Tag: false billing

Case Mishandled, Doomed from the Start

In the shattered remnants of my world, while Samuel and I sought solace in New York with my family—clinging to the fragile threads of normalcy after Mitchell’s brutal, blindsiding announcement of his divorce filing—fate delivered yet another cruel twist. I was out with my sister and the children, desperately trying to drown the anguish in fleeting moments of joy, when my brother-in-law, Toby, answered the door. His urgent call to us pierced through the zoo’s cheerful chaos: a stranger, papers clutched in trembling hands, demanding me by name. Toby pressed for details, and the man—visibly uneasy, as if complicit in some dark conspiracy—whispered that he was a process server, there to thrust divorce papers into my unwilling grasp.

Days blurred into a nightmare haze. My sister and I fought to shield the children from the storm raging inside me, our conversations laced with whispered fears amid the laughter of play. But the shadow returned—again and again. Toby, working from home like a silent guardian, reported the man’s vigil: parked outside, engine idling, eyes fixed on our sanctuary, waiting to pounce. It was harassment cloaked in legality, a predator stalking our fragile haven.

Then, the ultimate betrayal struck at lunch, as innocent as a shared meal with the kids. My credit card—our lifeline—declined once more, leaving me humiliated, staring at the waiter’s pitying gaze. Heart pounding, I texted Mitchell, pleading: “Put money on the card to feed our child. Call off your dogs—they’re harassing me and my family. I will handle your divorce papers when we return”. His reply landed like a dagger to the soul: “Accept the papers, and I’ll put money on your card.” Mitchell just blackmailed me. Pure, heartless control. How could the man I once loved dangle our son’s basic needs like a weapon? Starve us, strand us in turmoil, all to force my submission? That text, cold and unyielding, ripped open the veil—I saw him for the monster he was, a void where a heart should beat. “What’s the urgency?” I fired back, fingers shaking. “Why send people to terrorize my family? Leave us alone.” His echoes haunted me: “Just accept the papers.” Over and over, a relentless echo of indifference.

That evening, around the dinner table with the children giggling outside—oblivious to the wreckage—we huddled like survivors in a war zone, interviewing attorneys on speakerphone. My family, my anchors, knew I couldn’t face this abyss alone upon returning to Georgia. The first, a seasoned veteran attorney with decades etched into his weary voice, spoke truths that resonated deep. I clung to his raw fury—vulgar curses hurled at Mitchell’s threat of arrest if I didn’t fetch those damned papers from his lawyer’s den. But his retainer? $15,000—a fortune I couldn’t summon.

The second, Attorney Todd Serrano, offered a free hour’s grace. Soft-spoken, his website gleaming with promise, he seemed a beacon. “Do you handle aggressive, deceitful opponents?” I begged. “No need for aggression,” he soothed. “Present facts, rebut lies—handle it the Christian way.” In my vulnerability, those words wrapped around my broken spirit like a false embrace. But oh, how they poisoned me later—a predator preying on faith in the midst of despair. His fee: $10,000. My father, eyes brimming with unspoken sorrow, wrote the check, his hand steady where mine trembled.

Meanwhile, a friend back home, Marina, whispered of a lifeline: a patient at her doctor’s office, an attorney on sabbatical from her own marital hell. “Call Lea Roland anytime,” she urged. “She’s heard your story—she knows you’re already drowning.” Our first call ignited a spark; Lea, sharp-tongued and unyielding, a Jewish warrior channeling her own divorce scars into fierce counsel. Her words lashed like whips: “Toughen up. Save money—call me, not your lawyer. I’m your friend with legal claws.” Time and again: “This is free. I care about you and your fight.” I believed her. Desperate, I even recorded our talks at a PI friend’s insistence—capturing her vows of gratis aid. But attorneys, I learned, weave lies like silk.

Samuel and I returned home 9 days later and my first meeting with Serrano was a descent into hell. I was physically ravaged—days without food, rivers of tears—I clutched sodden tissues in his lobby, a ghost in human form. He emerged, diminutive in stature but draped in opulent suits, leading me to his domain where his paralegal lurked. He sketched the process in clipped tones, vanishing after thirty minutes, abandoning me to his paralegal. They promised filings: entry of appearance, answer, counterclaim. Relief flickered, fleeting.

