They Towed My Wheelchair Van, So I Sued Under the ADA and Forced the HOA Board to Settle!
You know that specific kind of silence that happens right before a grenade goes off? That heavy pressurized quiet where the air feels like it’s holding its breath? That was my driveway at 7:15 a.m. on a Tuesday. I was sitting at the threshold of my front door, checking the friction on my gloves.
I’m a creature of habit. I have to be. When your legs decided to retire regarding their participation in your daily life about 10 years ago, you learned that spontaneity is a luxury for people who can walk over curbs. For me, everything is logistics. Everything is timing. I had a neurologist appointment across town at 8:30 a.m.
It’s a 45minute drive with traffic. I allowed 15 minutes to load into the van, 5 minutes to secure the wheelchair tieowns, and 5 minutes for unforeseen nonsense. I was on schedule. I had my coffee in the cup holder attached to the armrest of my Titan X4. I locked the front door behind me, spun the chair around, and rolled down the custom concrete ramp I’d paid $6,000 to install last year.
I looked up, ready to hit the remote for the side entry ramp on my van. My finger hovered over the button. I blinked. I actually rubbed my eyes like a character in a bad cartoon, thinking maybe the morning sunlare was messing with my depth perception. My driveway was empty. My 2022 Toyota Sienna, customized with a Braraw ability conversion, a kneeling system and hand controls, an $80,000 piece of machinery that effectively served as my legs, was gone.
I sat there at the bottom of the ramp, the morning breeze cooling the sweat that had instantly broken out on my forehead. I didn’t panic immediately. The logical side of my brain, the side that used to be a corporate litigator before the accident, started running down the list of possibilities. Did I lend it to someone? No. The hand controls make it terrifying for able-bodied people to drive.
Did my brother take it? No. He lives in Ohio. Did I park it in the garage? No. The garage is full of boxes from the move. That left option D. Grand Theft Auto. My heart started hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. That van wasn’t just a car. It was my freedom. Without it, I was a prisoner in a three-bedroom ranch in the suburbs of Atlanta.
I fumbled for my phone, my hands shaking so bad, I almost dropped it into the Aelia bushes. I dialed 911. 911. What is your emergency? My vehicle has been stolen, I said, my voice sounding tighter than I wanted it to. I’m at 442 Oak Creek Lane. It’s a gray Toyota Sienna, wheelchair accessible. It was in my driveway last night.
“Okay, sir, take a breath,” the dispatcher said, sounding bored. This was probably her 10th stolen car call before breakfast. “Are you sure it wasn’t repossessed?” “I own it outright,” I snapped. “I have the title in my safe. It wasn’t repoed.” And are you up to date on your parking tickets? It was in my private driveway, I said, emphasizing the words.
Someone came onto my property and took it. Hold on a second. Let me check the repo and tow logs, she said. I heard the clicking of a keyboard. The seconds stretched out agonizingly long. A squirrel ran across the empty slab of concrete where my tires should have been, mocking me. Sir? She came back on.
Yeah, I have a hit here. It wasn’t reported stolen. It was a private property impound. I frowned. A what? I’m on my private property. It was towed at 3:45 a.m. by Predator Towing and Recovery. The authorization came from, let’s see, the Oak Creek Homeowners Association. My blood ran cold, then immediately boiled. The HOA.
I had moved into Oak Creek 3 months ago. It was a nice neighborhood, quiet, flat terrain, good for the chair. I’d met a few neighbors, mostly nice folks, but I had seen the emails from the board. They were aggressive about trash cans and lawn length, but I kept my nose clean. My grass was manicured. My trash cans were invisible.
That’s impossible, I told the dispatcher. I have a handicap placard. It’s a medical vehicle. They can’t tow a vehicle from a private driveway without a court order or an emergency. Well, sir, that’s a civil matter, she said. The magic words that cops use when they don’t want to do paperwork. You’ll have to take it up with the tow company or your HOA.
We can’t send an officer for a civil dispute. This isn’t a dispute, I shouted, losing my cool. They stole an $80,000 medical device. If they took my prosthetic legs, would you send an officer? Sir, if you don’t lower your voice, I’m going to disconnect. Call Predator Towing. The line went dead. I stared at the phone.
I wanted to throw it through the window of the house across the street, but I couldn’t. I needed it. I checked the time. 7:25 a.m. My appointment was in an hour. If I missed this appointment, I’d have to wait 3 months for a reschedule. I needed my meds refilled. Missing this wasn’t an option. I Googled predator towing.
