April 5, 2007 Issue

Ah justice, sweet justice.

Regular readers of this space might remember that I moved a few months ago. What I didn’t say then is I was more or less forced to depart when incompetent management reached new heights. The dysfunctional duo tasked with taking care of the owner’s many properties would have difficulty walking and chewing gum simultaneously; so imagine them trying to manage more than 70 properties.

Property management requires attention to detail and organization — something in short supply in a lot of people and missing entirely in the case of these two people. I suspect opening envelopes and taking rent checks to the bank pushed their talent to the limits. If something broke when the owner was out of the country, God help the hapless tenant who was inconvenienced, as I was when a 25-year-old refrigerator gave up the ghost and the seal crumbled. Try as I might I could not persuade moron number two to come take a look or bring me a new fridge. Meanwhile, the door wouldn’t close and I was refrigerating the air in my kitchen. Finally I called and was able to talk to the chief moron who said I could replace the fridge and be reimbursed. It seemed to be the most expedient way to solve the problem, so I did just that.

To make a long story shorter, I was not reimbursed for the refrigerator and a period of serious hostility ensued with the management company attempting to raise the rent in the middle of a valid lease and threatening eviction if I didn’t pay the higher price. Fortunately, the moron twins did all of this in writing and being the highly organized semi-anal retentive I am, I saved everything. All of this happened just a few months shy of the end of the lease period.

The property in question was not in top-notch shape when I moved in, sporting 25 years worth of carpet stains, fist-sized holes in closet doors and several other examples of rough use. It had not been painted and molly bolts remained embedded in the walls. At the time, the overriding factor for me was the location, the fact it was on one level and I could keep my dog. I felt I could camouflage the worst of the carpet damage and the scarred and dirty walls. And I did. With my furniture in place and my large collection of artwork on the walls and the careful placement of area rugs, the place didn’t look too bad.

When hostilities began, I informed management I would be vacating at the end of the lease period. For the last full month of my residency, I sent only the difference between what the current rent was and the amount of the security deposit they held, which is when hostilities escalated. As I packed up to go, a deputy sheriff with an order of eviction visited me. I snorted and scoffed — knowing such a process is not rapid.

After moving, the same deputy visited me in the new place with the information that I was being sued for damages to the dump I had just vacated and a stolen refrigerator. I was furious at the cheeky impertinence of the owner and his moron twins, but knew I couldn’t ignore them. I did the sensible thing and hired a lawyer to do my talking for me, as things like this tend to become emotional. I gave S. Thomas Peavey Hoffer, Esq. the small mountain of paperwork collected during my tenancy, including the all-important move-in sheet detailing deficiencies in the property when I set up residence.

In the judge’s chambers on the day of reckoning, Tom was a marvelous island of concentrated calm. He was very lawyer like, asking things such as, “Is it your testimony here today…” It was swell.

The landlord came without an attorney with only the moron twins in tow. They came to a battle of wits unarmed and justice prevailed.

I actually enjoyed the experience and managed not to laugh out loud when the trio tripped over their lies, talked out of turn and had to be silenced by a deputy. I had Tom’s efficiency as my shelter and he had my lengthy paper trail to work from.

Since receiving the judge’s written decision, I have resisted the urge to call them up and go nah, nah, nah, but I figure getting hit in the pocketbook hurts a lot more. Ah, sweet justice.

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