Process Servers: Knock, Knock - Who’s There?

The economy’s sagging, lawsuits clog the courthouses, and credit card bankruptcies are at a record high.

It’s a fabulous time to be a process server.

Attorneys and judges are dizzily pumping out evictions, garnishments and restraining orders.

“It’s hog heaven right now for us,” said Bob Strenge, who like more than 300 other Inland Northwest process servers is making good money carrying a small stack of legal documents and trying to deliver them to people entangled in legal battles.

But it’s not always better to give than to receive. One elderly woman reacted to the papers handed to her by throwing a rock at the server’s car.

Strenge once served divorce papers in the Spokane Valley, then found the recipient in a car behind him, trying to run him off the road, waving a pistol.

Most servers say being in a risky situation is part of the thrill.

“It’s a cat-and-mouse game,” said the 53-year-old Strenge, who owns Pacific Process Service in Spokane.

“You just hope you’re the cat more than the mouse.”

Process servers are the essential foot soldiers of the legal system. Nearly every major court action requires some form of “service” - delivery of documents that notify someone that a legal procedure has begun against him.

Attorneys typically turn either to private process servers or the civil deputies at the Spokane County Sheriff’s Department.

Once hired, process servers serve papers either to the person directly, or in less serious cases, at a residence or workplace.

When all goes well, the papers are handed over, and the server signs a document affirming that service occurred. The attorney pays $15 to $35 to the server, plus mileage or other costs.

In reality, about three of every 10 services don’t succeed the first time, according to most of Spokane’s veteran servers.

“People are always trying to outsmart you,” said Tony Harris, vice president of Spokane Messenger and Service, one of the oldest process-serving firms in town.

Being the bearer of bad news can sometimes produce outright hostility, said Lt. David Wiyrick, head of Spokane County’s civil unit. The unit’s four deputies deliver about 400 services per month.

“The server is there because he’s telling people either to do something they don’t want to do or they’re about to lose something they don’t want to lose,” said Wiyrick.

Except for the rare confrontation with a gun barrel, most process servers say they thrive on the mental game of testing wits with paper-dodgers.

“It’s being in a risky situation where anything can happen,” said Kaye Morehouse, a security guard for a Spokane hospital.

Morehouse, who moved to Spokane after working as an Arizona prison guard, admits she’ll take on process jobs partly for the “adrenaline rush.”

“Once you’ve been in law enforcement, it’s hard to get it out of your system.”

Spokane has seen an increase the past four years in the number of people working as process servers.

In 1992, Washington began requiring process servers to register with the county auditor. Spokane County now has 279 registered servers - with 30 to 40 new names added each year.

In Washington and Idaho, the only requirement is the server be 18 years old and a citizen of the United States. Idaho does not require servers to register.

Veterans like Strenge also discourage carrying a gun while serving papers.

“I never allow that for my people,” said Strenge. “The last thing you want to do is think you can avoid a confrontation by having a gun.”

He and others suggest that the best process servers rely on cunning, courtesy and persistence to get them through the toughest jobs.

Cunning

Morehouse, a 50-year-old grandmother, keeps an empty florist’s box in her house, a trophy of one of her best service victories.

“I keep it because, heck, I may need it again,” she said.

She’d been hired a few years back to serve papers on a woman who worked inside a large downtown office building. The woman knew she was being targeted and alerted people at the office to fend off any strangers asking for her. An attorney hired Morehouse after two other servers had failed to reach the woman.

Morehouse opted for subterfuge. She went to several florist shops until she found the right box, the type for long-stem roses.

She went to the office’s main receptionist and announced she had something for Mrs. X.

Though the woman was in a meeting, the receptionist insisted Morehouse go straight in with the package.

“When I got to her office, I walked in and said, ‘I’ve been asked to deliver this to you.’ I made sure I told the truth,” Morehouse explained.

The woman opened the box, saw the service papers, then looked up at Morehouse, who had already turned and was heading for the door.

Courtesy

Strenge holds a master’s degree in counseling psychology from Whitworth College. He knows there are times when a little care and concern make the difference between an ugly moment and a good service.

Three years ago he had to deliver a summons to a man being divorced by his wife. Strenge was going to take his wife to dinner after the job, so he parked the car - with his wife inside - and walked to the man’s door.

Serving the papers was easy. But the man looked at them, then broke into tears.

“He had no clue his wife was divorcing him. He was broke. So I sat and talked to him for the next hour and half, calming him down.”

Strenge counseled him to find an attorney and seek out a good therapist. When Strenge left the house, the man thanked him for stopping by.

“I felt good,” added Strenge, “but my wife was very, very upset. She had no idea why I was in there that long.”

Persistence

About eight years ago, Harris and his partner, Jonathon Groff, were hired by an attorney to serve three sets of papers on the rock group ZZ Top, which had traveled to Pullman to perform.

The money seemed right - $200 for serving the Texas-based band for alleged copyright infringement.

Harris and Groff drove to Pullman, having no idea where the band might be staying. Two hours of riding through town produced no leads.

They had a 4:30 p.m. deadline, after which they were supposed to give the papers to a county deputy sheriff to serve the band after the concert.

On a hunch, they headed to nearby Moscow, Idaho, and spotted a maroon bus marked “private coach” parked behind a motel.

They went inside and explained to the motel manager they were searching for ZZ Top.

Band members had registered under false names and were nowhere to be seen. The manager insisted she had no obligation to help Groff or Harris find people who were only spending a few hours at the motel and were not in trouble with the law.

“We could have given up. Or we could have decided it was not worth the trouble,” Groff said, “but we kept explaining why this service had to be done in person.”

A few minutes after 4:30, the two servers were introduced to a man who identified himself as the band’s road manager. He took them to meet each of the band members - whom Harris recalls accepted the papers with no reaction at all.

“It wasn’t the money,” said Groff about their persistence. “It was the challenge. Plus, I wanted the notoriety, the chance later to say, ‘Yada-yada. We finally got ‘em.”’

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