Sold and affirmed

On December 14, 2013, my home burned down. I had insurance with Citizens, but under the guise of public interest, the demagogues in Tallahassee allowed for policies like mine to be sold to companies that were, in some cases, only three months old. My policy was sold to Heritage, who then denied my claim. Heritage claimed through a series of motions for summary judgment, that, as a matter of law, I was not entitled to be covered or to have a jury trial. Their reason was that the application submitted to Citizens on my behalf by Edgar Perez Insurance agency, three years before the fire, didn’t indicate that I farmed the property where the house is located. The courts agreed with them. The first judge, Thomas Rebull, dismissed all the other issues we raised. He narrowed the issue of the case to the question of agency. Is Citizens/Heritage bound by what the agent knew? If the agent who sold me the policy knew everything, does that mean Citizen/Heritage knew too—essentially---is the agent working for Citizens/Heritage who paid his commission or me and you?

This is where you and I got screwed by the demagogues in Tallahassee. Insurance companies have lobbied and profited from what is called the open agency law. This means if the insurance agent who sold you your car insurance, home insurance, or any other type of insurance causes you not to get covered, then you have no remedy against your insurance company. Most insurance companies in Florida don’t have designated, captured line agents. The agents get paid a commission, but they don’t work for the company. Isn’t that special?

For over two years, I have been fighting an emotionally and financially debilitating lawsuit. While we had no turkey, stuffing, or other niceties for Thanksgiving, the three judges of the appellate court provided us a one-word platter of poison. “Affirmed.” Two days after Thanksgiving, I found out that the judges of the appellate court agreed with Judge Thomas Rebull. They provided no other explanation.

 This word got me thinking about how an institution can hold your whole life in its hands. How powerful to just say one word and eviscerate, bury, or condemn someone for generations. The word “affirmed” brought to mind another word that marked my heritage: “sold”. Ironically, Heritage, which is owned by white people is true to its heritage. I would make a good bet that the people of Heritage’s heritage dabbled too in “sold”. Now, they are reaping the benefits of “affirmed.”

 After our house burned down, I began to have this recurring nightmare. As a fiction writer, I chucked it up to my imagination. Recently, the meaning of this dream became clear to me. It was as if I had my own Joseph sitting in the jail cell of my mind, decoding the meaning. 

The dream starts like this:

It’s early morning and I am surrounded by smoke. People are running. Someone grabs my hand; it's my husband. He is bare-chested and in loin-cloth. I still don't understand where I am or who I am in this dream-place. We reach a clearing and I see that the huts, in what I feel is our village, are engulfed in flames. Our children are hugging us around the waist. I'm wondering why we are all half naked. Suddenly, I'm hit over the head. When I wake up, a white, rotund man is putting shackles around my throat. I pull back and he slaps me. Another taller white man says to the one fastening the shackles around me, "David, we need them intact. Don't ruffle them up too much."

I am dragged outside where my shackles are linked to those of my husband and children. My husband is in front, followed by our seven year old son, our seventeen year old daughter, and then, our four year old. Hands bound, shackles around our neck, we walk for long time.

During the first year after my house burned down, this is where the dream always ended. Then, when we started going to court, the dream became longer.  We  were in our shackles, walking. My husband is looking back at me. His gaze holding me up, giving me strength. We reach the coast where there is a boat. We are examined and then corralled into the bottom of the boat. Soon there is an unbearable rocking. Instead of breathing, I’m vomiting. I'm covered in my own and that of countless others. I want to die. I tell my husband we must jump off the ship when we get a chance. He reminds me that the ocean is full of sharks. Soon, I feel like I have stopped breathing, could this be death? I am happy for death, but our chains are yanked and we are dragged above. The light is blinding and for a few minutes I can't see. Tears at being momentarily blinded and tears of happiness to be able to see the sun again flow down my cheeks. When I open my eyes, I see all the white people on the boat are moving about frantically, unloading us.  We are taken to a holding cell. Later, David returns and he is accompanied by other people. They divide all of us in chains and give us numbers. The man holding our chains says, "Come on, David, don't give me a family. It's the hardest." Through his rotted by black teeth David answers, "You're their advocate. Get them ready."

The advocate washes us, puts oil all over us. I'm relieved not to be on the boat, but I am scared. The shackles are heavy when he puts them back on.

