Lawsuits 101

This blog is my 1st in over a year.

Last May 31st, 2013 (a Friday), I had to stop writing blogs due to being severely injured in an accident.

One vain California driver in a white Nissan Murano SUV hit me off my brand new Veno Classic (it's the Japanese version of a Vespa) and instantly branded me with the first few digits of her license plate. At that exact instant, she turned me into an Austin resident. The bitch branded me. Austinites drive poorly.

Here is a play by play of the accident, which is tattooed in my brain. This bad driver was coming out of a huge Chase bank and waiting to merge into Austin's busy, Jetson-like highway: The Mopac. Her front windows were tinted and rolled up. For some reason her boyfriend was in the back seat, and she was talking to him by looking up at the mirror while simultaneously checking herself out.


Now, here is where my case gets...murky in the legal sense. Yeah, I was driving on the sidewalk. Yep, that's me. It's not as bad as it sounds. The road to get the grocery store is about four miles one way. You can take the same road on the other side back, but there is a moment where one must cut through the Chase Bank parking lot (small and most accidents happen in parking lots, my aunt always told me) OR you can slowly take the L shape of the sidewalk length of the Chase parking lot back. It's about 30 meters, as opposed to going the "correct way" which is a good twenty minutes of road merging, danger Will Robinson scream your Rosary-type scary. I chose the sidewalk. Actually, I've been using that sidewalk every day for over a year. So I've successfully communicated with the person/people driving out of the Chase parking lot about 365 times without getting into an accident.

Now I measured it: After you pass the outlet for the bank, there is two yards of sidewalk before a "path" takes you directly to my home. The word "path" is important. Unfortunately, there is a huge red sign that says, "WRONG WAY" directly were that woman hit me. But its's directed at cars on the road. Not Vespa's on a sidewalk. My apartment complex was so close. Let me add that I saw a huge Harley driver riding on this sidewalk.

No motorized two wheel vehicle can go fast on this sidewalk. You will die. The reason is that a pole holding up a light post is at the end of the L. If you go over five miles an hour, you'll slip out into traffic. Simple physics. You have to go slow.

Back to the memory before the accident. It was an automatic look I now know, but impossible not to know at the time. Many times people do not give me permission to pass. Many times they do. Many times they don't see me and I notice so I stop. But since she did her automatic glance at me while I was slowly wrapping my Vespa around the pole and on the sidewalk parallel to her and yards away, her brown bob shifted left and right. She was smiling. She gave me the necessary room to pass her.

My helmet is DMV certified, and ugly as hell. Expensive too. I look as though I should be slowly bouncing off a ladder in space onto a unknown planet.

The epic thought that went through my mind when her bumper hit my thigh- not my Vespa (appropriately named, "The Love Generator")-was:

"WOW. SHE HIT ME."

No curse words. No James Joyce like conclusion that, "Will no one understand?" Nope. Simply that I could not believe she hit me.
That accident was one of the greatest mishaps to happen to me. First, it gave me a nasty concussion. Even with my space ship helmet, which dented after my head bounced off Austin's fastest highway (The Mopac), I still thought it was pretty cool that I had my first concussion.

The accident was double the pain. Now, over a year later, I can laugh at the screaming message I left in my California doctor's general mailbox: I was in an accident and it tore the skin off my arms, knees, my stomach! All because I'm fat! I could not wear jeans because I'm too fat for anything but shorts! Go to hell, please.

That's true. My insomnia in California is treated with this stupidity pill with a side effect of sleep. I literally gain a pound a day, until I flat line at 150 pounds. Usually, I'm not even close to that heavy.

Side Note: That stupid pill is also dangerous. I took one more then I should have in California, and I had to go to the emergency room. That particular hospital saved my sorry ass more then once. Here is the trick which you should only use if you have real insomnia! I kept yelling, "I have classes to go to tomorrow. Let me out of here!" The doctor on call was from Kansas. He said he is from a state that gives medication to people who need medication, and not weird drugs with extreme side effects. He immediately released me with a prescription of Ambien.

