountain sheriffs.

Since then, whenever we start working with a new lawyer, we insist that pertinent details of an investigation not be shared until after the task is completed. Most attorneys know this, but we’d prefer to err on the side of too much information than another ride flanked by law enforcement.

Postscript: That attorney hired another investigator who safely conducted a trash hit. Significant amounts of drug and alcohol were found (the wife kept tossing that evidence into the trash). We’ve since heard she’s in a recovery program, so hopefully this story has a better ending for the kids.

comfortable not stepping on anyone’s toes, and I can move in time to the beat. I keep in shape with long walks, lifting weights, and training our Rottweiler named Jack Nicholson.

A few [...]]]> I grew up taking dance classes — tap, ballet, jazz, the occasional folk dancing class. I still like to dance socially, feel

Our Rottweiler, Jack Nicholson

comfortable not stepping on anyone’s toes, and I can move in time to the beat. I keep in shape with long walks, lifting weights, and training our Rottweiler named Jack Nicholson.

A few years ago, a client who was going through difficult times in his marriage, and had asked us to conduct several surveillances in the course of deciding whether or not to file for divorce, called. Could we conduct one more surveillance: at a club where he believed his wife was going with a man he believed she was having an affair with. The three of us — our client, my husband and myself were on the speaker phone. Sure, we said, checking our calendar. We told him we were free that evening and could be there.

“One more thing,” he said, “it’s pole-dancing exhibition night. The professional pole dancers are also giving a free class on-stage to women. I believe my wife will be taking that pole-dancing class. She’s like that. Probably wants to show off for her boyfriend.”

Okay, fine, we’ll conduct the surveillance from the audience, see if she’s there with this alleged boyfriend.

Could You Take a Pole-Dancing Class?

“And another thing,” he continued, “I’m guessing a friend of hers will also be there. The two of them are tight. That friend of hers is pretty wild, will probably be taking that free class with my wife. Could you also take that class? That way you’d be right there with the two of them, offstage and on, and you could overhear what my wife’s saying about that guy.”

My husband put the phone speaker on mute. “Not a bad idea,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “Are you game? I’ll be in the audience conducting surveillance, you’ll be undercover and able to hear the girl talk.”

“I’m, uh, not all that limber,” I mumbled.

“Sure you are! You garden, walk, lift weights.”

“Lifting weights and slinging myself around a pole are two different things.”

“You underestimate yourself,” he said, taking the phone off mute. “Yes,” he said to our client, “she can be part of the class and I’ll be in the audience.”

The Night of the Big Event

I showed up at the club in my “pole-dancing” ensemble: tight black T-shirt, form-fitting black sweat pants, sneakers. Yeah, sneakers. Imagine my surprise when I saw the other women who were signing up for the class wore stilletos! Yes, skyscraper-high heels! I wouldn’t have been able to walk in those things, much less prance around a pole in them.

But I figured “so what?” It was advertised as a class, not a Coyote Ugly event, and I was the student in sneakers.

I dutifully signed up for the class and joined the women hovering around the stage. The subject was there, in a sexy leotard number, along with her gal-pal who wore a skimpy halter and short-shorts. Both of them wore stilletos. I sidled up close to them, although I didn’t have to get all that close because the subject wasn’t exactly whispering about her hot stud boyfriend, who she kept waving and blowing kisses to.

I glanced out in the audience. My husband was surreptitiously taking pictures of wifey’s public flirtations to her boyfriend.

An instructor — a leggy brunette named Crystal — herded us pole-students onto the stage. Standing up there in my clingy black T and bun-hugging stretch pants, I felt way overdressed. I looked down at my husband who was looking at me, grinning so wide I swore I could count every tooth.

I stood next to the subject and her pal. They worked those poles like stilleto’d warriors with vertical spears . They swung, spun, slithered, swiveled, even hung upside down…they were killing it.

Obviously this wasn’t their first pole-dancing experience.

I worked my pole like a sneaker’d trooper trying to cuff The Hulk. I flailed, twirled, staggered, and when I attempted that upside-down contortion…well, let’s just say it’s a good thing a quick-thinking bartender was there to catch me.

That night, my husband helped me lie down on a heating pad and promised I’d feel better in the morning. Actually, it took a solid week. But we had photos and video of the subject schmoozing and kissing her boyfriend, plus I’d heard enough to know his name, occupation, that he too was married…

After this experience, I have a new-found respect for pole dancing. It takes strength, agility, and a talent to do the impossible in stilettos.

However, not enough respect to keep documentation of my wrestling with a pole in those sneakers.