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Suing Your Landlord (aka Beating The Man: Part II)

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We’ve all experienced a landlord, employer, contractor, etc., who has not held up their end of a bargain—withholding money from you simply because there’s no real incentive to pay. It’s frustrating, and once you’ve exhausted the VERY PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVE EMAILS, there’s not much to do besides take legal action, which can seem more daunting than it’s worth. But if you have the stamina and sufficient proof for it, and especially if you have an ongoing Beating the Man blog series, suing someone is a surprisingly navigable—and if I may say so, awfully satisfying— adventure.

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Let me begin by saying that I adored my wonderful little tenement apartment in the Lower East Side since early 2009 when I (and UE contributor Emmy Yu) moved in. It was a tiny place with a huge private patio, on what is arguably the best block in Manhattan, not that I’m biased. My long-term plan was for my boyfriend to move in with me, turning the two-bedroom into a one-bedroom with a living room. Then we would live there probably forever, eventually befriending the owner and quietly purchasing the entire 5-story building from him/her for a scandalously low rate.

In December of 2012, my building was sold and my dream along with it: the new management company told me they were going to raise my rent $850 (36%) per month, and no, they wouldn’t budge on that. This is legal, by the way, if you live in a non-rent-controlled or rent-stabilized apartment in New York, and the raise remains below the designated market rate.

I made preparations to move out and got my things in order, including taking care of some shady “late fees” amounting to $770 that had been thrown onto my account. This is something the former landlord used to do for kicks—a few hundred dollars would accumulate on my bill, then I would call them to protest and they would quickly say “Oops!,” tossing their hair impishly (I imagined), then drop the charges. But because the old management company was pretty much checked out in anticipation of the sell, I couldn’t reach anyone regarding the bogus charges—known as arrears in real estate-speak—and when the building was sold, my arrears were transferred to the new management company without any documentation (because there wasn’t any to begin with).

A months-long series of conversations and emails of bank statements (to prove rent payment) with a representative from the new management company ended with her CFO not budging on returning the $770, and it was withheld from the security deposit that they finally sent me. “Looks like I’ll be taking you guys to court,” I said, without any idea what that really entailed. “My boss says ‘go right ahead,’” responded the rep. Not wanting to back down, I was determined to follow through on whatever it was I had just threatened to do. So I did what any grown-up would do: I Googled “suing someone.”

My reliable friend the Internet led me to this helpful site, about filing small claims suits in New York State. I planned to go to the District Court on Canal Street one morning before work, but the night before I intended to file, I discovered some fine print on the District Court site that said I had to file in the county of the defendant. And since the company is based out of Great Neck, NY, that meant filing in the Nassau County court…. in Hempstead, NY. I realized then why the CFO had called my bluff. This was much farther than Canal Street.

Not to be intimidated by inconvenience, I woke up around 6:00 the next morning and headed to the train station, where I hopped on an hour-long Long Island Railroad train to Hempstead and walked to the District Court building from the station. I made sure to save all of my travel receipts so I could amend the final amount on my court date (which you can do, or at least request, on the day of). Inside, at the small claims office, they handed me a very basic form to file a small claims (under $5000) complaint. I handed it back, paid the $15 filing fee, and was assigned a court date for about a month later. Easy peasy. I walked back to the station, jumped on a train back to the city, and headed to work.

My court date was ultimately pushed back another month when I realized that I should have included the LLC associated with my particular building in addition to the management company. Typically, when you mail a rent check, it’s to the LLC for your particular building and not to the larger management company that handles the buildings it owns. That way, it’s easier for the larger company to avoid liability (“We didn’t know! We don’t deal with individual tenants!”). I was able to amend the complaint over the phone and the small claims office pushed the date back so they could send an updated summons to the now-two defendants.

I called my aunt and uncle (both lawyers) to ask their advice regarding court and to gauge my chances. They told me that New York courts tended to be tenant-friendly, but I should bring everything just in case. And fortunately, having inherited the hoarding gene, I had everything: the original lease from 2009 (detailing the late policy), the original inspection form, proof of every rent payment in the form of bank statements, and photos of the apartment, in addition to every email correspondence I’d had with the evil management company.

