In 1998, I briefly worked as a process server in the County of Sacramento while attending college. I wrote this story for the Sacramento City Express while attending classes. Enjoy
I counted nine of them through the chain-link fence. The full-grown rottweilers must have weighed 200 pounds or more. Occasionally, one would throw itself against the aluminum slats of the gate. I cursed under my breath.
This wasn’t a home. It was a fortress. Brutal razor-wire spiraled along the fence, which traced the edge of the property on all sides. The house squatted, smugly secure, in the middle.
The king of this castle was threatening to unleash 1,800 pounds of canine fury unless I “got the hell off his property.” His daughter, a dirty fourteen-year-old girl, was screaming that I was a “Pussy!” over and over again. Anything I might have said in response was lost in a flood of snarls, threats and slurs. I got in my car and slowly drove away.
Just another day at the “office.”
I’m a process server. I suppose the job title requires a bit of explanation. I’ll give you the boiled-down version: I sue people.
I drive to their homes, their jobs, and I give them papers letting them know they’ve been sued by someone. I hand out lawsuits, subpoenas, restraining orders-never good news.
I also ensure that the defendants have enough time to prepare a good defense. I ensure that they were really notified they were being sued. I’m protecting their rights, too. Most of them don’t see it that way.
No, to most people I deal with I am more than a man. I am a symbol, a symbol of everything that has gone wrong in their world.
They are losing their car or their home. The credit-card companies are herding them towards bankruptcy or they are in the midst of a nasty divorce. And I’m the guy who is doing it to them.
There’s an old saying: “Don’t kill the messenger.” After five months of careful research, I would like to report that people need a refresher course on old sayings.
After the “rottweilers incident,” my girlfriend bought me a steel-cased flashlight, like the kind police officers carry. I call it my “dog repellent.” I’ve never used it.
A few people have slammed the door before I could remove my hand. I’ve been pushed once or twice. But for the most part, people trying to avoid a lawsuit don’t get physical. They lie.
“I’m not Barbara.”
“He’s not home right now.”
“They don’t live here anymore.”
I try not to let the prevalence of liars sour me on humanity. I am usually dealing with people under some stress, after all.
Some people with my job play dirty. You get lied to enough, you start to lie, too. I try to be straightforward with people-until they start to lie. Then I have a few tricks of my own.
I’ll talk to the mail carrier to see where their mail is delivered. I’ll talk to their neighbors. I’ll stake out their house. I’ll call them on the phone and when they say they’re just leaving, I’ll tell them, “That’s okay. I’m standing on your porch.”
My job is to make sure they get the papers, not to make sure they like it.
I had been trying to serve papers to a local attorney for several months. He was never at his office. I finally got him on the phone, and he told me he was in San Francisco all day, but if I called back that evening he would decide if he wanted to accept the papers.
That’s not the way the system works. A lawyer, an officer of the court, should know that. But I didn’t feel like arguing and hung up.
An hour later, I happened to drive by his office. His car was in the driveway-a long way from San Francisco. The door was locked but it was also clear. He was on the phone. I tapped on the glass.
At first I thought he dropped a pencil. Then it hit me: He was crawling under his desk to hide! That made my whole day. I couldn’t stop laughing. I taped the papers to his door, and noted his actions on the proof I filed with the court. Let him explain it to the judge.
You haven’t lived until you’ve made a lawyer crawl on his hands and knees.
There are some parts of this job I enjoy. Every now and then I get to serve a restraining order on some guy who’s been mistaking his girlfriend’s face for a punching bag, or I get to track down a deadbeat parent who owes thousands in back child support. Serving assholes like that makes me feel good.
But most of the time I just end up serving papers to poor people, people a lot like me. They just got too far behind on their credit cards, or they can’t afford the payments on their house. Or maybe they just hit someone in a car accident.
And just when it seems it can’t get any worse, I show up to prove them wrong. Reactions range from anger to depression-mainly anger.
I can’t expect too much. It’s not like I’m bringing good news. But if people will listen, I’ll tell them what their rights are and what they need to do next. Most of the time, they don’t listen.
Often the guy getting sued just wants to make sure I don’t think he’s a bad person. He paid that bill. The other guy was at fault. The company is screwing him over. I nod my head in sympathy.
I get a lot of people that want instant justice. They know they are innocent, so logically, they shouldn’t have to go to court to prove it. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way.
No matter how much you tell me about your situation, no matter how well you prove your innocence to me, I am still giving you the papers. That’s my job.
I don’t think all of the people I serve are guilty. I don’t think they’re all innocent, either. I don’t have to figure it out. That’s what the courts are for.
And for every person who hates me for serving him papers, there is another person sitting on the opposite side of the courtroom who is grateful for my services.
