Retelling stories

There are stories worth retelling before my memory starts fading.

I was a shy and quiet girl until I started teaching in two private Catholic high schools in Manila and as a part-time evening instructor in an all-male college, students of criminology. A teacher has to talk in order to teach her assigned subject, not unless her students are deaf-mute, thus, she uses the sign language.

After four school years, I joined the national government, initially as information editor in one of the Department of Labor and Employment’s attached agencies. Both impressed and bewildered by my high-sounding job description, I won’t forget the day I first stepped foot in that office in Intramuros. An assistant of the head of office tried to scare me, “Are you willing to take the risk?” I looked him straight in the eye, innocently but confidently answered, “Yes!”

I learned later that the assistant held various positions vacant, deliberately reserving it for his relatives! I knew as his sister and two nieces became my colleagues a few years later.

Our quasi-judicial office had a quarterly publication where I wrote a regular column and a feature article. A nonlawyer, although I later studied a six-month paralegal course, my column was about catchy news bits from 12 regional branches nationwide, updates on new appointments, promotions, retirements, deaths, or non-legalese, breezy items.

A victim of the dirty palakasan, padrino system, for who you know, not what you know, I and my then close colleague filed a promotion protest at the Civil Service Commission against six then clerical employees. We won the case and got promoted as “associates” or alter ego of our immediate superiors.

Our new position was challenging as we had to deal with all kinds of lawyers and litigants. Thus, we encountered Atty. Postpone, Atty. Motion for Extension, etc. A few good lawyers though had become our lifetime friends.

A seemingly impressed young male lawyer approached me right after the conciliation conference, “Paniera, saan ka graduate?” I nearly replied in jest, “of Grade 6?”

My washing machine malfunctioned. A friend referred a repairman. Voila, he fixed it in less than an hour! Weeks later, the same repairman appeared in our office wearing barong tagalog, complete with briefcase, and presented himself as lawyer for the complainant! He was later fined by my feisty lady boss for being an impostor!

I attended to a case where the complainant was the elder brother of the respondent. Infuriated, the respondent pulled out his gun and aimed it at his older brother! I had control of the proceedings, but trying hard to conceal my shaking knees, I stood up and yelled at the respondent, “Bawal ‘yang baril mo dito (No guns allowed here)!” Turning to his lady lawyer, I said, “Attorney, palabasin mo ang kliyente mo (please ask your client to leave)!” Whew! I never saw that gun-toting respondent again.

A male lawyer asked me to see the case folder. He sat down and flipped over the numbered pages while I continued with my paper work, at the same time side glancing at him. Alas, I caught him tearing down a return card from the case folder! I never saw that lawyer again.

A male lawyer was upset after reading what I wrote in the minutes of proceedings, “Counsel for respondent failed to appear, to be notified of the next hearing.” I explained calmly that he was not around when I called his case and that I’d just add, “Counsel for respondent appeared later and was duly notified.” He yelled at me. I was alone in the room at the time. I stood up and emphatically yelled back with my left finger pointing at his face, “You have no right to shout at me!” Suddenly apologetic, he explained that he was upset with his secretary’s mistakes. I shot back, “Then don’t make me your shock absorber!”

My longest male boss, Nel, now 95, trusted me so much that he signed a blank legal-size paper wherein I was supposed to prepare a writ of execution. After signing, he left with a warning: “‘Pag may mali dyan sa ginagawa mo, isasama kita sa kulungan (If you make a mistake, I will bring you with me to jail)!”

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Katy Viacrucis, 74, is an occasional contributor since 2001, starting with “Parting” in Sunday Inquirer Magazine.