On the day of the court appearance, I brought my small mountain of documentation with me on the train, and I showed up at 9:00 for my 9:30 summons. From the crowd of people milling around a signup sheet outside my assigned courtroom, I gathered that there were about 30 cases all scheduled for that morning. I took note of the number listed next to my name and grabbed a seat in the courtroom, which looked pretty much like a conventional courtroom: 10 or so rows of benches, a long desk in the front, and a judge’s stand behind that. I realized then that the people filling the seats in all those Law & Order court scenes are just pending plaintiffs and defendants, listening patiently to Detective Benson’s gallant summations until their turn to see the judge. I looked around for my defendant.

A clerk took attendance by number. If the defendant and plaintiff were both present, he sent them down to a mediation room, where an arbitrator would help them come to a settlement. If both sides couldn’t come to a settlement, then the case would be sent back up to the judge to decide after each pled their case. When the clerk called my number, I raised my hand, but no one from the management company was there, so he pushed my case to “second call” and moved down the list. I had an in-case-of-boredom novel I brought open in front of me, but hardly glanced at it; there’s something bizarrely intriguing about hearing the various disputes people have with each other. The clerk was patient but clearly trying to move as briskly as possible through the cases, occasionally (to my suppressed glee) sniping at someone for talking out of turn or not answering his question properly.

He assured us that we would go through the second call before having to sit through trials of failed mediations. This meant that if a rep from the management company didn’t show up by the time my case was called again, the case would be called an “inquest” and the judgment would be defaulted to me provided that I could prove the amount owed. Sure enough, my name came around again and no one had showed up. I can’t say that I wasn’t a little disappointed not to open a can of dossier whoop-ass, but I would get a chance to present to the judge nonetheless. I handed the clerk a paystub listing the arrear amount, which he passed up to the judge. Because they were trying to get through all the inquests before the lunch break, neither inquired any further into my case or asked for any additional proof. So I wasn’t sure how understanding they would be, especially because I didn’t get a chance to really explain my case, but when the clerk handed me an envelope to self-address for the judgment, he commented, “You have a lot of enthusiasm, young lady.”

A week later, I received a judgment in my favor for the full amount, plus interest and travel fees, and I did a little jig. But it would be another month before I actually saw any money. The company tried to delay paying me in every way possible; first telling me they were trying to reschedule the hearing because their rep had to go to a funeral, and then just flat-out ignoring my calls. Too stingy to hire a marshal, I conjured up that ingrained skill of all youngest children—the great power to annoy. I began calling about once an hour every day, often repeatedly until I could hear the gratifying click of them manually hanging up on me. It took them a week to realize that they would rather pay $800 than deal with me any longer, and when they did, a check appeared in the mail.

… And you can, too! By now, you’ve realized that anyone with Internet access and the willingness to be a total thorn can file a suit if they feel financially wronged. I highly recommend it, as nothing feels better than sweet, sweet justice, except maybe depositing an $800 check. Here’s some advice if you do take action against a company: Save everything— receipts, forms, leases, take-out napkins. Be vigilant. Be very, very, very, very irritating. Bullshit your way to the finish line (everything is Googleable), and remember that confidence—even if preemptive—will help sway the powers that be onto your side. And always bring a book.

Stay tuned for the next installment of “Beating The Man,” in which I try to sneak into the bathroom at The Four Seasons.* Succeed… or die!!

*JK

Transportation

Successfully Disputing a Ticket (aka Beating The Man)

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This is a story about having a vigorous—some might say pathological—need to fight a broken system. In case you didn’t notice the article’s title, I’ll tell you right off the bat that I ultimately won this months-long dispute with the New York MTA. And you can, too! The easiest thing to do, of course, is to not to get a ticket in the first place—this is not a how-to for criminals. But sometimes, these things are unavoidable.

Photo by Sara Slattery

My story begins on a relatively mundane evening in January. I was rushing out of my office—a startup in Chelsea—so I could get home for a scheduled work call. I headed to my regular subway station, where I pulled out the creased monthly MetroCard I’d been trying to iron out (mostly by putting it between two credit cards and sitting on it). The first time I swiped it, the turnstile told me to “Please swipe again.” The second time: “Just used,” with the smirkiest of smirks on its mischievous nonexistent face. It wouldn’t let me in.