Later a friend saw the same doctor in the same emergency room asking for Valium. He was given nothing more then a lecture, and security escorted him out.

Okay, on to the legal part:

In a nutshell, this is how our country's legal system in accident claims works:
You call the insurance company who was responsible for the accident. They ask for photos. Red flag!

Also, imagine me taking a picture of the actual scene of the accident. WRONG WAY!

Can I add that the woman also had three inch stiletto heels on? Tinted windows rolled up while looking in the mirror, talking to her boyfriend (who was allowed to be included as a witness on her behalf) and spikes for shoes.

Sending in your own photos of your vehicle injuries and your injuries means that the other insurance company will give you nothing. They know you know nothing if you take on a big bad insurance company like Rambo. This is why we have lawyers.

If you go all Rambo, they will string you along until your superficial injuries heal, then deny your claim like a cold heart gangster. Now once your claim has been denied (and they will) they will use severe fear tactics to scare you from getting a lawyer. They deny your claim and the bastard who tells you so on the phone while your mouth has dropped to the floor will hang up and accept their new promotion.

The person who does the stringing along and calling and denying has two years of college training on this subject. My nightmare's name was Diane Grace. When my jaw hit the floor after she said in the sweetest voice possible (not joking), "We decided to give you n-o-t-h-i-n-g." I responded in shock that I am going to have to sue her company. Her response, "Go ahead and get a lawyer. I'll explain the law to him too."

Know this: A lawyer is not allowed to practice law until after they pass a three day long bar. A former neighbor's son had a stroke while taking the bar. My ten year, on and off relationship with a law graduate with a high IQ does not help me get ninja-like revenge on all who hurt me, because he has not passed the bar yet. It's been six years too. You can not take the bar at your leisure. Once you fail, you have to wait a year or more.

My point is that it is very hard to be a lawyer. So when the claims agent tells you on the phone, just as she told me, "Get a lawyer. Go ahead honey. I'll explain the law to him too." Keep your cool. Actually, you should have never gotten to this step anyway. If you are in an accident, get a lawyer as soon as possible. Also, go to the emergency room as soon as possible. The more hurt you are, the more work a lawyer will put into your case. They get a percent.

The claims agent putting the fear of God into you is part of their formula. Get a lawyer to escape this trap. Otherwise, regardless of how win-able your case is in the eyes of the law, the insurance company at fault will always reference that your first claim was denied.

My lawyer was probably the best in Austin. Certain a very moral, handsome, young, family man. During our first meeting, he had to excuse himself to join his pregnant wife for a Lamaze class. I liked him almost instantly. Remember, your lawyer works for you. They are paid to worry about this stuff for you. I kept thinking he would assume that my personality is repugnant and drop me. I stopped writing blogs. Writing is my favorite therapy.

My lawyer only spoke to me in person three times. I worried that my case was not worth a lot to him and in reality it was not. He took a pay cut to give me more spending cash. He negotiated deals with my physical therapist. Everyone reading this needs to get at least one back adjustment. They are about $43. They feel amazing! Essentially, I went from one orthopedic surgeon to a physical therapist to MRI techs, getting muscle relaxers, pain killers, back rubs, and words of compassion. Every other day in physical therapy I listened to good music (it's true that Austin has the best music in America- at least the best in the most unlikely of places) got the pain rubbed out of my back, and talked to my chiropractor about what my essay will be for my Master's to come. Like the L. Cohen song, "The Sisters of Mercy," these people worked together to tackle my pain.

I took my insurance money and put some in stocks. Actually a new topical pain medication that came out when I was hit by that damn bad driver looking in her mirror as she accelerated with three inch heels. My angels where there to protect me. Other then some cool looking scars, I'm a more careful driver (though it was never my fault) and I appreciate life more.

As for these blogs. My greatest blogs are the words of others: William Blake notes. I'm still rusty from a year. The January 7th Nativity blog marked the point when I was allowed to write something. I used one finger on a tiny smartphone to type that blog. Yes, I am rusty. But I'm getting back to writing again.