One star on Yelp. Tonkan reviews that used words like criminal, thieves, and scum. I dialed the number. Predator, a grallyvoice answered. No greeting, just the name of the beast. You have my van, I said. Gray Toyota Sienna. You took it from 442 Oak Creek Lane. Yeah, the bus, the guy said. He actually chuckled. Yeah, we got it.
Commercial vehicle violation. It’s not a commercial vehicle, I said, trying to keep my voice steady. It’s a wheelchair van. It has a ramp. It has a handicap tag hanging from the mirror. Did you not see the blue wheelchair symbol on the license plate? Look, buddy. The work order said commercial oversized vehicle. It’s got a high roof.
It’s got writing on the back. The writing is the manufacturer’s badge that says Bronnability. I ground out. And the roof is raised so I don’t break my neck when I drive into it. You need to bring it back now. We don’t do delivery. He laughed. You want it? Come get it. It’s at the yard on Industrial Bel Vid.
That’ll be 300 for the tow, 50 for the storage, and 50 for the drop fee if you come after 8 a.m. Cash only. I can’t come get it, I said, my voice trembling with rage. You have my van. I am in a wheelchair. I cannot drive a regular car. Uber exists, pal. We close at 5. Click. I sat there in the morning sun, feeling a level of helplessness I hadn’t felt since the first weeks of rehab.
They had stripped me of my autonomy. I looked at my watch. 7:35 a.m. I opened the Uber app. I scrolled past Uber X, past Uber XL. I had to find the web, wheelchair accessible vehicle option. In a city like Atlanta, you’d think there would be hundreds. There were two. The nearest one was 25 minutes away. I booked it.
Cost $45. While I waited, stuck on my own porch, I called my doctor’s office. Hi, this is Jack Miller. Look, I’m going to be late. My van was incapacitated. Dr. Evans has a strict 15-minute window, Mr. Miller, the receptionist said. I know. I’ll be there. Please just hold the slot. The next 20 minutes were pure agony.
I sat there stewing. I looked around the neighborhood. It was pristine, perfectly manicured lawns, identical mailboxes. It was Steppford with a gate code. And somewhere in one of these houses sat the person who authorized a tow truck to back into my driveway in the middle of the night and drag away my livelihood.
The Uber finally arrived. The driver was a nice guy, a Haitian immigrant named Dovey. He lowered the ramp for me. You okay, boss? He asked as he strapped me in. You look like you want to kill someone. I might, Davey, I said. I just might. We drove to the towyard. It was exactly what you’d expect, a fenced in lot behind a scrapyard guarded by a Rottweiler that looked like it ate lesser dogs for sport.
The office was a trailer with barred windows. I had Davyy wait. I might need a ride back if they refuse to release it, I told him. I’ll pay you for the waiting time. I rolled up to the window. The glass was bulletproof, covered in smudges and stickers that said things like, “We don’t dial 911 and cash is king. A man sat behind the glass.
He was wearing a grease stained tank top and eating a breakfast burrito that looked like it was 90% grease. “Help you?” he mumbled, mouthful. I’m here for the Sienna, I said. Jack Miller. He wiped his mouth on his forearm and typed something into a computer that looked like it ran on Dos. Miller? Yeah. 400 bucks.
You said 300 on the phone. It’s after 8 a.m. now. Day rate applies. I took a deep breath. I’m going to pay you because I need to get to a doctor, but I want you to know this is an illegal tow. You towed a handicap vehicle from a residence where it is registered. That’s a violation of the ADA and state predatory towing laws.
He looked at me dead in the eyes and took another bite of his burrito. I got a contract with the HOA, buddy. They say tow I tow. You got a beef, take it up with the lady who runs the show, Barbara something. She’s the one who called it in personally. Said it was an eyesore. Barbara. I knew the name. Barbara usually signed the monthly newsletters with little smiley faces and quotes about community harmony.
I handed him my credit card. Read the sign, he tapped the glass. Cash only. I don’t carry $400 in cash, I said through gritted teeth. ATM is at the gas station down the block. I am in a wheelchair, I said, gesturing to my entire existence. There are no sidewalks on this industrial road. You want me to roll in traffic? He shrugged.
Not my problem. I had to go back to Davey. Davey, I need you to drive me to an ATM. We did the loop, got the cash, came back. I shoved the bills through the slot. He threw a clipboard at me. Sign. I signed, but above my signature in big block letters, I wrote, “Paid under duress. Illegal tow vehicle is medically necessary.
” He looked at it, snorted, and buzzed the gate. My van was parked in the back, squeezed between a rusted F-150 and a dumpster. I checked it for damage. The bumper had a scrape where they’d hooked it up too fast. I took a picture. I took a picture of the towyard, the lack of handicap parking at the towyard office, another violation,and the receipt. I got in.