 This is where I would awake, panting and feeling the impression of the chains on my skin. I scanned the darkness of the 10x40 trailer where I now live.  There is no running water and no electricity to run a fan to shift the hot air around. I would get up to go to my first job, remembering  to pack enough clothes because if it’s Wednesday or Thursday, there won’t  be enough time to make it home, so I’ll be sleeping in my car and taking a shower at the gym in between jobs. I am, indeed, in chains.

 Recently, I see the end of the nightmare. My husband, my children, and I, in chains, are brought outside of the holding cell. Four men come up to inspect us. They have bodies of men, but faces of vultures. This scared me. I take-in a sharp breath and stumble back, causing a chain reaction. One of the men has bull horns at the top of his vulture head. Suddenly, the vulture-men are flapping their wings to usher in a white woman who is in a lovely dress. Her golden parasol matches the ribbons on her dress. David and my advocate snicker, quietly, "head-mistress." I don't get the joke. The vulture with the red horns talks fast. I only hear "Sold". Then, the other three vultures dance, gyrating around headmistress. When all the singing and dancing is done, all they say in unison is, "Affirmed."  Suddenly, the shackles are sealed and seared to our bodies. Then, I wake up. Terrified.  

Seeing the Living.

It's been 1,050 days, 150 weeks, 25,200 hours, 1,512,000 minutes, and 90,720,000 seconds since we lost our house and everything that wasn't in my car to a fire. I had insurance, and as I explained in previous posts, I’ve been fighting in court with Heritage insurance company who’s refused to pay my claim. Although these numbers confound me, I am encouraged by the number of daily visitors to this protest blog. Equally, I’m enthralled by the number of people who approach me on the street to commiserate. These are people who’ve seen my blog advertised on my car window. Recently, I was entering the garage at the university where I teach when one such compatriot flagged me down.  From a distance the man’s hunched frame, shaky but determined walk, and white hair reminded me of one of my favorite people who ever lived—my grandfather. How I miss this man of character.

My grandfather was a silent giant. His name was Demeurant. The living. He had been blessed by our ancestors to carry on our best features---charcoal hue and bone-white teeth. By the time I could form a thought, my grandfather had gray hair; however, he didn’t seem old to me. For, every morning, he would leave our compound at around 5 on his favorite horse to go to his farm. Although on my family compound we had a large garden, the commercial farm was a few miles away. Then, he would return mid-day to work in the wood workshop with some of his seven sons, my uncles. They made coffins and saddles for the locals, but statuettes for tourists. 
Reluctantly, I forced my mind to leave images of my smiling grandfather behind and to return to the old man approaching my car.

I exited the car and faced the elderly garage attendant. In his best English coupled with my best Spanish, I managed to string together his story. He said, “I too Heritage victim.” No doubt he had seen the address of my blog written on every window of my car and read the postings. I listened to his story. He told me that he and his wife have worked menial jobs for over forty years. Early last year, their modest home began to leak. The mold spread aggressively. They filed a claim with Heritage. He told me Heritage refused to pay.  “I been suffering,” he said, the frailty in his voice pierced through me. He confided that he has had to hire a lawyer, but he is worried because he’s heard about how the insurance companies use the courts to bankrupt people with legitimate claims while their CEO’s make million dollars.

I barely felt his hand squeezing mine. As we parted, promising to catch up after my class or whenever we see each other again, a familiar feeling of the world closing in on me  came over me. I rushed to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face, wondering if this elderly man will lose everything too.  Will he have to work two full-time jobs like me so he can pay legal bills that range from 2 thousand to 9 thousand a month? How will he do it? Will the stress of it all take his life? Heritage Company’s motto is “Pillar of character.” Reader, you be the judge.  

Hurricane Mathew Could Kill us

Reader, it's been 1,030 days since my children, my husband and I have been out of our home. There is a hurricane in the atmosphere that could kill us because we live in a little trailer behind the burnt shell of our former home. Even though I work two jobs, I still can't make ends meet after I pay my legal fees, which can be as high as $9,000 per month. Because the burnt shell of the house is still erected, I am not able to get a permit to run electricity or running water to my trailer. But, I rise. Imagine where my mind is right now as I watch that big category 4 monster barrel down on our hemisphere. I am afraid my trailer will be blown to pieces. Where will I go? I have no family. Friends are too embarrassed of what we have become. They have stopped calling. That's okay. I know one thing, the children of Heritage & Property Casualty executives don't have to fear for their lives.

