Sunday Morning Hot Tea - No. 4
In this edition
Topic of the Week - Gifts
Legal Recourse - The Case of Snoop and the Stolen Gin & Juice
TOPIC THIS WEEK: Gifts
This year, I got Paris a ladder for Christmas. I also got him some running clothes, but my big purchase - you know the one you get excited for them to open - was the ladder.
The ladder we already had was originally found in an old garage where I once lived. It is wooden, admittedly rickety, and only reaches up about 8 feet. It holds no sentimental value to me, but it’s one of those things where you have it and technically it works, so you never throw it out.
Before I was born, my dad got injured on a ladder. He was coming down and missed the last step. He tore his achilles tendon and was laid up for a few weeks. After that, he became a zealot about ladder safety. Sure, ladders can be dangerous, but so can saws or drills or, I don’t know, the enormous trampoline he set in the backyard for us to leap upon. But once you’ve been injured by something, it changes your perception of that thing forever. He always required that we fear and revere the mighty ladder.
As such, I grew up eyeing ladders with a certain amount of suspicion. One wrong move and BAM! It’ll get you. It’s like having a hair trigger mafioso hanging beside the rakes in your garage, ready to break your legs at the slightest upset. We couldn’t play on, climb, use, or think about the ladder, even with supervision.
All this to say I was nervous buying a death machine for the man I love, but he wanted one so much, I caved. It was a tool he could use, a symbol that he is even more of the handy homeowner he has started to become.
I did some research and decided on an adjustable model that could go from straight up and down, to A-shaped, to so super tall that it could reach the peak of the house. The only problem? I didn’t order it in time to be shipped to the house by Christmas because I am a procrastinator.
Instead, I searched “available in store” on the Home Depot website and set out on December 23. In the store, found an orange-aproned employee on one side who directed me to the ladders, all the way at the other end where the “pro” section is. Home Depot Pro (TM) is where actual legitimate professional contractors go to rent and buy heavy duty stuff. I am not an actual legitimate anything, so I felt weird breaching the Pro barrier.
In the Pro section on the very last aisle, up on a shelf about 2 feet in the air, was the exact ladder I’d seen online. The description on the website claimed that this ladder was “super light weight” but in fact it was super metal and heavy as fuck.
I tried taking one down myself but winced under its mass. Luckily, the ladder aisle is directly adjacent to the employee hang zone. I’m sure they call it a break room, but either way, I could peek into an open door and see several employees, their orange aprons slung over their shoulders sitting at small tables. One was bent over a stained Tupperware container, enjoying a reheated spaghetti meal. I couldn’t bring myself to interrupt them. Instead, I stood casually beside the rack, working up the courage to stop the next free worker who walked by.
Working retail is not easy. Working retail at the holidays should be prohibited under the United Nations Convention against Torture. Sensitive to their plight, I tried to position myself to be as helpful as I could to whomever would have to help me. I got a flat bed for myself and positioned it right below the shelf. I even tried once again to lift the ladder myself. But when I put my hands around it and squeezed, nothing moved.
Then I saw the perfect candidate: an employee walking toward me with neither purpose nor destination.
He was thin and roughly my height, around 5’4”, with a close crop of hair so blonde it was nearly white. Masked up, I couldn’t make out the rest of his face to tell his age. If I had to guess, I would say he was thirteen years old.
“Can you help me get this ladder down? I am too weak to lift it,” I said.
“Sure,” he replied before beginning to struggle with the silver metal beast himself. “Apparently I am also too weak,” he said to himself.
My face burned red under my fabric mask. “Oh no,” I said. “You're not weak. It’s just that I moved a bed yesterday and my arms are shot. Noodles really.”
I watched him grunt and struggle and realized this explanation was not much more helpful. I had now implied that he wasn’t just weaker than me, he was weaker than me after I performed a day of manual labor. Shut up, McKinney.
Finally, he mustered whatever was inside him - courage, shame, irritation, Christmas spirit - and heaved the ladder over his head and down onto the flat bed.
“Thank you so much,” I said, then looked at the ladder. It had an enormous dent in the front step. I looked to another one on the shelf and saw this was not a design characteristic, but actual damage.
On reflex, I took up that voice that I hate so much, that high pitched voice where every phrase ends in a question mark that we all do when we really hate to bother someone but we’re going to bother them anyway.
