Page 70 of The 1 Lawyer

“I did that first month. But after weeks went by, I told them I wouldn’t pay rent until they got the water working again.”

I heard an audible snort from my opponent’s table. I understood the message. Her failure to pay the rent was problematic, the thorny part of our case. From a tenant’s perspective, Mississippi has the most oppressive landlord/tenant law in the country. Mrs. Franklin was obligated to pay that rent, regardless of the circumstances.

But there was more to my client’s story. “When you withheld payment from the landlord on the first of the month, what occurred?”

She took a shuddering breath. “My daughter drove me to my doctor’s appointment on the afternoon of the third, and when I got home, the landlord was changing the locks.”

“What did you do?”

“I begged the man to let me in. I was out of my mind, crying and all. I told them, ‘My heart medicine is in there, and the doctor says I have to take it twice a day. Pictures of my grandchildren and my dead husband. All my clothes and dishes and furniture, and my grandmother’s cedar chest with the quilt she made for me and gave me on my wedding day.’ When I tried to get through the door, a man shoved me away, and I fell.”

“What happened to your belongings? Your personal property?”

“Landlord said they’d haul it off, sell what they could, and keep the money.” Her voice broke at that point. “He laughed when he said it. Told me my pictures and ‘that ratty old quilt’ would end up in the landfill.”

Cora was crying in earnest. She fumbled with the packet of tissues, pulled one out, and wiped her eyes with it.

When she regained a measure of control, I asked her to identify a series of enlarged photos depicting the overflowing toilets and the flooded basement. Prior to the lockout, her daughter had had the foresight to take pictures of the property conditions and get videos showing every dry faucet in the house. In the event that the landlord tried to claim under oath that the property was in tolerable condition, the pictures would support my client’s case more eloquently than a slew of experts could.

The landlord’s attorney, a smug bully who specialized in this kind of practice, launched a predictable attack in cross, accusing Cora Franklin of being a lazy, negligent tenant. By the time he concluded his attack, she’d used up almost all the tissues in the crumpled plastic packet.

Judge Ross declared a recess while she considered her decision.

Mrs. Franklin turned to me, wet eyes blinking behind the lenses of her glasses, and excused herself to go to the restroom.

Opposing counsel, Tony Phelps, sidled up to my table. “You had that old Black gal prepped to go, Stafford Lee. Boo-hoo! I haven’t seen waterworks like that in a dog’s age.”

I met his eye. “In your line of work, Tony, I’d expect you bear witness to a lot of heartache.”

The slumlord, his client, was listening. Over the past few years, Chad Owens had snapped up a lot of rental properties and he’d become notorious for neglecting them and abusing the system. “Hey, Penney,” Owens said. “I know my rights. I can evict any tenant who doesn’t pay rent. I’m not running a charity.”

His attorney said, “Settle down, Chad.” He turned back to me and chuckled. “Damn, Stafford Lee, you must be hard up, wasting your time on a losing proposition like this case.”

It never occurred to Tony that I’d been so moved by my client’s predicament that I’d decided trying to help her was worth a shot.

“You know the law, don’t you? Landlords in Mississippi have the power to do self-help evictions.”

He could be right. In Biloxi, the courts were historically pro-landlord. But Cora Franklin’s situation was in line with recent case law that frowned on landlord seizure of tenant property in self-help evictions. A federal judge had declared it unconstitutional.

And I might have had a stroke of luck by landing in Judge Ross’s court. The new judge with her stern demeanor didn’t strike me as a member of the good ol’ boys’ club. During cross-examination, when the landlord’s attorney wrung tears from my elderly client, I’d detected a glimmer of reaction in the judge’s eyes.

Judge Ross returned to the bench, and I held my breath, hoping for a miracle.

She scratched an entry on the docket sheet. “The court finds in favor of Cora Franklin and against Laclede Property Management, LLC. And I’d like to tell you why, sir.”

The judge looked down upon the landlord from the bench, and her expression was scary. “What you have done to Mrs. Franklin can only be regarded as an act of intentional cruelty, compounding your negligent and illegal management of the property.”

The slumlord stammered, “Y-Your Honor—I have the right—”

“Hush your mouth, I’m talking. The evidence clearly shows that you violated your duty under state law to provide a dwelling that is habitable, and in this court’s opinion, your failure to comply with your legal obligation was the impetus to everything that came after. In other words, sir, this is your own damn fault.”

The landlord jumped up. “Your Honor, I have the right—”

“Sit down and listen,” she ordered. She went on to award my client all the relief we’d requested, and then she kicked that landlord’s ass all over the courtroom, telling him that if he didn’t make things right with my client in short order, he would have to deal with her wrath.

I walked out of court that Friday afternoon feeling like I was ten feet tall. I would have liked to bask in the glow, relish the victory, but I didn’t have the luxury. I had to go home and change into my lifeguard uniform; I was on call that day.

When I unlocked the front door, I was still riding that victory high. I felt so good, it took me a moment to realize that someone was in my house.

---