I’m about to have surgery to remove the screws. Well, at least I hope the leg has healed
enough so the doc can simply yank them out.
I can’t imagine waking up post-surgery, and learning, “sorry, we had to
insert new screws,” or worse, “we had to pack in some bone graft stuff.” Talk
about a major buzzkill. Anyway, send
your positive vibes my way. I’ll share
the details and perhaps post some pictures afterward.
Meanwhile, enjoy one of my favorite “legal victories.”
Before joining the government, I worked for one of those mega law firms with a gazillion lawyers and offices all over the world. The Uganda office was spectacular.
One of the best parts of being a lawyer is the ability to represent yourself. It rarely happens, but when somebody tries to screw you, it comes in handy. Like my dry cleaner tried to do. Emphasis on “tried to do.”
My wife and I used the same, local dry cleaner for several years. They did an admirable job. Friendly people. Not too smelly. The right amount of starch. Exactly the type of relationship you want with your neighborhood dry cleaner.
I wore a suit every day. When you take that much stuff to the cleaners, you understand the cleaner will eventually screw something up. Death, taxes and lost/ruined shirts. Not a big deal, but you expect the laundrymat to make things right when it happens.
In August of 1999, the dry cleaner lost 7 of my shirts. Unfortunately, this included 3-4 brand new custom-made shirts, which cost double or triple a normal men’s dress shirt. In total, the 7 shirts cost $650.
(These were the fancy, high-thread count shirts. In a shocking coincidence, I was somewhat of a douchebag back then).
As a regular customer, Christina was on a first-name basis with the store clerk/manager. When she first arrived to pick up the 7 shirts, the manager couldn’t find them. With a somewhat stupefied look, she told her, “huh, I remember you dropping them off yesterday. Maybe they’re still off-site.”
No big deal, Christina replied. I’ll come back tomorrow.
When Christina returned, the shirts were still AWOL. Christina even helped the lady look for them – they examined every plastic-bag on that electric clothesline in the backroom. Nothing. The clerk called the sister dry cleaning franchise. Still nothing.
After confirming there were no delivery issues, the conversation shifted toward reimbursement for the lost shirts. The clerk told Christina she needed to confer with the owner.
The owner was a bigger douchebag than even me. But he was far dumber.
And this is when being a lawyer helps.
When Christina discussed reimbursement with the owner, the clerk was there, too. The conversation did not go well. Instead of apologizing for losing the shirts – and upsetting a long-time customer – the owner called Christina a liar and claimed she never dropped off the shirts. Not a good start.
As a long-time customer on a first-name basis, we stopped receiving and turning in laundry tickets on our orders, leading the owner to automatically accuse Christina over trying to screw him. Shocked, Christina turned to the clerk who had admitted to receiving the order and spent several hours over the past week searching for the shirts. Instead of correcting the owner, the clerk slinked away from the conversation. Apparently job security trumps honesty. The owner then berated Christina for 5 minutes, like Kobe Bryant scolding Pau Gasol.
Frustrated at the tongue-lashing, Christina turned things over to me.
I met with Mr. Patel (which may or may not be his real name). I was polite. I also might have been wearing a custom made shirt.
I told him I didn’t appreciate him calling my wife a liar, especially since we’ve been customers for many years. Regardless, I told Mr. Patel that the shirts cost over $650, but in the interest of putting this matter behind us I would accept a $400 check. Mr. Patel was defiant. He refused to pay a dime. I’m sure Mr. Patel’s response usually dissuades most disgruntled customers from pursuing things further. But I wasn’t like most customers. Instead, I shared with him that I was a lawyer who would gladly sue him for losing my shirts. He chuckled and told me to go for it. I think he grew up watching Rocky.
Egging me on was not a wise move. I was Drago, and he was Apollo, only not nearly as pretty and charming.
I gave him one last chance. I pulled out my fancy law firm business card, which listed our offices all over the world.
“Mr. Patel,” I began, “I don’t think you understand. If I sue you, I won’t be asking for just the $650. Oh, no. I will also ask to be reimbursed all of my attorney’s fees, too.”
He seemed confused, but I continued.
“And see all these offices? This means I’m very expensive.”
“Besides,” I told him, “you’ll have to hire your own lawyer, and you’ll wind up paying him far more than you would pay me to settle this matter.”
I reiterated my generous offer to accept $400 to avoid a fight.
And then Mr. Patel uttered his famous last words. “Go ahead and sue me.”
So I did. And boy, did I f*ck him up.
Under the legal rules, defendants have to respond to a lawsuit within a certain time frame. Of course, he didn't bother to hire a lawyer -- they cost a lot of money :-) He missed the deadline and never filed an answer.
I immediately went to court to obtain what's called a "default judgment." This means the court accepts everything in my lawsuit as true, including the fact that Mr. Patel lost my shirts and owes me $650.
But the fun doesn't end there. Just like I warned Mr. Patel, the judge also awarded me my attorneys' fees: 12 hours of my time x $185/hr = $2,200. Grand total -- $2,830.
(This happened 13 years ago. $185/hour is about as outdated as a rotary phone. I’m pretty sure my billing rate today would be over $500/hour, perhaps more).
But the fun doesn't end there, either.
I called Mr. Patel, told him about the judgment the court awarded me and asked for my money. With some swagger, he said, “yeah, the check is in the mail."
The little f*cker still refused to pay me!
Mr. Patel obviously didn’t learn his lesson the first time.
When defendants refuse to pay, folks are forced to seize assets to satisfy their debt. Again, being a lawyer helps navigate this process.
I left Mr. Patel a voicemail delicately telling him that if I didn't hear from him within 24 hours, the next thing he'd see would be me, a Dallas sheriff, and a U-Haul loading away sh*t from his store.
(My lawyer colleagues gave me their shirt sizes in case I confiscated other people’s dry cleaning to satisfy my judgment. I told them they would look odd if their monogrammed shirts listed somebody else’s initials. Or if they showed up to work wearing Prom tuxedos).
The threat worked. Mr. Patel returned my call about an hour later and promised to mail the check. Because I wasn’t going to fall for the banana in the tailpipe, I insisted on picking it up.
And I did. $2,830. The check didn’t bounce.
Final score: Jim 1 – Weaselly Dry Cleaner 0.
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