No Papers for the Maid

No Papers for the Maid

As discussed in previous posts, on December 14, 2013, our home burned down.  This was our dream home on a little farm—realized through a lot of sacrifices, sweat and blood.

In 2013, before the fire, despite our opting-out and protests, Citizens insurance company sold our policy, along with about 65,000 others, to Heritage Property Casualty Insurance Company. This was done two months after the nine-month-old company donated $110,000 to Rick Scott according to the article, “Hue and Cry Grows Over Deal for Scott Donor”, published on 5/24/2013 by the Miami Herald.  A couple of days after the fire, Heritage’s senior claims adjuster David Kiliszek and a vice president (who has since given an affidavit denying he was there) came to our property along with their hired fire investigator. The fire department concluded their investigation and ruled out arson. Kiliszek was sympathetic and convinced us not to hire a lawyer and that the claim would be paid. We believed them since they gave us money to pay the first, last, and security deposit of a rental. I had no idea what was to come.

            However, about six months after the fire, they denied the claim and I had filed a lawsuit in court.  Two years later, at a hearing in late 2015, I would meet Heritage’s lawyers face to face for the first time. When the lead attorney, Michelle Diverio, addressed the court, she said something to the effect that “Marie Pharel is a teacher and Jean Pharel a cab driver; so, Your Honor, how can they afford this house?” I’m not sure what bothered me more: the fact that she said it or the fact that my attorney didn’t object to her opening remarks.  Her characterization wasn’t new. Since building the 5500 sqft dream home on our 5 acre farm, we’ve had our share of incredulous looks and sideway comments, but we’ve always laughed it off.  We got a good laugh on several occasions when the developer of the community of houses adjacent to our property was being sued. Though we were not part of the development, we were named in the lawsuit due to our proximity. Once when the process server came to serve us papers, he asked, “Is the homeowner home?” Immediately, I realized the implication of his abrupt question. I answered, “Well, I’m just cleaning the house, is there something I can do for you?” The man replied, “No, we can’t serve the maid.”  

            Who is supposed to own such a house that looks more imposing than it is? I’ve often asked myself this same question. Doctors? Lawyers? Models? Actors? Albion’s seeds. People who characterize us as not being the “type” who should or could own this house don’t know that I wake up every morning at 4:50 AM to make it to the college to teach a 7AM class before I start my full time position as an advisor at 8AM. They don’t know that I’ve taught a fifty-minute class during my 1-hour lunch break to make a little extra money. They don’t know that when I clock out of my full-time job, I often teach night classes or write. They don’t know that I often get home from teaching those night classes at 10 to drop in bed to get up to do it all over in less than 6 hours. They don’t know that after working tirelessly as a one-man show on the farm, my husband spends his Saturdays and Sundays behind the wheel of a taxi.

Throughout the case, I’ve worried that Diverio’s statement would have a greater impact than anyone involved would ever admit. This fear became a reality for me at the last summary judgment hearing, when Diverio, making a point to the judge, said something to the effect, “Who does that?…Someone who has something to hide.” When this statements is juxtaposed with the question of how a teacher and a cab driver can own such a house, I wonder if what they reveal in my mind is true. I mean no disrespect to the judge, but in America, since we are free to question, I’m going to ask a question. Could the fact that the judge granted the summary judgment, despite glaring issues in the case, be because he, too, thought a teacher and a cab driver who have a house like this must have something to hide?

The events that followed the summary judgment, such as being forced to turn in my social security number, bank account numbers, list of assets, and any other financial statements, have made me question what were they hoping to uncover? That question got me thinking about an event that happened soon after the fire when we found that every bag of mulch, soil, and fertilizer in our barn had been ripped open. I was perplexed. What were they looking for? I asked my husband. He shook his head, saddened by the loss of the products vandalized. “Drugs,” he said.

I laughed. We drink kosher wine and don’t even smoke cigarettes.

We don’t have great family names, noble pedigree, or trust funds; I am just a teacher and my husband is just a cab driver. We also know that other people work just as hard as we do; however, they have not been able to do the things we’ve done. But the answer to every accomplishment, every accolade, and every ability that I possess is not something I can hide. It’s as plain as the actual cross etched on my nose.