This is not an infrequent occurrence, as I’m sure New Yorkers can attest; generally when this happens, one shouts some brief exasperated explanation to the station attendant, who then unlocks the emergency door. At that particular station, though, there is no attendant; and a rush-hour crowd of straphangers (doesn’t that sound like an old-timey sex term? Straphangers. Straphangers.) amassed behind me, their irritation palpable. So, I stepped over the turnstile. Whatever. And I was immediately greeted by a plainclothes cop—which is fine: it’s their job, after all. I explained the scenario, not thinking that it would necessarily end with us laughing over a couple of beerskies, but at least expecting him to let me go with a warning! It must have been quota day, though, because I got no sympathy from the cop, who issued me a $100 ticket.

I asked him, “Sir, I know you saw what you thought was me flouting the laws of this city and you were required to take action, but do you understand why, as a civilian, this feels very unfair? For me to purchase a MetroCard every month, never deceive the system [which is true, by the way], be in a rush to get home to continue my workday, and be punished for that?” To which he repeated some stuff about being a “Police Officer of the City of New York” that clearly indicated he was not about to toe the blue line for me. So, furiously, I got on the next train, commiserating with a bike messenger who noted the yellow slip in my hands with a knowing smile and was immediately subjected to my blustering all the way to Essex/Delancey.

I don’t consider myself an angry person—“excessively vengeful” may be a better term for it. I knew, on principle, there was no way I was going to pay $100; also, I’d told the cop in the heat of my excessive vengeance that I would “absolutely fight!” the ticket, and I felt obligated to follow through.

So I called the wrongdoers’ hotline on the back of my ticket, found out where the Transit Adjudication Bureau is (Brooklyn Heights) and the best time to go (8:30 am, preferably not Mondays or Fridays), and began the long slog of disputing the ticket.

A few mornings later, I found myself in a large room at the TAB waiting to be called for my hearing. I had no idea what to expect—behind that metal door, were there a bunch of little courtrooms? Where would I sit in the little court? Would I be held in contempt if I texted a photo to my boyfriend? What about my parents? What if I just took a photo and didn’t text it until I left the premises?

As it turned out, I was seen by only one hearing officer, a very nice lady, in a small room with a tape recorder on the table. After verifying on the record that I was telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me Oprah, I explained the scenario (see above). She sent me back to the waiting area while she deliberated. After a few minutes, my name was called again and a man behind a very thick glass window told me the case had been adjourned until I could get a record of that dastardly MetroCard’s activity on January 10.

Now, here’s where it gets really fun: I sent the necessary paperwork to an MTA vortex, including handwritten requested dates. The adjournment was through April 30, which seemed like plenty of time, except that an entire month passed before I got a report back from the MTA. The report indicated that my request was processed on February 14, and attached was a list of the MetroCard’s full activity… on January 14. Which was completely useless except perhaps as a nice walk down Recent Memory Lane, because, as I mentioned, the incident occurred on January 10. Excessively vengeful words were uttered. I thought about just giving up and mailing in a $100 check, but at this point, I was too invested in probing the bureaucratic inner-workings.

A few mornings later, I found myself in a long line at some MTA building in the Financial District—incidentally, also where you can go if you lose your MetroCard, as I found out from the 60 people in front of me who had all suffered that plight. I was eventually seen by a clerk who seemed very angry, presumably because he was going for the company record in MetroCards-replaced-per-hour and my unrelated request was slowing him down. After scanning the first activity report and the ticket, he finally agreed to re-process. Off I went to wait some more… another month, in fact.

Version 2.0 of the MetroCard activity report finally came and I opened it with my heart pounding, like someone receiving their STI test results. Success! No MetroCard swipe was registered on the evening of January 10, but the swipe number jumped from #13 on the morning of January 10 to #15 on January 11. Glitch! Don’t get too excited, I told myself. Just because you had a nice hearing officer the first time doesn’t mean some jerk won’t throw this report aside and say that you should still pay a fine for setting a bad example. Good point, self.

Again, a few mornings later, I was back at TAB. I greeted the security guards on my way in, now old friends. After a brief wait, my name was called by a different hearing officer (thankfully, another nice lady) and the process was much the same as the first, except this time with Exhibit B. The officer reviewed the report, raising an eyebrow at the missing swipe number just as I’d dreamed she would, and twenty minutes later the clerk behind the thick glass told me with a smile that my case was dismissed! “You’re a free woman,” he said, in my imagination. I left the building with my head held high, and spent $10 of my hard-kept money on an extravagant breakfast. Take that, somebody!