“I hate to ask this? But is there any way you can get the next one down and switch it for this one? This one has a mark? See? And normally I wouldn’t mind but this is a gift ladder?”
Ever helpful, he said it was no problem and went to work on a second ladder, now breaking a sweat.
Once it was loaded, he led me down the aisle toward the cash registers. I spoke quickly to fill space like I always do when I am nervous. I said it was for my boyfriend. That the ladder at home would likely kill him some day due to its structural deficiencies, and boy, I sure hoped this one didn’t kill him instead. Wouldn’t that be ironic? Merry Christmas, here’s your ultimate demise! Ha ha ha! Oh boy. Ladders are dangerous, you know — then boom. Mid-sentence, I crashed my cart into a row of other carts, causing a Rube Goldberg of orange metal flatbeds to smash into one another then into the shelves. I couldn't be trusted with a ladder on a cart, much less one in my home.
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” the employee said. “Just check out here.” He pointed to the pro checkout line, I’m guessing because it was closer and not because he mistook me for any kind of professional.
After paying, an employee whose job it was to pack products into cars followed me out, taking the cart from me. When I laid down my back seat, he crammed the ladder in so tightly that it required me to move up the driver seat all the way until there was only a rib cage of space between the seat and the steering wheel.
“Want me to move it to the other side?” he asked.
Not wanting to put him out, I said no. Before I could change my mind, he vanished into the parking lot, leaving me to expel all the air in my lungs and wedge myself in the car.
I made a handful of other stops before heading home, each time sliding myself carefully out from behind the steering wheel. I worried about what would happen if I were in an accident. That close to the steering wheel my body probably would have shattered, a mess of blood and bone and ladder chunks.
When I got home, I had the unfortunate task for removing the ladder from my backseat myself and putting it under the tree. Normally Paris would do things like this for me because he is both helpful and strong, two of the many reasons why I love him. But he wasn't home, and anyway, it was a surprise so I needed to do it myself so I could wrap the thing.
I slid it out of my car using leverage and gravity and managed to heave it into the house. I wrapped an entire roll of paper around it, leaving a ladder-shaped lump standing beside the tree.
I looked at the paper-covered monstrosity over and over the next few days. Imagining us using it to hang next year’s Christmas lights, fixing roof tiles, sweeping the high hung ceiling fans. I also thought of my dad, his torn achilles tendon, and how he couldn’t walk for weeks. I worried about falls, wondering whether I’d bought the device of destruction that would knock Paris unconscious, or break his leg or worse. What if years later, that ladder is the thing that takes him out? I would have brought into our home the very thing that killed the man I loved. A horrific slideshow played on loop in my mind.
But then again, isn't that love? Constantly wondering what horrific fate will take out the ones we so cherish? In response to this mental PowerPoint of horrors, I silently vowed to always stand beside him whenever he used it, to help him with every task, to instill in him the same reverence and fear I had for the ladder, and to give my very life to keep him from any home improvement calamity.
On Christmas morning, before he tore into the paper, he asked, “What could possibly be in this ladder-shaped packaging?”
After the paper was heaped in a pile on the floor, he grabbed the ladder with both hands to take it into the garage. I started to ask whether he needed help, whether I could keep him from a Day 1 ladder injury. I watched him lift it effortlessly and head off to the garage. It’s only about 25 feet from the Christmas tree to the back door, and all the ways the ladder could kill him in that short distance flashed in my mind. Then I took a deep breath and decided to let him go it alone, watching from the couch as he disappeared around the corner. After all, he is so helpful and so very strong.
QUESTIONS FROM YOU
This question comes from Aaron:
“In the song Gin and Juice, Snoop Dogg claims that ‘I got me some Seagram's Gin, everybody got their cups but they ain’t chipped in.’ What steps would he have to take and what would be his burden of proof in order to recoup his money from them in court?”
Excellent question, Aaron. I think this one is particularly relevant given that we are close to New Year’s Eve, a time for partying and revelry. It’s also a time for fools to roll through parties with empty cups and no funds to chip in.
Your question is really two-fold, so we’ll address each part in turn. First, let’s talk steps Snoop has to take to recoup his money.