AFTER THE FIRE

Could this happen to you too?

The sky is that shade of gray suited only for polyester suits. The thin line of orange on the horizon makes me think not even the sun wants to come out; it’s going to be a hot one. I load a blue, plastic, five-gallon bottle in the back of my minivan as a couple, sleek with the freshness of youth, pulls up next to me, a boat hitched to their 2016, candy-apple F-150. The Glacier water-vending station has two slots; I’ve occupied them both.  She looks at me with my three five-gallons and about ten single gallons---recycled over the past month--and says, “OMG, the water in Homestead is that bad? It’s not Flint-bad, is it?” I chuckle and say nothing.

Ten minutes later, every seat and the back of the car is loaded with water. I drive off, covering the five miles from the Circle K to my farm cautiously so that nothing spills. I enter the gate that the neighboring homeowner’s association has illegally installed on our property and I see that my husband is already up trimming a dragon fruit tree.

I load the water bottles into the single-wide trailer. In the kitchen, I pour one whole gallon into the aluminum stock pot labeled “water only”. I light a match and let the water boil. I run around grabbing clothes, shoes, and towels. When the water is boiled, I wake my six-year-old son, Pharaoh. I pour a quarter of the hot water and one whole gallon of cold water into the Rubbermaid container. He climbs in and sits, his eyelids still closed. I put the three year old, Phailani, on the toilet to do her morning business. I scrub Pharaoh’s tight curly hair and brown sugar skin.  I use the bath water to flush the toilet. Then Robert Hayden whispers in my mind’s-ears, “Sundays too my father… got dressed in the blue black cold then with cracked hands…made banked fires blaze…”

The other two quarts of hot water is split between my sixteen year old, Phanesia, and me. After we’re washed and dressed and ready for church, I step outside. Reality slaps the poetry out of my mind as I stare at the empty shell of the 5,500 square foot house that once housed our dreams. It looks like a bomb hit it. Our 10 x 40 foot trailer sits about forty feet from the shell of our burnt dream home.
On December 14, 2013, our home burned down.  This was our dream home on a little farm—realized through a lot of sacrifices, sweat and blood. For example, when our financing bank (IndyMac) was seized by the Federal government in 2008, we sold some of our assets to finish the house. We dreamed of creating an organic farm, but that dream is now deferred.

In 2013, despite our opting-out and protests, Citizens insurance company sold our policy, along with about 65,000 others, to Heritage. This was done two months after the nine-month-old company donated $110,000 to Rick Scott according to an article, “Hue and Cry Grows Over Deal for Scott Donor”, published on 5/24/2013 by the Miami Herald.  A couple of days after the fire, senior claims adjuster David Kiliszek and a vice president (who has since given an affidavit denying he was there) came to our property. Their hired fire investigator came and the fire department concluded their investigation. They ruled out arson. Kiliszek gave me the sympathetic treatment. I had no idea what was to come. He convinced us not to hire a lawyer and that the claim would be paid. They gave us money to pay the first, last, and security deposit of a rental, which later we would not be able to manage and would have to move back to our property. 

Before we knew it, we were walking in quicksand of poverty. They asked us to give them an interview. It was taped. My husband and I were interviewed separately. This interview was not the examination under oath, which would come later and which would be submitted to the court. They used the first interview to pry information from us, which they used to frame the questions for the examination under oath.

By March 2014, Heritage had denied our claim. They alleged that I committed fraud by “not disclosing” on the original, three year old application to Citizens that the house is on a farm and that we had prior claims. In their Motion for Summary Judgement, they said they relied on the information from the application to assume the policy. My lawyer deposed one of their top executives, Ernie Garateix, who revealed that they had not read one application. Despite that fact, they still denied my claim. 

A closer look at the application revealed that it had been tampered with. It wasn’t the application that I had originally submitted. The original application I submitted had a fax header that showed 8 pages were faxed to the agent, Jorge Perez, of IPC insurance agency.  The copy they provided into evidence showed that the first four pages were typed and did not have the fax header.  The last four pages, which contained my signature have the fax header. The four, newly typed pages show exactly what is needed to support the insurance company’s case.  Despite this and other glaring inconsistencies, Heritage filed for summary judgment, which means that the insurance company’s lawyer asked Judge Rebull to dismiss the case and not grant us a jury trial because, as a matter of law, there were no facts in dispute. He granted it.

