The Bag Phone

Case File #022 - Never Answer the Phone

The Process Server Chronicles are a collection of my experiences and what I learned in my time as a private investigator and process server. True(ish) stories, but the names are changed or redacted and some details are changed to protect privacy… and reduce liability.

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There was a time when mobile phones were not ubiquitous.

Late 1988
I had a rush delivery subpoena for a man the defendant’s attorney needed in court the next afternoon. If he doesn’t show, the defendant may be sunk. That was made very clear to me when I accepted the work at 3:45 pm.

The service would be in Tyson’s Corner, Virginia.

If you were from the Washington, DC area in the 1980s, you knew that the trip between Gaithersburg (where I lived) and Bethesda (where I was picking up the subpoena) was no small feat at 4:00 pm. And to go from Bethesda to Tyson’s Corner at rush hour was another hour’s commitment, depending on the mood of the Beltway traffic god, that day.

The address I was given for the subject’s residence was, as I discovered, an apartment building. One of four like-kind buildings, each with twenty-four apartments, eight on each floor.

There was no apartment number given on the subpoena.

I checked the mailboxes. Except for the apartment number most of the mailboxes were blank or unreadable. Only three or four had names on the slots. Most name slots were blank. I knocked on a couple doors but no one knew who my subject was or where he lived.

With no description of the subject or his car, and no apartment number, I questioned whether or not I was going to be able to make this happen.

But the importance to the defendant’s case had been emphasized. Twice.

After stewing in my black 1987 Ford Escort for about ten minutes, I finally decided to leave and go in search of a pay phone. I kept a console full of quarters for just this kind of occasion.

I found a pay phone about a mile away in a strip center located between the Giant grocery store and a locally owned clothing shop. It was now 6:00 pm, but I figured the attorney may still be in the office.

He was of no help, other than to give me the subject’s home phone number and to repeat a stern warning, “He can’t know you’re coming.”

I waited by the pay phone for about fifteen minutes while the attorney contacted his client, got a description of the man and called me back. Neither the attorney nor the client had any information on the subject’s car.

“Whatever you have to do, serve him,” were the attorney’s last words as he hung up the phone.

Then it hit me.

I dropped another quarter in the pay phone and dialed my boss’ pager. Then I waited by the pay phone. At times like this I wish I smoked, because at least then I’d have something to do.

Another five or six minutes passed before the pay phone rang.

I assumed the call was from my boss so I started right in. “Hey, that fancy new bag phone you have, can I use it?”

In 1989 these phones were expensive and a sign of prestige more than utility. My boss carried it for prestige. He liked the idea of clients knowing our firm was cutting edge. But my status in the office didn’t warrant the extra, considerable expense.

“I’m on it right now. Pretty handy. I’m headed to a dinner party in Cabin John. Why do you want it?” He was direct, as usual. I had the impression he’d love hauling that heavy bag phone into dinner with him just in case there was an important decision he’d have to make in front of the dinner party.

After explaining my idea, he said, “I like it. You got a pen? I’ll give you the address of where I’m going.”

When I had the address and was back in my car, I opened up my Montgomery County ADC map book, found the address and left Tyson’s Corner for Cabin John, on the Maryland side of the Potomac. I met him at the party where, of course, he had the phone with him in the house. After he made a show of giving me a quick tutoring session on how to use the phone, I returned to the apartment.

The time was now 6:35 pm.

With the subpoena and the bag phone in hand, I decided to start on the top floor of the building and work my way down. There I was with the phone on the ground and dialing a number from a handwritten piece of paper. I hit the call button, picked up the bag and started walking.

I repeated the call back procedure several times as I walked up and down the hall listening for any phones that were ringing in the apartments as I walked by.

I walked all three floors of the apartment building to no avail. Sure, I heard a phone ring in one apartment but my calling phone never made the connection.

When I returned to my car, I made my notes and listened to music for about an hour before I could no longer take it. I had to use a restroom. I made a return trip to the strip shopping center, including a quick stop at a fast food restaurant for a meal, before heading back to the apartment.

Due to the make-up of the apartment and the parking lots, there were two ways in and out. I parked where I had been. Even though I had been gone less than thirty minutes, there were now several new cars in the lot.

The time was now 8:25 pm.

I headed back into the apartments. This time I started on the first floor and repeated the call sequences to see what phones may be ringing.

Nothing.

On to the second floor.

About half way down, I heard a phone ringing. I hung up my phone and the ringing stopped. Had I heard footsteps?

After waiting about another thirty seconds, I dialed back. The ringing started again from apartment 206.

I decided to create stress.

While the phone was starting its third ring, I began knocking on the door. I heard a curse word inside followed by “Just a minute.”

The same man’s voice I heard curse in the apartment came on the phone to say, “Hello.”

I hung up, set the phone on the floor to the left of the door. And waited.

The door swung open, “Yes?”

The description matched. The phone number matched. “I have a subpoena for you,” I stated.

“What if I don’t want it?” He defiantly asked.

I responded, “Then I drop it on the floor. Either way, you’ve been served. You decide.”

He reached out and snapped the papers out of my hand and walked away while slamming the door. Another curse word.

I made a mental note of the time, 8:37 pm, and then I left to deliver the bag phone back to the dinner party.

My boss had his moment when he directed me to tell the story in front of the hosts and their guests. I was their evening’s entertainment.

They had questions. I had stories.

I counted that time on my billing. At Rush Serve rates.

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Author’s Notes

Your Turn

This true story takes place in late 1988. No cell phones. No GPS. No social media. Information isn’t yet sitting on the other side of your fingertips.

The Bag Phone - The Motorola that is pictured is remarkably close to what I had access to back in those days, followed by those ‘brick’ phones. This phone cost about $2,500… in 1988 dollars. It was heavy and awkward. You paid for usage by the minute.

ADC Map - Man, I miss paper maps. I took great pride in looking at the map, memorizing the route and then arriving without having to reference the map again. I would imagine most of my readers prefer GPS.

Quarters - Yes, I consider quarters technology because we had to have them at all times to check in on pay phones when out in the field.

Imagination and Patience - It seems a different lifetime that I would stand near a pay phone for minutes on end waiting for someone to call me.

What else did you notice? How would you have handled this?

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Chris Lengquist
A Chris Writes, LLC Publication
Not legal advice / not professional guidance / do not imitate tactics
Fictionalized/composite/altered details + no identification intended
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