Tags: process server
The best thing I’ve come across on the internet today.
And I mean that as a sincere compliment, I been surfin’.
This is a realy great story.
You should submit this to Morbid Curiosity Magazine. They’d love it.
I was a process server in Michigan for a few months. Being a 6′5″ guy in a leather jacket in a nice suburban neighborhood, you know they are lying when they say he\s not at home. Women would stand at an open door in a bathrobe and say their husband wasn’t home. I never made an issue of it because I always figured there was a guy holding a gun on the other side of the door. I wasn’t very good at the job, at only $8 a paper I never invested much time in it, I just tried to cover as much ground as possible. I was getting screwed by my employers, who were scum. The most profitable night I ever had was Halloween, everone was home, and everone opened the door for me. If I ever had to do it again, I wouldn’t of worn the leather jacket, except in the really scary neighborhoods. In the end I quit because I was spending more on gas than I was making, and having to travel to a few scary places made me think about what I was doing with my life.
dunno why but I have not been able to get into the furums for a while now
We changed hosting companies a few weeks ago. Try deleting your cookies and logging back in.
Send me an e-mail if you’re still having trouble.
Your job ranks right up there with the parking meter ticket giving jackasses and collection officers.
What do you expect from people– a sit down with a neighborly discussion about the evils of cholesterol over a hot cup of tea?
At least your clients and y
John,
Were you the process server or did you simply post this? I saw a “repo man” in full pursuit of my neighbor one time in LA. Nothing like a big V-8 engine to catch a small, underpowered sports car with late payments. The ice pick in the tires at a red light that left my neighbor walking home was the sign of a true professional.
Rich
That was me. I didn’t do anything as dangerous as repo work. But I did get a lot of threats, slammed doors and dogs sicced on me.
i am looking for an licensed special processor server to serve the other party in north hollywood currently.if you have any information, please reach me through the email or at (626) 375-6798
He’s telling it like it is, I make a living “making people happy” as I describe my job to a 5 year old, it is of course just the opposite. I’ve never thought of the halloween thing I’ve done Easter and Christmas eve. Also I don’t resemble anything offical. Anything to get the job done.
I’ve been serving papers for 22 years in Maryland and believe me, I can tell you stories from naked men to drunken women. A flower delivery works every time or park your car in front of their house and put the hood up (someone is bound to come out to help) LOL
Alright, I give up
I’m so f*cking sick of this sight I just can’t stand it anymore…It’s not the articles, they are great. It’s the dumbasses that always insist leaving their two cents. It pisses me off, people leaving thier phone numbers, trying you argue with you, using arguments that had just been nullified in your article. go to hell, everyone
i had a guy serve me papers once for a kid that lives in my house!!! i just called the number a the child support case was dropped amd now there going after his mom for it!!!!!
I like pie.
I LIKE BEER!
Phantasm: Welcome to grown up land. This is a place where everyone is free to disagree.
John: Nice article. Your diction is pleasant and rolling. A very easy read. Your use of images in language is really incredible, adding to the overall feel that ‘I’ve been there.’ Good work. I’ll be sure to check back and read some more.
Once during cubscout camp, I was served by the lunch lady…you know..wink wink…nudge nudge…Then I flew to the moon in my Elton John spaceship and had fudge with Bullwinkle and Rocky. They were hiding there from Richie Rich…What kind of creme should I use for the scaling between my toes? After you wipe your poo hole do you smell the paper? I lick my pennies…my peener is better than yours…Time for meds…bye now!
I am a big loser.
I agree, horse.
This actually sounds like a fun job. It also doesn’t sound to unlike my job as a correctional officer. It’s funny that an inmate will call me all sorts of names and ten minutes later, they want me to give them their food tray, a new roll of toilet paper or let them use the law library. Perhaps it takes a certain personality type to be sued or to be a repeat inmate…
Ahh, getting served.
Ten or so years ago a woman got into an altercation with me and started punching me. I never hit back – just defended myself. The next day I went to the police station and filed a complaint against her. They didn’t take me seriously because it was a man filing a battery complaint against a woman.
Three days later there’s a sheriff knocking on my door. Having just woken up I didn’t think much of it. Hands me papers and asked, “Were you expecting this?” I happily said I did and went back to bed. When I woke up I looked at the papers and realized the bitch that assaulted me had just filed a restraining order against me.
I just thought it was followup police work. Right.
I went to court. Sheriff had noted that I happily accepted the papers and that I was absolutely expecting them. It took the judge 2 minutes to finalize the restraining order on me for one year.
And I didn’t do anything wrong.
Until the verdict was handed down. Called her and her friends cunts in the courtroom, then for the next 365 days had my friends harrass the shit out of her.
So in the end I guess it really did work out.