The familiarity of my hand controls felt like shaking hands with an old friend. I tipped Davey 50 bucks for his patience and sped off. I made my doctor’s appointment with 2 minutes to spare. My blood pressure, usually a steady 128ths, was 16100ths. Dr. Evans asked if I was under stress. “You have no idea,” I said.
By the time I got back to Oak Creek, it was noon. The adrenaline was fading, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. I drove slowly through the neighborhood. I saw the neighbors walking their dogs and the landscapers blowing leaves. It all looked so peaceful. I pulled into my driveway and there it was.
Taped to my front door was a piece of heavy card stock, bright yellow. I unloaded, rolled up the ramp, and ripped it off the door. It was a violation notice. Violation four 2.1 commercial vehicles recreational vehicles. Description: Large bus van parked in driveway overnight. Vehicle exceeds standard height and width aesthetics. Vehicle resembles commercial transport.
Corrective action. Remove vehicle immediately. Repeat offenses will result in towing at owner’s expense. And underneath a handwritten note in cursive with purple ink. Jack, we really try to maintain a certain look in Oak Creek. That bus blocks the view of the hydrangeas from the street. Please park it in the guest lot by the clubhouse.
It’s only a short walk. Thanks for understanding, Barbara. HOA president. I stared at the note. A short walk. The clubhouse was 6/10 of a mile away uphill. I laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound. She thought this was about aesthetics. She thought this was a bus. I went inside and didn’t even take off my coat.
I went straight to my office and opened the file cabinet. I pulled out the closing documents for the house, specifically the CC and RS, covenants, conditions, and restrictions. I’m a lawyer. Well, I was a lawyer. I specialized in contract law before the accident, then did a stint in disability rights advocacy when I realized how much the world hates accommodating us.
I haven’t practiced in 3 years, but I still know how to read a document better than a retiree with a superiority complex. I poured a glass of water and sat down to read. Article 4, section two, prohibition of commercial vehicles. No commercial vehicles, including work trucks with exposed ladders, logos, or heavy machinery, may be parked in driveways overnight.
Article 4, section 3, recreational vehicles. No RVs, boats, or campers. My Sienna was neither. It was a private passenger vehicle. The logos were the manufacturer marks for the lift. But then I found the clause they were hanging their hat on, the nuisance and aesthetics clause. The board reserves the right to determine if a vehicle is unsightly or detrimental to the neighborhood character.
It was a catch-all, a blank check for tyranny. But Barbara had made a fatal error, a mistake so large, so glaring that I almost felt bad for her. Almost. She had put in writing in purple ink that I should park in the guest lot. Hand. I put the CC and RS down and picked up my phone. I dialed a number I hadn’t called in a year.
Mike’s ADA Retrofit and Construction. Mike speaking. Mikey, I said. It’s Jack. Jack, my man, how’s the retirement life treating you? You bored yet? I’m not bored, Mike. I’m motivated. I have a job for you. I thought your house was already fully retrofitted. We did the bathroom and the ramps last month. Not the house, I said.
I need you to come out and do a consultation, but not for a renovation. I need an audit. An audit? Yeah. I need you to bring your level, your tape measure, and your copy of the 2010 ADA standards for accessible design. I need you to measure everything in my neighborhood. The clubhouse, the pool, the sidewalks, and especially the guest lot.
Jack, Mike said, his voice dropping. DTO, who pissed you off? The HOA towed my van, Mike. They towed it while I was sleeping and told me to walk half a mile to get it. There was a silence on the line. Mike is 6’4, an ex-marine, and has a brother with cerebral palsy. He takes accessibility very personally. I’ll be there in an hour, Mike said.
I’ll bring the laser measure. Bring the citation book, too, I said. I hung up. I looked at the yellow violation notice again. Barbara, I whispered to the empty room. You have no idea what you just started. I went to the kitchen and made a sandwich, eating it with the deliberate slowness of a man preparing for war. I wasn’t going to yell.
I wasn’t going to scream at the next meeting. That’s what they expect. They expect the angry routine. No, I was going to follow the rules. I was going to follow all the rules. Federal ones, state ones, county ones, and I was going to make sure Barbara followed them, too. Right off a cliff. At 2 p.m.
, Mike’s truck rumbled into the driveway. It was a massive Ford F350 with Mike’s ADA construction plastered on the side. He parked it right where my van had been, blocking the view of the hydrangeas perfectly. He hopped out,holding a digital level and a clipboard thick enough to stop a bullet. “Where do we start?” he asked, spitting out a sunflower seed.
