My trusty-old PC died on Monday morning. Not only did this make posting at Capitalist Dove a near impossibility, it also put me way behind schedule with my clients through Elance. But that’s not the worst part of it: It also rendered me unable to access documents I needed to print for my court case on Wednesday.

After a four-year hiatus, I returned to college in 2005 and graduated the following May. I had a couple of job offers, but ultimately went with an investment company located in Bay City, Michigan. At the time, I lived two hours and fifteen minutes away in Adrian. I really wanted the job, so I needed to move in a hurry. Basically, I took the first high-quality apartment I could find.

As my wife and I were doing the walk-through of the property, the landlord seemed kinda shady. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but he had a bad vibe. No matter, we needed a place to stay, and the apartment (duplex half, actually) was brand new construction with an attached garage, a large backyard, and all the amenities that we needed. We signed the dotted line and prepared to plunk down the $850 security deposit.

“Who do I make the check out to?” I asked.

“First name Jeff… Last name Crook.”

“Crook?”

I heard correctly. And yes, he was.

The first problem my wife and I noticed with the place was that the floors on the east wing of the apartment creaked horribly – and I mean really, really badly. The sound was bad enough in the rooms themselves, but it was worse in the west wing when someone was walking in the east. I asked Mr. Crook and he told me it was the “unusual humidity” and that the problem would go away when the humidity did.

As luck would have it, the previous tenant stopped by a day or two later. His wife had forgotten to leave forwarding addresses with a few mail-order retailers who shipped via UPS and FedEx, so he was letting us know that we might be receiving a few of her packages the next couple of days. While he was there, I asked him about the creaking.

“Oh my God, it’s horrible isn’t it? I woke my wife every time I got up to use the John.”

“Does it get better when the humidity dies down?” I asked.

“Is that what he said? Let me tell you something. They don’t call him Jeff Crook for nothing.”

The previous tenant then went on to give me a laundry list of problems that I had not yet encountered (but would later). Most importantly, though, he told me that Crook “nickel and dimed” him to keep his full security deposit when he moved out. “I’m taking him to small-claims court to get my deposit back,” he said.

So fast forward almost a year: We’ve had tons of problems, and the “dream apartment” has turned out to be anything but. Finally, we reached our last straw when we took our daughter outside to play — for the first time ever, mind you — and she ingested chemicals that had been sprayed on the lawn. The only warning markers were place by the driveway, in the front of the house. I called up Jeff Crook and asked him, “Are we supposed to look out our front window each time we want to use our back yard?” According to him, yes, we were.

So right then and there, we resolved to move out. It was late April and our lease was up on June 1st. I wrote Mr. Crook a letter informing him we would be moving out, detailing the reasons why, and asking him to use our security deposit for the final month’s rent — we would not be paying it. I also asked him to contact me if he had any problems with this. He didn’t.

On move-out day, we put a small hole in the bedroom wall moving my computer desk. We were also unable to load up a few junk items. Aside from that, we had the apartment professionally cleaned, and we certainly left it in better shape then we found it. Nevertheless, I left Mr. Crook a hand-written letter and a check for $75, apologizing for the damages and telling him, “Cash this check as settlement in full. If $75 is not sufficient, return the check and we will negotiate a settlement.”

The check got cashed a week later, and I thought I was pretty slick. I had taken control to defend my property rights! But then another three weeks later, I got a letter from him listing total damages of $520! The charges for the wall and removing the junk were fair (less than $75), but he was also charging us $220 for a set of doors that were broken when we moved in, $20 for the broken dishwasher and garbage disposal that were his responsibilities, and $30 for “cat hair removal” (there was no cat hair) because “pets were against the terms of the lease” — despite the fact that the lying bastard told us we could have a cat.

But worst of all were the two remaining items: $89 for a water bill that I had already paid, and a $180 “late fee” for “unpaid rent” from the last month we were in the apartment. These charges were so ridiculous that I ignored the letter and threw it away. But then early this month, I got served with papers. Old Man Crook was suing me for $520.

I arrived at the courthouse at 8:30 in the morning and sat down right next to my old landlord. “How ya doing, Jase?” he asked. “I could be doing better,” I said.

We proceeded to make small talk — no outward animosity. Finally, I said “I wish we could have dealt with this outside of the court room…” He then went on to say how he had “tried to be fair” but “the lease is the law” and “you didn’t follow the lease.”

Okay, let’s see what the judge (actually a magistrate) says.

This was my first time in court of any kind. The magistrate asked if I agreed I owed the money. “No sir, it’s in dispute,” I said, not knowing if I should call a magistrate “your honor.” He then sent me and Crook back outside for a final chance to arrive at a settlement.

Crook was smirking when we sat down to negotiate. He thought he had the law on his side, and he wasn’t going to budge.

“What I really object to is this $180 late fee,” I told him. “I don’t think we should pay for the doors, but I’m willing to settle. I’ll give you $250; everything but the late fee and the water bill.”

“I’m sorry, the late fee is in the lease,” he said.

Then I told him, frankly, “If the judge awards you a judgment for $520; I’m not going to pay it. I know how this works, Jeff. You will never be able to get a dime out of me if I don’t want to pay it willingly.”

That gave him pause. He shot back with, “I will meet you half way on the late fees,” he said. I refused. “Well, we’ll see what the judge has to say,” he threatened.

When we got back in the courtroom, the magistrate asked for our stories. Crook supplied the original letter I wrote. He thought it made me look bad because I stated, in no uncertain terms, “I will not be paying rent this month.”

The magistrate read over the letter and immediately said, “Well, I’m dismissing the late fees.” Crook was shocked. “Mr. Seagraves clearly states in the letter that he was requesting you use his security deposit for last month’s rent, and asked you to contact him if you had any problem with that. You did not contact him.”

Boo-yah! So with the dismissal of the water bill (even Crook agreed to that), I was already at the “compromise” I proposed outside.

Then came the itemized list of damages. As the hole in the wall and the junk were mentioned, I told the magistrate that I had taken full responsibility for those damages, left a forwarding address and phone number, and a check for $75 that was intended to be payment in full.

“Do you have a copy of the check?” he asked.

“No, sir” — my PC wasn’t working, remember?

“Was there any other documentation?” he asked.

“I left a hand-written letter.”

So then, like a total idiot, my landlord provided the magistrate with the letter! The magistrate read it over, then fell silent. He began scribbling something and went at least a minute or two without talking. “I’m going to have to dismiss the case,” he said.

Word up. I offered the d-bag Crookster $250 and he refused. Now he was gettin’ nathan.

So what did the Crook do? He began arguing with the magistrate! As if he was going to change his ruling.

I walked out of the courtroom, champion of the world. The Crook didn’t get me for one dime in the end, and it felt good. So if you ever do a Google search for your name, Jeff Crook of Bay City, MI, let me end this blog entry with a shout out to you: You got owned, you punk-ass-beyatch!