Around 8 p.m. on the evening of Dec. 23, 2009, my 12-year-old son and I were puttering around the house when there was a sudden, loud banging at the front door. "I have legal papers for Amy Wallace," a brusque woman's voice said from the other side of the door when I asked who was there. I was startled. The voice sounded unpleasant. It was dark out. It was the night before Christmas Eve. I didn't feel like welcoming the voice in. Can you leave the papers outside, I asked? "Are you Amy Wallace?" barked the voice. "Uh," I said, hesitating, my head muddy. Who was sending me legal papers? "I'm going to take that as a yes!" the voice said, and not in a friendly way. "I saw you through the window. Consider yourself served!"
Around 8 p.m. on the evening of Dec. 23, 2009, my 12-year-old son and I were puttering around the house when there was a sudden, loud banging at the front door.
"I have legal papers for Amy Wallace," a brusque woman's voice said from the other side of the door when I asked who was there. I was startled. The voice sounded unpleasant. It was dark out. It was the night before Christmas Eve. I didn't feel like welcoming the voice in. Can you leave the papers outside, I asked? "Are you Amy Wallace?" barked the voice. "Uh," I said, hesitating, my head muddy. Who was sending me legal papers?
"I'm going to take that as a yes!" the voice said, and not in a friendly way. "I saw you through the window. Consider yourself served!"