“The guest lot,” I said, rolling down the ramp to join him. “She wants me to park there. Let’s see if it’s up to code. We made our way up the street. It was a nice day for a walk or a roll. As we moved, I saw curtains twitching. The neighbors were watching. Good. We reached the clubhouse. It was a fake colonial building with big white pillars. Touan.
To the side was the guest lot. I stopped and smiled. It was gravel. Crushed stone. Mike noted, scribbling furiously. Violation of ADA 302.1. Surface must be stable, firm, and slip resistant. Gravel fails. Check the slope, I said. Mike put the level on the ground. 6% grade. Allowable is 2% for parking spaces. Any van accessible signage? Nope.
Just a sign that says guests only. No overnight parking. So I said, she ordered me to park my medical vehicle in a lot that violates federal access laws on a surface I can’t wheel on at a slope that could tip my chair in a spot where overnight parking is technically banned by the sign itself. That’s a quadruple whammy, Mike said.
He looked at the clubhouse entrance. Hey, look at those steps. There were three steps up to the clubhouse door. No ramp. Is this a public accommodation? Mike asked. Do they rent it out for weddings or parties? They sure do, I said. Saw it on the website. Available for private events. Then it’s Title 3, Mike grinned.
No ramp. That’s a lawsuit. We spent the next 3 hours tearing the neighborhood apart. We found 27 violations. The pool lift was rusted shut. The sidewalks lacked curb cuts at the intersections. The mailbox cluster was too high for a wheelchair user to reach the top slots. By the time we got back to my driveway, Mike had five pages of notes.
“This is a gold mine, Jack,” he said. “If you report this to the DOJ, they’ll come down on this place like the wrath of God.” “Oh, we’ll get there,” I said. “But first, I need to secure my perimeter. I need you to paint my driveway.” “Paint it? I want a fully compliant van accessible handicap spot painted right on my driveway slab.
Blue box, white stripes, the icon, and I want a metal sign on a post. Reserved parking penalty $250. Jack, Mike laughed. That’s going to look ugly as sin in front of this house. I know, I said. It’s going to ruin the aesthetic completely. When can you do it? I got the stencil and the paint in the truck. I can do it right now. Do it.
Mike fired up his air compressor. The noise shattered the suburban quiet. He started spraying bright, vivid traffic safety blue paint onto my pristine concrete driveway. About 10 minutes in, I saw a golf cart zooming down the street. It was white with a little fringed canopy. Driving it was a woman who looked like she was made entirely of hairspray and passive aggression.
She was wearing a tennis skirt, though I doubt she’d played tennis since the Reagan administration. Barbara She skidded the golf cart to a halt at the end of my driveway, nearly hitting Mike’s truck. “Excuse me,” she shrieked. Her voice was like a circular saw hitting a nail. “Excuse me, what in God’s name are you doing?” I rolled down to the end of the driveway.
“Afternoon, Barbara. I got your note.” She ignored me, pointing a manicured finger at Mike. “Stop that immediately. You cannot paint the driveway blue. It’s against the architectural guidelines. Mike stood up, holding the spray gun. He’s a scaryl looking guy. “Ma’am, step back. I’m installing federallymandated accessibility markings.
” “This is private property,” she yelled. “The HOA owns the aesthetic rights to the exterior.” “And I own the land,” I said calmly. “And under the Fair Housing Act and the ADA, I am allowed to make reasonable modifications for my disability. Since you towed my van for being unclear about its purpose, I am clarifying it.
You, you, she sputtered, her face turning a shade of red that clashed with her lipstick. You are defacing the neighborhood. I will find you. I will find you $1,000 a day until you scrub that off. You can try, I said. But Barbara, I’m curious. Why did you tow my van? It’s a commercial bus, she shouted. It doesn’t fit the image of Oak Creek.
It’s a wheelchair van, I said. I needed to get to the doctor. I missed part of my treatment today because of you. That’s not my problem, she screamed. The rules are the rules. You people think you can just move in here and do whatever you want because you’re special. The air went still. Even Mike stopped moving.
You people? I asked softly. You know what I mean? she snapped, realizing she’d gone too far, but too proud to back down. Rules apply to everyone. If you can’t follow them, maybe you belong in a a facility, not a luxury community. I smiled. It was the smile of a wolf looking at a lamb that had just tripped. “Thank you, Barbara,” I said.
“I really needed you to say that. I’m calling the tow truck again, she threatened, puttingthe golf cart in reverse. If that van is here tonight, it’s gone. Go ahead, I said. Do it. She sped off, her little electric motor whining. Mike looked at me. She’s actually going to do it, isn’t she? She is.