Winning the summary judgment entitled Heritage to attorney’s fees. They claimed a little over $21,000 in the period of about five months. Although Heritage donated $110,000 to Rick Scott, they garnished $389.00 from every one of my teaching paychecks until recently when the judge granted our motion to stop under the head of household exemption.  But they are not stopping at that. They have demanded that I produce three to five years’ worth of bank statements, the titles and deeds of anything I’ve owned, and an extensive list of other financial records within 15 days. They have subpoenaed my bank and tax records. As I read their demands, Ralph Ellison pops in my head, “To whom it may concern, Keep this Nigger... running!”

A wise friend warned me to be prepared in case they send the sheriff to take all my belongings and vehicles, including our trailer, to be sold by the sheriff to satisfy the judgment even while the appeal is pending.

The other allegation is that I didn’t disclose on the switched application that I ran a business (the farm). Evidence was presented to the contrary. The judge agreed with the insurance company that just because the agent knew about the farm doesn’t mean Citizens knew. According to his ruling, if IPC is not an agent of Citizens, then Citizens doesn’t know--therefore, Heritage doesn’t know either.  Lastly, they argued that I didn’t disclose a prior claim on the switched application, which was disputed and our evidence presented.

As I talk to others around Homestead and Miami, and as I read Better Business complaints, I’m discovering that many hard-working homeowners are having difficulties with this company. A search of cases filed against Heritage since 2013 is shocking. According to that May 24, 2013 Miami Herald article, the current CEO of Heritage, Richard Widdicombe, used to be the CEO of People’s Trust  insurance company, which was suspended and fined $150,000 by the Office of Insurance Regulators for not paying claims in a timely manner. On January 12, 2015, Heritage provided a worthless check for $12,776 as a refund of my premium, yet there is no evidence of anyone going after them.

Saturdays and Sundays are the hardest for my family. My sixteen year old is exhausted because after church, I drag them to the zoo, and when that closes, I drag them to a MacDonald’s that has a play place. She cries, “The worse thing is, we can never go home to relax.” She understands more than the little ones the precarious position of possibly coming home and finding that the sheriff hauled our home—albeit decrepit, without running water, or electricity.  I try to keep them away from the hot trailer. Now that 25% of my take-home pay is being taken by Heritage, I can only run the generator which produces our electricity to run fans and to have light for 1 hour a day.

Heritage is the third biggest policy holder in Florida, waiting to amass more policies from Citizens. Is its strategy not to pay out claim so that it can leave policy holders bankrupt? If you file a claim, how will your children be affected? How about your marriage? How about your mental and emotional health? If you have Heritage, could it also force you into homelessness and bankruptcy? Hurricane season is right around the corner, if you should have a loss, what pretext will Heritage use to destroy you and not pay the claim?

I reach for my daughter’s hand and the only thing I can do is sing a verse from my favorite song that pops in my head, “His eyes is on the sparrow, and I know he watches over me.”

Who, in Tallahassee, is watching for us Floridians if a person doesn’t have $110,000 to pad a politician’s pocket? Countless hours of research reveal to me that all Floridians are a little less protected than we may think. A Division of Consumer Services Complaint Comparison on Florida’s chief Financial Officer’s website will show you how many policy your company has in relations to two other companies. It will show you how many complaints that company closed that year. However, it doesn’t show you how many complaints were filed against that company that year.  Even though, I took a six month’s Insurance agent course but never had the opportunity to write a policy, I am still ignorant of the process. Despite our education, savings prior to the fire, and assets, after our house burned down, we didn’t understand how unprotected we were.

True Colors are beautiful...

Fearfully, I've always suspected that I don't have luck with cars. I love old cars though. They stimulate the imagination. Where does that old smell come from? What's the story behind that dent? We’ve always had one old car, preferably a stick shift. The day our house burned down on December 14, 2013, the fire department dropped so much water on my husband's 2006 Crown Victoria that was parked on the driveway, we had to junk it for $450. This set in motion our buying a total of six cars during the three years since, 

    The first minivan in that series was the most memorable one. It belonged to an honest man who told us the air conditioning didn't work, but everything else purred like a newborn kitty. It was a 1997 Dodge Caravan and we paid about $700 for it.  It smelled like guava and cheese pastelitos--or is it that guava and cheese pastelitos are always on my mind? My husband who worked tirelessly on the farm during the week and drove a taxi all weekend, got into an accident with that minivan just four months after we had bought it and two days after we had spent $1,100 repairing air conditioning system. During this time, due to the stress of paying for the 3 bedroom we were renting, our mortgage on the burned house, and legal bills that ranged from $2,000 to $4,000, we spent two months without a car.

