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Authors: Eric Dinnocenzo

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BOOK: Eric Dinnocenzo - The Tenant Lawyer
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“That’s unfair,” Maria snapped. “Other people don’t have that rule.”

“I agree, it is unfair,” I said, “but you give up certain rights when you live in public housing. It’s the way it is.”

I sensed that some of Maria’s anger was directed at me, as if I was somehow responsible for the twenty-one night rule or was trying to sell her down the river with a probationary agreement. That anger showed up in more than
a few clients, since I was the one person who stood between them and the legal machinations of the housing court. When I informed them of the law, so that they would understand what they were up against, they didn’t see me as an advocate who was on their side. They didn’t see that I was simply providing them with information, but instead considered me to be advancing the landlord’s position. It could be very frustrating. I wondered if this occurred because I failed to communicate the information in a sufficiently understanding and sympathetic manner, but it was hard to tell. It was hard to objectively analyze myself and make that determination.

“Keep in mind,” I continued, “if the housing authority claims in the future that you violated the probationary agreement, it can bring you back into court really quickly with only four days notice. So there’s that risk. But, on the other hand, you’d get to leave court today staying in your apartment, which isn’t a bad way to leave housing court.”

Maria folded her arms across her chest. “He
don’t
live with me. How can I get evicted just because they’re saying this? You’re telling me it’s in my lease, but you’re not telling me how they can get away with
sayin
’ that.”

I lowered my briefcase to the ground. Having already gone over this with Maria, I felt a little frustrated that I would now have to do so again. My time this morning was precious since the motion session would begin soon, and I was acutely aware that I needed to speak to my other client.
“Because it’s all a question of fact to be determined by the judge.
If he believes Jose lives with you, you’ll get evicted. If he doesn’t, you won’t.”

“Even if he did live with me, which he don’t, what we do shouldn’t mean
nothing to nobody
.”

“Maria, we’ve been over this,” I said wearily. “I’ve seen people in your shoes get evicted. The law allows it. I don’t know what else to tell you. I’m trying to recommend solutions because I don’t want you to get evicted. If we stand here and bemoan the state of the law, we’re not going to get anywhere.”

Maria tapped her foot on the ground and looked around the lobby with a really pissed off expression. I could almost see the wheels turning in her mind trying to think of other ways to defend her case. She turned to me and said, “They can’t prove that Jose lives with me. Don’t they have to prove that?”

“They have witnesses, specifically your two neighbors whom they’ve subpoenaed—”

“Yeah, Crystal and Amara.
They’re both liars. That’s what they are,” she snapped at me.

“Maria, I’m not your enemy.” I put my hands up in the air, almost like I was the victim of a stick-up. “I’m just telling you what the law is and what we’re up against. I have to do that. It’s my job. The law says he can’t live with you.” I pointed at Jose. “The judge will hear evidence and determine the facts, meaning determine if Jose lives with you or not. If the judge believes you and Jose, you win. If he believes the housing authority and its witnesses, then you lose. Now, aside from your neighbors, there’s also an officer from the security department at Washington who’s going to testify that he regularly saw Jose’s car at your place overnight. On your side, we have your testimony and Jose’s testimony that he doesn’t live with you. But a big problem, and I’ve told both of you this before, is that we don’t have real proof that he has another address. No phone bills or credit card bills. No cable bills.” I shrugged to accentuate my point.

“I live with my brother, man,” Jose said. “I don’t have any of the bills there in my name. You know, I don’t have a cell phone, I don’t have a lease. And sometimes I leave my car for Maria to use. They know that over there. The manager just doesn’t like Maria and so she’s trying to get rid of her any way she can.”

I nodded understandingly. “Okay, but I’m not the one you have to convince. The judge is the one.”

I was pretty sure that Jose lived with Maria. The lack of proof of another address was an indicator, along with the way they both reacted to the mention of the twenty-one night limit. They had a right to be upset by that restriction, since it didn’t allow them to live on the same terms as the rest of the population, but the nature of their reaction told me they were living together. Where would Jose or most other guys in his shoes choose to stay—with his girlfriend or with his brother? I kept my opinion to myself, though, knowing that if I ever communicated it to them, they’d flip out and my ability to represent them would go right down the toilet.

“I’m still advising you to do the probationary agreement,” I said, “assuming one’s on the table. I mean, we probably shouldn’t even be having this discussion because one hasn’t been offered yet. But just think about it, okay?”

Maria said, “Crystal doesn’t get along with me because she’s going out with this guy, Luis, who used to be my man before that.”

“I know—”

“That’s why she’s making stuff up. She thinks that if he’s around Washington and I’m around Washington, that he’ll want me or something.” Maria gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “She can have him. I don’t like him. He’s trash. The other one, Amara, is Crystal’s friend, and she goes along with anything Crystal says. Trust me, she don’t have a brain of her own. She’s like a robot.”

“All right,” I said. “Let’s see what the housing authority says.”

Maria turned away, and as she did so, I noticed that her facial muscles suddenly relaxed and she wore a vulnerable expression that I had never seen before. Even though she had just put up quite a fight with me, it appeared that she was losing her resolve and her spirit was weakening. Jose put his hand on her shoulder in a comforting way. I realized right then that I shouldn’t have gotten into a discussion about a probationary agreement since one wasn’t even yet on the table. If one didn’t end up being an option, then I had just stirred up the waters for no reason. A more seasoned attorney, I thought, would’ve taken things one step at a time.

 

 

3

My
other client, Kendra Clark, a black woman in her mid-twenties, had been waiting patiently on one of the benches in the lobby while cradling her one-year-old boy in her arms. The boy was wearing a blue winter jacket and a red hat with tassels coming down at the ears, and he looked up curiously at me with big brown eyes. Kendra’s five-year-old daughter was standing next to her, twirling one of her braids with her finger, as was her ten-year-old son who looked at me with suspicious eyes and a sullen expression; you could tell almost immediately that he had been exposed to things that a kid his age shouldn’t see.