And you’re going to let her, Mike, I said, looking at the fresh blue paint gleaming in the sun. I’m counting on it. That night, I parked the van right in the middle of the blue box. I set up a camera in my bedroom window, pointed at the driveway. I made sure the handicap placard was hanging clearly from the mirror.
I went to bed, but I didn’t sleep. At 3:15 a.m., the lights of a tow truck swept across my ceiling. I watched on the monitor as the same truck from Predator Towing backed up. The driver hopped out. He looked at the blue lines. He looked at the sign Mike had installed. He hesitated. Then he checked his phone. Probably a text from Barbara demanding action. He hooked up the van.
I didn’t stop him. I let him drag it right out of the painted box, tires screeching, and pull it down the street. I waited until the tail lights disappeared. Then I picked up my phone, but I didn’t call the tow company this time. I dialed the non-emergency line for the police. Dispatch. Yes, I said, my voice calm, cold.
Dent and professional. I’d like to report a grand lararseny and a hate crime. The police arrived 20 minutes later. I was sitting on my front porch wrapped in a blanket, watching the flashing blue lights bounce off the fresh paint Mike had laid down only hours before. Two cruisers, one officer I didn’t know and a younger one who looked like he’d just started shaving.
The older one, a sergeant by the stripes on his sleeve, walked up the driveway. He looked tired. He looked like a man who had dealt with too many domestic disputes over burnt toast. His name tag said Miller. “Mr. Miller?” he asked, glancing at his notepad. “Same last name? No relation, I assume.” “I hope not, Sergeant,” I said.
“For your sake. My family tends to be stubborn.” He didn’t smile. Dispatch said you reported a grand lararseny and a hate crime. Those are big words. We usually reserve those for bank robberies and cross burnings. From the notes, it looks like your car got towed. My van, I corrected. And yes, it was towed.
Taken from my private property without my consent for the second time in 24 hours. Sergeant Miller sighed, the sound of air escaping a tire. He hooked his thumbs into his vest. Sir, I’m going to be honest with you. This is a civil matter. If you have a dispute with your HOA or a towing company, you take them to small claims court.
We don’t enforce neighborhood covenants and we don’t referee parking disputes. This was the moment, the pivot point. Most people here, it’s a civil matter and give up. They yell, they scream, and the cop leaves. I wasn’t most people. I had prepared for this conversation for three years, ever since I lost my legs. Sergeant,” I said, keeping my voice low and steady.
I need you to look at my driveway. He looked down. He shown his flashlight on the bright blue box, the white wheelchair symbol, and the metal sign that read, “Reserved parking. State permit required.” “Okay,” he said. “You painted a spot. That’s nice. But if the HOA has rules against commercial vehicles, it’s not a commercial vehicle, I interrupted.
And this isn’t a parking dispute. Sergeant, do you know what OCGA section August 2nd16 says regarding theft by taking? He blinked. Excuse me. Georgia code, I recited from memory. A person commits the offense of theft by taking when he unlawfully takes any property of another with the intention of depriving him of the property.
Now, usually towing companies have a liability shield because they are acting as agents of a property owner, but that shield disappears if they knowingly violate state or federal law during the seizure. Okay, counselor, Miller said, his tone hardening. What law did they violate? OCGA section May 430, I said. exploitation and intimidation of a disabled adult and more importantly federal deprivation of rights under color of authority.
But let’s keep it simple for the report. That van is equipped with a $30,000 Bronnability conversion ramp and hand controls. It is classified as durable medical equipment by my insurance and the DMV. It is a prosthetic device. Without it, I am physically unable to leave this house. I leaned forward in my chair, catching his eyes.
If someone came into my house while I was sleeping and stole my wheelchair, would you call that a civil matter? If someone unbuckled a man’s prosthetic leg and ran off with it, would you tell him to take it up with the HOA?” Miller paused. He looked at the empty blue box. He looked at my legs. He looked back at me. The annoyed cop mask slipped, replaced by something calculating.
No, he admitted I wouldn’t. They took my legs, Sergeant. They did it knowingly. The woman who ordered this, Barbara Smith, was told to her face yesterday that this is a medical vehicle. The tow driver saw the handicapmarkings on the ground. He saw the placard. He saw the sign and he took it anyway. I pulled out my iPad.
I have video. Miller walked up the ramp to look at the screen. I played the footage from the night vision camera. We watched in silence. The truck backed up. The driver got out. He clearly looked at the bright blue paint. He looked at the sign. He even kicked the sign. He checked his phone, likely confirming the order, and then hooked up the van.
He saw the markings, Miller muttered. He knew it was a designated handicap spot. “Towing a vehicle from a designated handicap spot without a specific court order regarding that specific vehicle is a misdemeanor in itself,” I said. But doing it to harass a resident, that’s harassment. Doing it to deprive a disabled person of their mobility, that’s a felony. Miller straightened up.
