Back in the 1980s, I met a lawyer at a friend’s barbecue in San Francisco. He shared a story about a restaurant owner in Ghirardelli Square who wasn’t paying his vendors. A food supplier who was owed nearly $100,000 by the restaurant retained the lawyer. The law firm tried serving the restaurant owner with a summons but the owner was evasive. In one instance, the owner chased off a process server with a cleaver.
I asked the lawyer about the pay rate for delivering a subpoena. He said it was typically $100 but in this case they were offering $400.
“And if the subpoena is not delivered?”
“Then you get bupkis,” he said with a laugh.
I asked if I could give it a shot.
“Have you delivered a subpoena before?”
“No. But I could use the cash.”
I met the lawyer the following Monday in his fourth-floor downtown office with a glorious view of the Bay Bridge. He explained the rules for delivering subpoenas. In California, the paperwork had to be physically handed to the recipient. I wasn’t required to say anything but he suggested I mention three fateful words: “You’ve been served.” Afterwards, I was to return to the law offices to file an “affidavit of service” confirming details of the delivery. At that point, I’d be paid.
The lawyer informed me the restaurant owner worked Monday through Friday but stayed in a back office out of view. He gave me a brief description of the owner: tall with a thick mustache, balding, dark skin, glasses and a prominent beer belly. He said I should wear my best tennis shoes in case I had to escape another cleaver attack. He then told me about the failed delivery attempts.
“The first guy asked the maître d’ for the owner. Of course he was told the man was not there. He tried again a few days later with the same result. The second guy came in with a bag of potatoes and walked directly into the kitchen as if he were a food supplier. He asked a cook where he could find the owner and was led to an upstairs office. When he knocked on the door, the owner came out wielding a cleaver. The process server barely escaped. We felt bad so we gave him fifty bucks for the effort.”
I immediately had second thoughts about the job, but desperately needed the money. I told the lawyer I’d do it under two conditions. My rate would have to increase to $500. And the law firm had to cover my lunch at the restaurant.
“You’re going to eat there first,” the lawyer asked.
“Yup.”
“Hmmm,” he said. “I think I see where you’re going with this. Not a bad idea.”
He had me sign papers and then gave me the subpoena and the restaurant address. I exited the building and felt a wave of apprehension. I knew I had to do it that day or I’d lose my courage.
I took a bus to Fisherman’s Wharf and walked to Ghirardelli Square. The restaurant was an opulent Indian establishment with views of the bay. The maître d’ led me to a small table and brought me a menu. I ordered garlic naan, lentils, Aloo Gobi, Chana Masala and Tandoori chicken.
I ate slowly, impressed by the food. The chicken was delicious with a blend of coriander, cumin, turmeric and garlic. I reminded myself it was easy to use high quality goods when you have no intention of paying for them. I was given a complementary kheer (rice pudding) for dessert then the waiter brought the check. I gave him a $100 bill.
“I have to tell you, that’s the best Indian food I’ve ever tasted.”
“Thank you,” the waiter said.
“I’m a food writer for the San Francisco Weekly,” I said with the confidence of a good liar. “I plan on writing a wonderful review of this meal. Is there any way I could pay my respects to the chef and tell him how much I enjoyed the food?”
“He doesn’t speak English,” the waiter said.
“How about the owner,” I asked. “That way I could learn a little bit of history about the restaurant.”
“Hold on a moment and I’ll ask,” the waiter said.
He disappeared into the kitchen. As the minutes passed, I felt anxious about my strategy. Then I noticed a well-dressed Indian man marching towards my table. He was tall and balding with glasses, a mustache and a paunch. He had a look of satisfaction, his hands behind his back.
“Good afternoon sir,” he said. “I understand you enjoyed your meal.”
“It was fantastic,” I said.
“Zahir tells me you’re writing an article about the restaurant and you had some questions?”
“I want to know your inspiration for creating such wonderful food.”
He smiled, clearly proud. My knees were shaking and my stomach was filled with butterflies. My courage was quickly dissipating. I’d reached a now-or-never moment. I took a deep breath and reached for the subpoena between my legs. I thrust it into the owner’s hand. He appeared confused.
“You’ve been served,” I said. I stood up and pushed past him. Before he knew what hit him, I was out of the restaurant and sprinting toward the wharf. I didn’t stop running until I made it to North Beach.
I was exhausted. And exhilarated. I called the lawyer on a pay phone and related the details. He couldn’t stop laughing. I returned to the law offices where I was greeted by a coterie of excited lawyers all patting me on the back. They debriefed me and had me sign a deposition about the experience. Then they wrote me a check for $600 ($500 + $100 for lunch).
As I was about to leave, the lawyer called me into his office. He asked if I was a 49ers fan. He explained he was representing a local football player in a case of an unpaid loan to a childhood friend. He wanted to know if I’d be willing to deliver a subpoena to the accused.
“What happened to the first guy who tried,” I asked.
“He was beat up,” the lawyer said. “But with your creative approach, I know you can make it happen.”
I told him my process server days were over. I left the building and walked home eager to find a new line of work.