When you sue someone, you have to choose the proper venue. We discussed this a little bit in regards to The Santa Clause. Let’s assume that everyone involved in this incident is located in the LBC, or Long Beach, California, where Snoop would likely be hosting the party. Long Beach is located in Los Angeles County, California, so that county is where he would sue.
Next, he has to decide which court is proper. Though Snoop probably throws major blowouts, I'm going to assume that the amount of Seagram’s at issue is worth less than $10,000. California has two venues for individuals to resolve small disputes of less than $10,000: Small Claims Court and Limited Civil Courts. For several reasons, including fewer rules, no lawyers, and all partygoers being located in California, Snoop may want to sue them in Small Claims to make things easier. However, under California law, he would not be able to do that.
Snoop is asking a judge to determine the rights and obligations of the parties - Snoop’s right to recoup money and the gin-drinkers’ obligations to pay for the gin - meaning he would be required to file in Limited Civil Court. Because the Limited Civil Court requires the parties to follow procedural rules and rules of evidence, I would advise Snoop to hire a lawyer to help navigate the system.
Before filing the suit, Snoop should make a written demand the money from those who took the gin then document his demands. This is usually done through letters, sent certified mail, return receipt requested, to prove that the letters were delivered to the intended recipients.
For efficiency’s sake, Snoop would not want to sue each cup-holder individually. He would have his lawyer pursue one lawsuit and join together several defendants. This is permissible under California law since the suit is “arising out of the same transaction, occurrence, or series of transactions or occurrences” and because “question[s] of law or fact common to all these persons will arise in the action.”
He would also be unsure until all the facts were proven at trial as to who drank what and how much. In that case, the California Code of Civil Procedure would also permit him to join defendants together since Snoop “is in doubt as to the person from whom he is entitled to redress.” Since he is unsure, Snoop “may join two or more defendants, with the intent that the question as to which, if any, of the defendants is liable, and to what extent, may be determined between the parties.” This is something he would have to ask the court’s permission to do.
When filing the suit, Snoop’s lawyer could sue on several counts:
(1) breach of an oral contract - he was to provide gin, and they were to provide cash in exchange;
(2) “unjust enrichment” which requires him to prove (a) defendant’s receipt of a benefit, i.e., gin, and (b) unjust retention of the benefit at the expense of another, i.e., they never paid Snoop; and
(3) conversion - the civil action for theft. For conversion, Snoop would need to prove that (1) he owned the gin; (2) the drinkers interfered with his ownership by knowingly or intentionally taking it/destroying it (by drinking it); (3) that Snoop did not consent to their drinking it; (4) that Snoop was harmed by the taking of his gin; and (5) that the drinkers’ conduct was a substantial factor in causing Snoop’s harm.
Before the trial, Snoop and the defendants would then exchange information and answer questions posed by each side in a process called “discovery.” The court will also make them attend a mandatory pre-trial settlement conference, in order to see whether they could work out their problems before trial.
After the pretrial steps, if Snoop and his lawyer still want to sue these avaricious gin guzzlers, he has the burden of proving the elements of the above claims and all the related facts, including who drank what and how much. This brings us to the second part of Aaron's question - Snoop’s burden of proof.
California Civil Jury Instruction Number 200 is particularly helpful for this question. In plain terms, Snoop would have to prove to the jury that the facts of his case are “more likely true than not true.”
This standard of “more likely true than not true” is known as the “preponderance of the evidence.” This is a much lower standard than in criminal cases where the standard is “beyond a reasonable doubt.”
Some lawyers explain “preponderance of the evidence” as having to prove something was 51% probable, as in, if it is 51% more likely that something happened based on the evidence presented at trial, Snoop should win. That's a pretty low standard. Snoop would likely be able to prove his case with plenty of evidence given that, according to the song, “This type of shit happens all the time.”
And if he wins, he can ask the judge to make the other side pay his court costs and attorneys’ fees, making those some pretty costly cups of gin and juice.
I hope that answers the question. Thanks, Aaron!
Got a question? Submit it here. They can be legal what-if questions like the one above, or questions about the legality of actions in TV shows or movies you’ve seen. I never ever want to answer your personal legal questions, so don't send those. Love you, but I don’t do that.
Until next week, let’s keep teasin’ and sleazin’. Good lord what is wrong with me.
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