He turned to his rookie partner. Get the camera. Photograph the driveway. Photograph the sign. Get pictures of the drag marks crossing the blue paint. He turned back to me. I need the names. Who authorized this? Barbara Smith, I said. President of the HOA. She lives at 440. And the tow company is Predator Towing.
I know them, Miller grunted. Scumbags. We’ve had trouble with them before. I want to press charges, I said. I want to press charges for theft by taking criminal trespass. And if you can stick it, cruelty to a disabled adult. Miller nodded slowly. I can’t arrest her tonight, Mr. Miller. Not without a warrant signed by a judge.
This is complex. But I am going to write a report that is going to make the district attorney very interested and I’m going to go have a word with Mrs. Smith right now. Don’t I said. Miller stopped. Why not? If you warn her, she’ll destroy evidence. She’ll delete emails. She’ll claim it was a mistake.
I need you to file the report so I have a paper trail. I’m going to handle the fear of God part in federal court tomorrow morning. I need the element of surprise. Miller looked at me with a newfound respect. “You really were a lawyer, weren’t you?” “I was the best,” I said. “And now I have a lot of free time.” Miller wrote me a case number.
Report hash 2409822. I’m listing it as theft lararseny with special circumstances. Good luck, Mr. Miller. Go get him. He left. I didn’t go back to bed. I brewed a pot of coffee strong enough to strip paint. I wheeled myself into my office and woke up my computer. It was 4:30 a.m. By 8:00 a.m.
, I needed to draft a complaint that would hit the Oak Creek Homeowners Association like a kinetic orbital strike. I opened a new document in the United States District Court, Northern District of Georgia plaintiff, Jack Miller, Defendants, Oak Creek Homeowners Association, Inc., Barbara Smith individually predator towing and recovery LLC nature of action one violation of the Americans with Disabilities Act title 3 2 violation of the Fair Housing Act FHA 3 42 USC section 1983 deprivation of rights four conversion theft five intentional infliction of emotional distress.
Six. Conspiracy to interfere with civil rights. I typed furiously. The anger that had been burning in my gut flowed out through my fingertips. I cited the statutes. I cited the case law. I detailed the timeline of malice. The initial valid parking. The first toe illegal. The diplomatic attempt. My interaction with Barbara.
The explicit warning telling her it was medical equipment. the guest lot trap, ordering me to use a non-compliant lot. The installation of safety measures, Mike’s paint, the second toe, the nuclear event. Then came the motion for temporary restraining order, TTRO, and preliminary injunction. This was the dagger. A lawsuit takes years.
A TTRO takes hours. I asked the court for three things immediately. One, immediate return of property. The court must order the release of the van without payment of fees. Two, enjoinment. The HOA is forbidden from touching my property or entering my driveway. Three, asset freeze. This was the kicker.
I argued that because the HOA and Predator Towing had engaged in a criminal conspiracy to deprive me of property and because the damages punitive could exceed their insurance caps, the court needed to freeze their operating accounts to prevent them from hiding assets. I attached the photos, the gravel lot, the steps, the blue driveway, the note in purple ink.
At 8:30 a.m., I emailed the entire packet to an old friend of mine, Sarah, who was still a partner at my old firm. Jack, she said when she called me 10 minutes later. I’m reading this. Holy hell. Is it solid? Solid, Jack. This is a massacre. You named Barbara individually. She acted outside the scope of her authority.
I said the bylaws don’t authorize the board to violate federal law. Therefore, she loses indemnification. I’m coming for her house. Sarah, I’ll file it electronically right now. Sarah said, “I’ll walk the TTRO over to Judge Henderson. He hates HOAs. He had a fence dispute last year.” Perfect. What are you going to do? I’m going to wait. Isaid, “The HOA meeting is tonight.
I imagine they’ll be celebrating my departure.” “They have no idea, do they?” “No,” I said. “They think they won.” The day passed in a blur of logistics. I had to arrange a rental van, another $200 expense I added to the damages spreadsheet just to get around. At 4 p.m. Sarah called. TTRO is granted, she said, her voice sounding breathless.
Judge Henderson didn’t even hesitate. He saw the photo of the gravel lot and the guest parking sign and practically threw his gavvel. The order is signed. The US Marshals are serving the bank right now to freeze the HOA accounts. They’re serving predator towing, too. What about the van? Order for immediate return.
If they don’t have it in your driveway by 6:00 p.m., the owner of the towyard goes to jail for contempt. Good, I said. Don’t tell the HOA yet. Let the process server hit them during the meeting. You’re evil, Jack. I’m thorough. The monthly HOA meeting was scheduled for 7:00 p.m. at the clubhouse, the same clubhouse that Mike had identified as being non-compliant.