I would put the babies in the double-stroller and walked to every destination. Later, we bought the same color van from a guy who claimed to have had a potato chip vending machine business. That car didn't last six months. Finally, after the fifth minivan, we decided to get two newer cars. We lucked out on a 2013 Dodge Caravan. My husband convinced me that despite the hefty monthly bill, he would use it to do Uber. This was supposed to be better than driving a taxi. He would have more autonomy and more flexibility. After a month of Uber, he decided to discontinue his association with that company.

This past Friday, our generator, which was our only source of electricity, and which was our second generator in seven months, croaked. It died on one of the hottest nights of the year. Without the fans, the trailer was an inferno. My husband said he had an idea. He left for about twenty minutes. When he returned, he told me to take the two comforters we owned, the pillows, and the children. It turned out that that Dodge’s seats could be folded inside its floorboards. We laid the comforters and pillows in the back. My husband reclined in the driver seat and made himself comfortable. My sixteen year old, wanting to be close to the phone charger and radio, took the front passenger seat. I was content to be flanked by my two "babies" on the floor with the comforters. My husband talked about inventions he was thinking of. The kids sang along with the radio. I said a silent prayers for those all around the world who don't even have a hole to sleep in. 

In the morning, we woke up to light drizzles. After the rain, we trudged back to the trailer. As I walked, I monitored the ground for puddles or vermin. My four year old, Phailani, had gone ahead. She stood on the make-shift stairs leading into the trailer. She pointed to the sky behind me, "Look, Mommy and Daddy. A rainbow." We turned to see the brightest, widest rainbow right above us. We turned to look at the joy radiating on Phaila's face. She said in her sweet voice, "That's beautiful." At that moment, the ugly thing that our lives had become was gone. 

Body of Evidence

In my first post, I recounted how on December 13, 2014, our dream home on a little farm—realized through a lot of sacrifices, sweat and blood burned down. Despite our opting-out and protests, Citizens insurance company sold our policy, along with about 65,000 others, to Heritage Property and Casualty company. A couple of days after the fire, Senior Claims Adjuster David Kiliszek and a vice president (who has since given an affidavit denying he was there) came to our property. He convinced us not to hire a lawyer and that the claim would be paid. They gave us money to pay the first, last, and security deposit of a rental. They asked us to give them an interview. It was taped. My husband and I were interviewed separately. This interview was not the examination under oath, which would come later and which would be submitted to the court. They used the first interview to pry information from us, which they used to frame the questions for the examination under oath.

By the middle of 2014, Heritage had denied our claim. They alleged that I committed fraud by “not disclosing” on the original, three year old application to Citizens that the house is on a farm and that we had prior claims. A closer look at the application (revealed that it had been tampered with. It wasn’t the application that I had originally submitted. The original application I submitted had a fax header that showed 8 pages were faxed to the agent, Jorge Perez, of IPC insurance agency.  The copy they provided into evidence showed that the first four pages were typed and did not have the fax header.  The last four pages, which contained my signature have the fax header. The four, newly typed pages show exactly what is needed to support the insurance company’s case. 
My case LOCAL number is 14-14429 ca (13) if you want to look at all the documents I refer to, go to miamidade.gov, choose clerk of courts, choose online civil online services, and put the case number. The case number for my appeal in the 3rd DCA is 3D15-2753. See the screen shots below of pages 1, 2, 5, and 6:

In their Motion for Summary Judgement, they said they relied on the information from the application to assume the policy. My lawyer deposed one of their top executives, Ernie Garateix, who revealed that they had not read one application. Despite that fact, they still denied my claim.

 Despite this and other glaring inconsistencies, Heritage filed for summary judgment, which means that the insurance company’s lawyer asked the Judge to dismiss the case and not grant us a jury trial because, as a matter of law, there were no facts in dispute. He granted it.

