SO SUE ME

   “These proceedings, indicating a deep and settled hostility on the one side, produced no charitable feelings on the other. Such violent and persevering altercation was disagreeable to their families and troublesome to their neighbors.”- from The Report of the Trials of the Murderers of Richard Jennings.

     I’ve always been lucky in real estate and court—sometimes simultaneously. I lived rent free for years in the East Village. I stopped paying rent when the landlord served me with an eviction notice for illegally subletting. Four years later I received another notice demanding $35,000 in back rent. That’s when I left. Two years after that, I decided to go court on a similar eviction notice, regarding a different apartment. I shaved, cut my hair, put on a suit and carried an empty brief case. Watching the lawyers in the courtroom carefully, when it was my turn to talk, I mimicked their motions for postponement. It worked.

      Trolling the lawyers, without them catching on, I dragged the process out for six months, remaining in my apartment the whole time. Finally, the frustrated judge called the landlord’s counsel and myself into her chambers, to ask why this insignificant case had taken up so much of her docket. The landlord’s lawyer was first to speak. “Your honor, we have tried to settle this and Mr. Osterhout’s lawyer has done nothing but stall…..” The judge frowned, stretching out her hands towards me, palms up….as if to say….well? “I’m not Mr. Osterhout’s lawyer.” I told her. “I’m Mr. Osterhout. I just followed their lead.” The judge sat back, suppressing a smile, and told the landlord’s lawyers to settle. “Work it out in the hallway. You have five minutes.” she ordered. I got my lease.  

      It’s hard to imagine a more litigious society than present day, but 1818 Goshen, New York must have been close. Both Jennings and Osterhouts knew how to work the system, as well as argue a point or two. Like alcoholism, being argumentative, and willing to have a fool for a client, is in our family genes. 

    For over two years, Conklin and Teed fought it out with Richard Jennings in and out of court. No tactic was off the table. Writs were issued and served. Fence lines were torn down. Jugs went missing from still houses. Stolen firewood burned in everybody’s stoves. Cows were seized, roped and dragged down the road. Men and women were tied up and hauled off, kicking and screaming, to the county jail. Houses were attempted to be “distained,” and had to be saved (momentarily), at gunpoint. Nobody went anywhere without being heavily armed; constantly looking over their shoulders. Summers turned cold. Winters dragged on forever. 

     Periodically, these warring parties would meet in the neutral territory of the courtroom or the tavern. The rest of the community would watch as the Jennings family travesty unfolded before their eyes. Every town constable, shopkeeper, and neighbor for miles around knew the particulars of the feud, and was sick of it. On the other hand, they couldn’t get enough. It was the subject of gossip at every church meeting, barroom poker game, or court session in the county. The quarrelsome Jennings were famous—for all the wrong reasons.

   David Conklin’s end game was simple; harass Richard Jennings to the point that he would blink, get fed up enough with the abuse to surrender the battle—and the Sugar Loaf farm. Conklin thought he was more than Dick’s equal, bringing all the other parties on board with his policy of harassment and intimidation. Left to any of their individual devices, the whole matter probably would have fizzled out and died a natural death. Instead, an anger and booze-fueled conspiracy festered within Hannah Teed’s nosey, hateful brother David Conklin; whipping the frothy beast.

    What neither Conklin nor the Teeds foolishly took into account was just who they were dealing with. Sticking their hot poker into the dark soul of Richard Jennings was utterly stupid. Though not a lawyer, Jennings was more than capable in legal matters. In regard to buying and selling real estate, he was an expert. Knowing the ins and outs of land ownership and title transfer was as important as swinging an ax (or properly loading a musket) in 1818 New York…..maybe more so.

   

    One more intra-historical trial: I once had a horrible public defender representing me on a minor drug charge downstate. Calling his office for advice (more than once), his secretary came unhinged at my persistent questioning, screaming “Fuck You!” and hanging up. (I sometimes have this effect on people when I’m facing the uncertainty of doing jail time). When I brought the secretary’s unprofessional behavior to the attention of the judge, the disheveled Public Defender turned to the courtroom and opened his arms wide. Addressing the gallery full of bored and agitated black teenagers (also there on minor drug charges), the well-oiled lawyer suddenly turned into Perry Mason. “Your Honor…my office has been nothing but attentive to Mr. Osterhout’s legal needs… if….I say if…. there has been any misunderstanding…. well I’m sure it is Mr. Osterhout’s lack of….” He went on like that for five minutes; until the judge finally stopped him, and postponed the hearing….. again. I could smell his sour pits and the booze on his breath.  There was no “misunderstanding.” 

      The next time I went to court I had a different (sober) P.D. with a much better attitude. The new guy pointed out that he and the prosecutor hit the links together on the weekends. He leaned in close when the D.A. appeared. “Just watch.” he said with a wink, surprising me with a little too much cologne. 

    Justice was swift. The golfing D.A. agreed to let me settle on a plea. The judge gave me fifty hours community service in return for pleading guilty to disorderly conduct. “How do you plead?” the judge asked, peering over his specs. “Guilty! Your honor.” I wanted to plead not guilty by reason of insanity. I wanted to tell the judge that I was crazy to drive through his part of Rockland County with a pocket full of L.S.D., but thought better of it. Humor doesn’t always have a place in court. I left the Rockland County Courthouse a free man (sort of). 

   Ordered to serve out my sentence servicing my community, I helped compile a Braille text book called, “Art History for the Blind.” I spent those fifty hours on the upper east side, in an old brownstone, with a nice blind lady, who pensively rubbed her fingers over the raised ridges of Braille line drawings, while I concisely as possible, described the wild beasts painted on a French cave wall. “That’s a penis.” I said impassively, when her fingers hesitated on an area of the Braille bison that confused her. “Oh my.” she gasped. “Thank you. That helps.” We were a good team. I always pay my debts to society.