I arrived at 6:55 p.m. I rolled my rental van into the gravel lot, then parked sideways across three regular spots on the paved section because I couldn’t deploy my ramp on the gravel. I rolled up to the entrance. The three steps loomed. I waited. A neighbor, a nice guy named Tom, saw me. “Hey, Jack. Need a hand?” “No thanks, Tom,” I said loudly. “I can’t enter.
It’s not accessible. I’ll just wait here. Barbara came to the door. She was wearing a floral dress that looked like upholstery. She saw me at the bottom of the stairs. “Jack,” she said, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. “I see you made it. Did you get your bus situation sorted out?” “Not yet, Barbara,” I said. “I’m just here to observe.
” “Well, come inside,” she waved. “I can’t,” I pointed to the stairs. “Federal law requires a ramp. You don’t have one.” “Oh, don’t be dramatic,” she scoffed. Some of the men can lift you. I am not furniture, Barbara. I don’t get lifted. I’ll listen from the door. She rolled her eyes and went inside. She left the door open.
I sat at the bottom of the stairs, invisible to them, but hearing everything. The meeting began, the usual minuti, budget for flowers, complaints about a dog barking. Then Barbara took the floor. Finally, she announced, “I am pleased to report that we have taken care of the eyesore on Oak Creek Lane. The commercial vehicle has been removed, and we will be strictly enforcing the aesthetic codes from now on.
We must maintain our property values.” There was a smattering of applause from her sickants. Also, she continued, “I will be levying a fine against Mr. Miller for the unauthorized painting of the driveway. We will be hiring a sand blasting crew to remove the graffiti tomorrow and billing him for the cost.
I checked my watch. 7:15 p.m. Headlights swept across the parking lot. It wasn’t the sand blasting crew. It was a marked police cruiser. Then another. Then a black SUV that screamed unmarked unit. Officer Miller stepped out of the first car, but it was the man from the SUV who caught my attention. He was wearing a suit.
He looked like a man who build by the hour, a process server. They walked up to the clubhouse. They saw me at the bottom of the stairs. Mr. Miller. Officer Miller nodded. Sergeant, I replied. Lovely evening for a raid. Is she inside? Holding court. The officers walked up the stairs. The process server followed. I engaged the motor on my chair and moved closer to the door to watch.
The room went silent as the uniforms entered. “Can I help you?” Barbara asked, her voice trembling slightly. We’re in a private meeting. Barbara Smith? Officer Miller asked. Yes, I’m the president. Miss Smith, I’m Sergeant Miller with the police department. And this is Mr. Jenkins. The process server stepped forward and dropped a stack of papers on the table.
It made a heavy decisive thud. You are being served with a federal injunction and a civil lawsuit, Jenin said loudly. As of 4:30 p.m. today, by order of Judge Henderson of the Northern District, all assets of the Oak Creek HOA have been frozen. You are ordered to cease and desist all enforcement actions immediately.
Frozen? The treasurer? A balding man named Gary stood up. What do you mean frozen? We have bills to pay. Not anymore you don’t, Jenkins said. The judge found sufficient evidence of a conspiracy to violate the civil rights of a resident. Until the trial, you can’t spend a dime. Barbara turned purple.
“This is ridiculous. That man,” she pointed at the door where I was lurking, “is harassing us. He broke the rules.” “Miss Smith,” Sergeant Miller interrupted. His voice wasn’t polite anymore. It was the voice of the law. “We’re not here just for the lawsuit.” He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt. The metal ratcheting sound echoed in the silent room.
Barbara Smith, you are under arrest. The room gasped. It was a collective intake of breath that sucked the oxygen out of the building. Arrest?Barbara shrieked. For what? Enforcing the bylaws. For theft by taking, Miller said, walking around the table. For criminal trespass and for exploitation of a disabled adult. I I she looked around for support.
No one moved. The other board members were shrinking back, trying to become part of the wallpaper. “Turn around and place your hands behind your back.” “You can’t do this,” she screamed. “I know the mayor. I know the chief of police.” “That’s nice,” Miller said, grabbing her wrist.
“You can tell them all about it when you use your one phone call.” He spun her around. “Click, click.” Barbara Smith, the tyrant of Oak Creek, was in cuffs. “Gary Wilson?” Miller looked at the treasurer. Gary looked like he was about to vomit. Me? You signed the check to Predator Towing, didn’t you? That makes you an accessory to the theft.