Lambs to the slaughter house

Over the past three years, I've asked my self, what would make a company like Heritage act this way? A good answer comes from the following article. http://insurancenewsnet.com/oarticle/how-safe-is-your-florida-property-insurer-in-2015

Heritage is rated C and every month more and more Citizens policy holders are being assigned to Heritage. Like lambs (myself included) we go. We are afraid of exorbitant prices--as if almost $6K a year was a bargain in my case. We know the way we are being treated is bad, but what can we do, right? According to the article cited above, " Eleven of 29 companies that took policies out of Citizens became insolvent, were ordered to stop writing business or were taken over by other companies between 2003 and 2009, the Personal Insurance Federation of Florida has warned". Are we, Floridians, lambs headed to the slaughterhouse?

Before the fire and how Heritage has forced us to live

How a Poor Person is Made

The sky is that shade of gray suited only for polyester suits. The thin line of orange on the horizon makes me think not even the sun wants to come out; it’s going to be a hot one. I load a blue, plastic, five-gallon bottle in the back of my minivan as a couple, sleek with the freshness of youth, pulls up next to me, a boat hitched to their 2016, candy-apple F-150. The Glacier water-vending station has two slots; I’ve occupied them both.  She looks at me with my three five-gallons and about ten single gallons---recycled over the past month--and says, “OMG, the water in Homestead is that bad? It’s not Flint-bad, is it?” I chuckle and say nothing.

Ten minutes later, every seat and the back of the car is loaded with water. I drive off, covering the five miles from the Circle K to my farm cautiously so that nothing spills. I enter the gate that the neighboring homeowner’s association has illegally installed on our property and I see that my husband is already up trimming a dragon fruit tree.

I load the water bottles into the single-wide trailer. In the kitchen, I pour one whole gallon into the aluminum stock pot labeled “water only”. I light a match and let the water boil. I run around grabbing clothes, shoes, and towels. When the water is boiled, I wake my six-year-old son, Pharaoh. I pour a quarter of the hot water and one whole gallon of cold water into the Rubbermaid container. He climbs in and sits, his eyelids still closed. I put the three year old, Phailani, on the toilet to do her morning business. I scrub Pharaoh’s tight curly hair and brown sugar skin.  I use the bath water to flush the toilet. Then Robert Hayden whispers in my mind’s-ears, “Sundays too my father… got dressed in the blue black cold then with cracked hands…made banked fires blaze…”

The other two quarts of hot water is split between my sixteen year old, Phanesia, and me. After we’re washed and dressed and ready for church, I step outside. Reality slaps the poetry out of my mind as I stare at the empty shell of the 5,500 square foot house that once housed our dreams. It looks like a bomb hit it. Our 10 x 40 foot trailer sits about forty feet from the shell of our burnt dream home.
On December 14, 2013, our home burned down.  This was our dream home on a little farm—realized through a lot of sacrifices, sweat and blood. For example, when our financing bank (IndyMac) was seized by the Federal government in 2008, we sold some of our assets to finish the house. We dreamed of creating an organic farm, but that dream is now deferred.

In 2013, despite our opting-out and protests, Citizens insurance company sold our policy, along with about 65,000 others, to Heritage. This was done two months after the nine-month-old company donated $110,000 to Rick Scott according to an article, “Hue and Cry Grows Over Deal for Scott Donor”, published on 5/24/2013 by the Miami Herald.  A couple of days after the fire, senior claims adjuster David Kiliszek and a vice president (who has since given an affidavit denying he was there) came to our property. Their hired fire investigator came and the fire department concluded their investigation. They ruled out arson. Kiliszek gave me the sympathetic treatment. I had no idea what was to come. He convinced us not to hire a lawyer and that the claim would be paid. They gave us money to pay the first, last, and security deposit of a rental, which later we would not be able to manage and would have to move back to our property. 

Before we knew it, we were walking in quicksand of poverty. They asked us to give them an interview. It was taped. My husband and I were interviewed separately. This interview was not the examination under oath, which would come later and which would be submitted to the court. They used the first interview to pry information from us, which they used to frame the questions for the examination under oath.

By March 2014, Heritage had denied our claim. They alleged that I committed fraud by “not disclosing” on the original, three year old application to Citizens that the house is on a farm and that we had prior claims. In their Motion for Summary Judgement, they said they relied on the information from the application to assume the policy. My lawyer deposed one of their top executives, Ernie Garateix, who revealed that they had not read one application. Despite that fact, they still denied my claim. 