A few weeks earlier, I had been in housing court with Kendra when her landlord had first taken her to court for non-payment of rent.
Her boyfriend, who was also the father of her children, had been the one working and paying the bills, while she stayed at home with the children.
One day he suddenly and unexpectedly left and never came back. Because she was only qualified for low-wage jobs and couldn’t afford to both work and pay childcare at the same time, Kendra went on welfare, but the benefit it provided was not nearly enough to cover the rent, and she fell behind.

When I was last in court with her, I worked to forge a settlement agreement that allowed her to stay in the apartment on the condition that she paid the rent going forward plus an additional one hundred dollars a month towards the arrearage. She had owed three month’s rent, but I managed to cut that figure in half due to bad building conditions, which included a mild roach infestation and leaky ceilings. That day at court I watched Kendra sign the agreement with a slow, careful scrawl, knowing that ultimately she wouldn’t be able to make the payments, and it
wouldn’t be long before we’d be back in court again. But there were no other options for her. If she took a move-out date, she’d still have to pay the monthly rent going forward and also raise enough money to put a deposit down on a new apartment. Besides, she wanted to stay in her apartment to ensure that her ten-year-old could remain in the same school system.

Kendra never said anything good or bad about the boyfriend to me and instead just stoically endured her situation. Sometimes it felt like I was angrier at him than she was. It was my belief that she didn’t express any emotion about what he had done because she was a proud and private person. She looked at his leaving her as a simple fact of life that she had to deal with as best she could. But there was a persistent sadness that she always seemed to carry, that was draped around her like a cloak, and I wondered if there would come a time when she would finally break under the weight of it.

“What’s going to happen?” she asked.

“The landlord wants possession of the apartment, so we’re going to have to go before the judge. Is there any way you can pay the money you owe? If you can at least make some type of promise in front of the judge, you have a shot at not being evicted.”

“I get my next welfare check in about a week.”

Suddenly I felt a little hopeful. “Good. How much will that be?”

“Three hundred.”

My spirits sank. The payment she missed was eight hundred dollars.
Anything else besides that?”

“No.”

Kendra’s one-year-old began to cry. “That’s okay,” she said to him softly. By tilting her head and rolling her eyes off to the side, she indicated that she wanted me to take a few steps away from her other two kids so we could talk out of their earshot. “I can’t get evicted. I just can’t,” she said with desperation in her voice. A vulnerable look that I had never seen before flooded into her eyes.

“Okay, Kendra, but I …”

“Mark, I can’t—” She sniffled and looked away for a moment. Her eyes welled up with tears. “I can’t be evicted. I just can’t.”

“Let’s just take it one step at a time,” I said gently.

Right then out of the corner of my eye, I saw John, the court
officer,
walk into the lobby with a bunch of files in his hands. Shit, I thought, the motion session is going to start. John came to a stop and shouted above the clamor: “Listen up, everybody! Motions! If you hear your name on the list, please enter the courtroom.”

“Time to go into the courtroom,” I told Kendra.

We joined in at the back of the crowd and shuffled into the courtroom as John read aloud from a list of names. My throat was parched, my heart raced, and I felt like I was perspiring a little. I pictured myself speaking to the judge in front of a courtroom full of people and worried that my voice would shake. I extracted my bottle of spring water from my briefcase and took a sip. Don’t be nervous, I told myself. Don’t be nervous. You’ve done this a bunch of times in the past and you’ve always done well.

 

From a physical standpoint, the courtroom of the Worcester Housing Court wasn’t much to behold. It was a far cry from those magisterial courtrooms that you see in the movies with high-vaulted ceilings and large galleries with rows of stately wooden benches for spectators. The courtroom was approximately 30-feet by 30-feet with only three rows of old wooden benches for seating, and they were covered with nicks and scratch marks. Immediately to the right upon entering the courtroom was the jury box, a cramped space with swivel chairs that looked like they belonged in an office.

Although the courtroom itself wasn’t terribly impressive, the presence of the man who presided over it, Judge McCarthy, was larger than life. He was in his sixties and had a stocky build, thinning white hair that was combed-
over, and a pudgy face with light blue eyes. Initially appointed to his judgeship by Governor Michael Dukakis about twenty years earlier, he was widely considered to be both the most colorful and cantankerous jurist in Worcester County. No one was spared from his tongue. There were many mornings when his dry remarks had everyone in the courtroom laughing. One morning the housing authority lawyer, Kevin
Merola
, who for years had appeared in front of him on a weekly basis, introduced himself to the court by name as lawyers customarily do: “Kevin
Merola
for the plaintiff.”

In response Judge McCarthy huffed, “I know who you are!”

Legend had it that Judge McCarthy had initially ascended to the bench with the gusto of a revolutionary toppling an established and corrupt government. There had never been a housing court in Worcester County before his appointment. Housing cases were piled onto the district court docket where the judges lacked an in-depth knowledge of housing law and the particular challenges facing low-income tenants. When Judge McCarthy took the bench, the state sanitary code was strictly enforced and the slumlords were kept in line for the first time in the county’s history. After hitting a few landlords with sizeable judgments for failing to maintain their buildings in a safe and habitable condition, he became known as a “tenant judge,” and landlords became fearful of having their cases tried in his courtroom. Over the past ten years, however, the pendulum swung back the other way with Judge McCarthy more or less migrating to the center. He less frequently penalized landlords for breaching their obligations, while at the same time he became stricter with tenants.

BOOK: Eric Dinnocenzo - The Tenant Lawyer
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