Turn around. I didn’t know. Gary wailed. She made me do it. Tell it to the judge. They marched them out. It was a beautiful parade. Barbara was crying, her mascara running down her face. Gary was hyperventilating. They had to walk past me to get to the cars. The officers guided them down the stairs.
I blocked the path slightly, forcing them to stop right in front of my chair. Barbara looked down at me. Her eyes were wild. You did this, she hissed. You ruined my life. I looked up at her calm as a mill pond. No, Barbara, I said. You did this. I just wanted to park my van. You wanted a war. You should have read the ADA.
It’s a fascinating document. I’ll sue you,” she screamed as Miller shoved her toward the cruiser. “I’ll take your house.” “You can’t!” I called after her. “Your assets are frozen. You can’t even afford a lawyer.” Miller stuffed her into the back of the cruiser. He slammed the door.
It was the most satisfying sound I had ever heard. He walked back over to me. “The van?” I asked. “Tow company just called dispatch.” Miller grinned. “They’re on their way to drop it off. Driver is crying. says he didn’t know. Owner is trying to claim it was a clerical error. They’re still getting sued, I said. I figured. Miller tipped his hat.
Have a good night, Mr. Miller. Maybe try to stay out of trouble. I don’t make trouble, Sergeant, I said, watching the blue lights fade into the night. I just fix it. I sat there for a moment in the quiet. The other neighbors were pouring out of the clubhouse, whispering, looking at me with a mix of fear and awe. Big Mike’s truck pulled up.
He’d been listening on the scanner. “Did I miss it?” he asked, hopping out. “You missed the cuffs?” I said, “But don’t worry.” “The show is just starting.” “What now?” “Now,” I said, putting my car in gear. “Now we start the renovation. This neighborhood is going to be the most handicap accessible subdivision in the state of Georgia by the time I’m done with them. The fallout was spectacular.
Barbara spent two nights in county jail before her husband managed to post bail. The I know the mayor card didn’t work because, as it turns out, the mayor has a nephew in a wheelchair and didn’t take kindly to the headlines. Oh, yes, the headlines. I may have tipped off a local news station.
The segment was titled, “Hoa Grinch steals disabled veterans van. Police tower her to jail.” The video of the tow truck dragging my van out of the blue box went viral. 4 million views on Tik Tok. The review section for Predator Towing became a digital wasteland. They went out of business 3 weeks later when their insurance carrier dropped them.
The legal battle was short and bloody. With the assets frozen, the HOA couldn’t pay their attorneys. The insurance company for the HOA took one look at the police report, the video, and my lawsuit, and realized they were defending the indefensible. They invoked a conduct exclusion clause for Barbara and Gary, meaning the insurance wouldn’t cover their criminal defense, but they offered to settle the civil suit to stop the bleeding.
The settlement, one, damages, $250,000 paid to me for emotional distress, loss of use, and punitive damages. Two, repairs. Full payment for the inspection and repair of my van. The transmission was damaged from the tow. Three were compliance. The HOA entered into a consent decree to spend their remaining reserve funds bringing the entire neighborhood up to ADA code.
Barbara resigned in disgrace. She put her house on the market, but word got around. Last I heard, she moved to a condo in Florida. I pity that condo board. Gary pleaded down to a misdemeanor trespass and agreed to testify against the tow company owner who is currently serving two years for predatory practices and fraud.
But the best part wasn’t the money. It was the neighborhood. 6 months later, Oak Creek looked different. The guest lot was paved with smooth, beautiful asphalt. It had two van accessible spots. The clubhouse had a concrete ramp with brushed steel railings. The pool had a brand new electric lift. And my driveway, my driveway was legendary.
The special election for the new board was held inthe fall. I didn’t run. I didn’t have to. Big Mike ran. I nominate Mike, I said at the meeting, because he knows the code. He won unanimously. I was sitting on my porch one evening watching the sunset. My van, shiny, repaired, and safe, was parked in its blue box. A young couple walked by pushing a stroller.
Hi, Jack. The wife waved. Evening. I nodded. They walked easily down the new sidewalk cuts that Mike had installed. No bumping the stroller up the curb. Just smooth sailing. Universal design helps everyone. That’s what people forget. I took a sip of my beer. I had paid off my mortgage with the settlement money.
I had a new titanium chair on order. And I had the quiet satisfaction of a man who had burned the village to save it. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Mike. Mike, hey press informally. Just got an email from a lady on Elm Street complaining that your blue driveway is too bright. Want me to handle it? I smiled and typed back. Jack, send her the federal statute number for Go Kick Rocks.
I put the phone down and closed my eyes. The air was sweet. The neighborhood was quiet. And for the first time in a long time, I felt completely, utterly at home.