A closer look at the application revealed that it had been tampered with. It wasn’t the application that I had originally submitted. The original application I submitted had a fax header that showed 8 pages were faxed to the agent, Jorge Perez, of IPC insurance agency.  The copy they provided into evidence showed that the first four pages were typed and did not have the fax header.  The last four pages, which contained my signature have the fax header. The four, newly typed pages show exactly what is needed to support the insurance company’s case.  Despite this and other glaring inconsistencies, Heritage filed for summary judgment, which means that the insurance company’s lawyer asked Judge Rebull to dismiss the case and not grant us a jury trial because, as a matter of law, there were no facts in dispute. He granted it.

Winning the summary judgment entitled Heritage to attorney’s fees. They claimed a little over $21,000 in the period of about five months. Although Heritage donated $110,000 to Rick Scott, they garnished $389.00 from every one of my teaching paychecks until recently when the judge granted our motion to stop under the head of household exemption.  But they are not stopping at that. They have demanded that I produce three to five years’ worth of bank statements, the titles and deeds of anything I’ve owned, and an extensive list of other financial records within 15 days. They have subpoenaed my bank and tax records. As I read their demands, Ralph Ellison pops in my head, “To whom it may concern, Keep this Nigger... running!”

A wise friend warned me to be prepared in case they send the sheriff to take all my belongings and vehicles, including our trailer, to be sold by the sheriff to satisfy the judgment even while the appeal is pending.

The other allegation is that I didn’t disclose on the switched application that I ran a business (the farm). Evidence was presented to the contrary. The judge agreed with the insurance company that just because the agent knew about the farm doesn’t mean Citizens knew. According to his ruling, if IPC is not an agent of Citizens, then Citizens doesn’t know--therefore, Heritage doesn’t know either.  Lastly, they argued that I didn’t disclose a prior claim on the switched application, which was disputed and our evidence presented.

As I talk to others around Homestead and Miami, and as I read Better Business complaints, I’m discovering that many hard-working homeowners are having difficulties with this company. A search of cases filed against Heritage since 2013 is shocking. According to that May 24, 2013 Miami Herald article, the current CEO of Heritage, Richard Widdicombe, used to be the CEO of People’s Trust  insurance company, which was suspended and fined $150,000 by the Office of Insurance Regulators for not paying claims in a timely manner. On January 12, 2015, Heritage provided a worthless check for $12,776 as a refund of my premium, yet there is no evidence of anyone going after them.

Saturdays and Sundays are the hardest for my family. My sixteen year old is exhausted because after church, I drag them to the zoo, and when that closes, I drag them to a MacDonald’s that has a play place. She cries, “The worse thing is, we can never go home to relax.” She understands more than the little ones the precarious position of possibly coming home and finding that the sheriff hauled our home—albeit decrepit, without running water, or electricity.  I try to keep them away from the hot trailer. Now that 25% of my take-home pay is being taken by Heritage, I can only run the generator which produces our electricity to run fans and to have light for 1 hour a day.

Heritage is the third biggest policy holder in Florida, waiting to amass more policies from Citizens. Is its strategy not to pay out claim so that it can leave policy holders bankrupt? If you file a claim, how will your children be affected? How about your marriage? How about your mental and emotional health? If you have Heritage, could it also force you into homelessness and bankruptcy? Hurricane season is right around the corner, if you should have a loss, what pretext will Heritage use to destroy you and not pay the claim?

I reach for my daughter’s hand and the only thing I can do is sing a verse from my favorite song that pops in my head, “His eyes is on the sparrow, and I know he watches over me.”

Who, in Tallahassee, is watching for us Floridians if a person doesn’t have $110,000 to pad a politician’s pocket? Countless hours of research reveal to me that all Floridians are a little less protected than we may think. A Division of Consumer Services Complaint Comparison on Florida’s chief Financial Officer’s website will show you how many policy your company has in relations to two other companies. It will show you how many complaints that company closed that year. However, it doesn’t show you how many complaints were filed against that company that year.  Even though, I took a six month’s Insurance agent course but never had the opportunity to write a policy, I am still ignorant of the process. Despite our education, savings prior to the fire, and assets, after our house burned down, we didn’t understand how unprotected we were.  heritageinsurancenightmare@gmail.com