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new customer. And he was delighted with your product (or 
service). 
But now thirty days have gone by, and you've had no check. 
So you phone him. No problem, really. "It's just that two 
directors need to sign the checks, and one of them is out of 
town. He's expected back in two weeks." 
Two weeks later, you phone again. The director got back, 
they tell you, but he's having a minor operation on his leg. 
He went straight to hospital and didn't get a chance to sign 
any checks or go through his in-tray. Terribly sorry, but 
they swear you'll get a check next week. 
Nearly two months have now gone by. The $6200 would be 
useful in your cash flow. You have bills to pay, like anyone 
else. You try phoning again -- but now have trouble keeping 
the irritation out of your voice. Has that check been signed 
yet? Yes, they say, but it's with the book-keeper, who has a 
whole pile of checks that need to be "entered into the 
computer". 
"When?" you ask.
"By Friday," they assure you.
Surely, things can't keep going wrong? (Or, more darkly: 
surely, they must run out of excuses soon?) 
Not so. The problems can go on for a long time yet. That 
computer, for example: there could be a disk crash. Or your 
check could be sent to the wrong person, to someone who's in 
New Zealand. But never mind, they'll issue another one... 
when the computer is fixed. And the other director gets back 
from Canada. And the book-keeper recovers from his 
open-heart surgery. Provided they can find the checkbook, in 
the mess that was left after the sales tax people raided 
them. Always assuming that the person you want to speak to 
has returned from a meeting that seems to last as long as 
the polar night. 
Even if you're pretty innocent, you'll realize you're being 
strung along. Time to put the pressure on! But how? 
Usually what happens next in a story like this is that you 
make a few angry phone calls. In your last call, you 
threaten legal action. (A message that's carefully taken 
down by their 16-year-old receptionist, because everyone 
else is still in that polar meeting.) 
Then you crack. You've had enough! You storm down to your 
lawyer (if you have one -- otherwise, you grab the yellow 
pages and pick one). There, in that comfortable chair, with 
that attentive face taking it all in, you feel like you're 
loading shells into a cannon. They did this, they did that! 
Great ammunition! Blast them, Mr. Lawyer! 
This takes an hour. In extreme cases, even two. Your story 
isn't that coherent. You haven't brought any papers -- or 
not enough. Anyway, you now feel better. It's now in the 
hands of your lawyer. Now they'll see! Boy, will they! No 
messing around with you. 
Back at your office, you send copies of the papers your 
lawyer asked for. You get them out of the office within an 
hour, and send them to the lawyer by courier. (Why wait for 
the post? So slow. That might delay things a day!) 
A week passes. Surely by now something dire must have 
happened to those guys who owe you the money? Agitated, you 
phone the lawyer. His tone jars you a little. Yes, he's 
looked at the papers. He suggests that he will write the 
debtor a letter, saying that legal action will be taken if 
no check is paid within seven days. A little casual and 
slow, you think -- considering those guys deserve, well, 
death, practically. 
It takes another week before he actually sends the letter. 
How is this possible? Surely, there can be nothing more 
urgent than your $6200? A whole week, to get a letter out? 
But you don't dare resent your lawyer, your main weapon. But 
still, you don't feel exactly the way you did at the 
beginning. A thought -- hard to repress -- keeps coming up: 
maybe you didn't get a tough enough lawyer? But the idea of 
starting all over... 
The letter goes out, and another week creaks by. Nothing. No 
$6200. No response. Zero. 
You can't stand it! You'll hit them with a summons! Mind 
you, you haven't done this before, and you picture something 
like a lightning bolt. It will leave them stunned, and just 
alive enough to beg for mercy and write a check. 
Actually, what you say to your lawyer is milder: "I believe 
that a summons would be the logical next step. Let's hope 
they respond in a more positive way, so the matter will be 
speedily concluded." So rational. 
Several more weeks pass. Probably a month. Little by little, 
your lawyer informs you about the facts of legal life. You 
don't get out a summons just like that. (At least, he 
doesn't, not with his workload.) It's a little mysterious, 
anyway, this summons. You're not even exactly sure what 
it... er, does. 
But you're beginning to learn not to press your lawyer too 
hard for details and petty information. He seems, well, 
unforthcoming. Sometimes you get the impression that your 
case isn't the supernova at the centre of his universe. 
In the end, the summons is 'served'. A clear picture, that: 
an unpleasant-looking individual pounds on the door of your 
enemy (that's what he is now). You can visualise your enemy 
opening the door, turning pale, and receiving the summons 
with shaking hands. The same effect -- you think -- as a 
visit from Al Capone. You feel good all day. 
After this event, the excitement never stops. Your lawyer 
lets you know that the debtor has 21 days to "file a 
defense" (that's what you think he said, worked up as you 
are). Otherwise, you'll win the case by default! 
Plenty of scope for the imagination there. Many the pleasant 
hour you pass, downgrading your debtor's intelligence. His 
days pass dimly, you imagine, his mind consisting of some 
thin, grey, moronic vapor. So stupid! He'll be enraged when 
you snatch that $6200 away from him, just because he 
couldn't remember to file a defense! After all, you know the 
debtor spends all his time in meetings, he can never find 
anything, and his computer is always broken. How could 
someone like that ever file a defense? 
Unfortunately, he does. Rather, his lawyer does. It's 
nothing more than a little note on an official form that 
says that they intend to defend the action. 
Your mood turns grim. The debtor has passed through 
thunderbolts and a visit from Al Capone, and still hasn't 
coughed up the $6200. 
Time for a conference with your lawyer. "What do we do now?"