Three days later, Attorney Serrano’s call shattered it: “Emergency filing from Mitchell’s side.” Emergency? My mind reeled—what horror now? He claimed I’d kidnapped Samuel out-of-state, endangered him, and demanded full custody. Full custody? Of the boy I’d nurtured every waking moment for seven years, my heart’s extension? Rage boiled with nausea—how dare he paint me the villain?

Serrano summoned me pre-hearing. I poured out truths: my right to travel unserved, other attorneys’ confirmations, school notifications, and return flights booked. Evidence screamed my innocence. As Serrano and his paralegal stepped out of the office, leaving me adrift in tears, my eyes snagged on papers bearing my name. Flipping them revealed betrayal’s face: a bill from Lea Roland to Todd Serrano—for “consultations” with me. Bill after bill stacked like accusations. What twisted racket? Digging deeper, Serrano’s own chaos unfolded: divorced once, mid-second unraveling. And Lea? Her husband’s filing had shattered her—hair falling, mind fracturing, home lost. Eight months sidelined, she hawked her services undercover, billing unwitting clients. I never hired her. Never consented. Her “free” calls? A scam. The Georgia Bar awaits my report—no statute to shield her deceit.

The Emergency Hearing: A Mother’s Heart Ripped Apart

The emergency hearing crashed over me like a guillotine, a day of reckoning orchestrated by treachery. Mitchell and his smug, towering attorney—a pair of vipers—stormed the courtroom, spitting venomous lies and twisting truth into knots. My attorney, Todd Serrano, a diminutive man with a laid-back air, merely parroted my words, lacking the fire to match their onslaught. The judge, a novice on our circuit, boasted a pedigree from one of the nation’s elite law schools but bore an uncanny resemblance to a gaunt, hawkish Mr. Burns from The Simpsons, barked for both attorneys to retreat to a conference room. Mitchell’s lawyer, oozing arrogance, claimed he had an audio recording to unveil. A recording? Of what? Of whom? My mind spun, grasping at shadows.

Ten agonizing minutes later, Serrano slunk back, his face a mask of defeat. “You called him an asshole in front of your son,” he muttered, as if I’d committed a capital crime. Bewilderment choked me. I demanded to hear this so-called evidence. Mitchell, strutting to the stand, swore to tell the truth—a vow I could’ve laughed at if my heart wasn’t breaking. He claimed he’d recorded a fight in our living room before I fled to New York with Samuel. In the audio, my voice cracked with sobs, begging for answers to his cryptic divorce filing. Why, Mitchell? Why? He dodged, as always, shielding his infidelity to protect his wallet. In my desperation, I let slip one word—“asshole”—and from down the hall, Samuel’s innocent voice piped up, “I heard that.” Is a swear word really a crime? A punishable crime to a parent?

That fleeting moment, a mother’s raw pain, became my undoing. The judge—childless, clueless, a man untouched by the weight of raising a soul—pounced. His ruling was a sledgehammer: I’d “placed our child in the middle of conflict.” Me, the mother who’d poured seven years into Samuel’s every breath, was banished from our home. Worse, I was condemned to supervised visitations with my own son. My legs buckled; nausea clawed my gut. I wanted to scream, to collapse, to cease existing. How could a system be so blind? This judge, still perched on his throne, is a known tyrant—attorneys and court insiders whisper that they demand jury trials to dodge his reckless rulings. Where’s the oversight? Where’s the court observer to expose this travesty, to scream these injustices to the world?

The courtroom, packed with my supporters—friends, family, thirty affidavits testifying to my devotion—gasped in unison, a collective cry of disbelief. I’d been Samuel’s rock: at his school, his games, his every milestone. Yet here I stood, branded a villain, stripped of my home and my child. Serrano had the gall to blame me for that single, desperate word. Since when is a mother’s anguish a crime? He dangled false hope, prattling about Mitchell’s upcoming deposition, promising to unravel his lies there. But hope felt like a cruel mirage—I wasn’t going home, and Samuel wasn’t coming with me.

Lea Roland, that duplicitous “friend” attorney, sat among the pews, feigning shock. Did she, too, sneak a bill to Serrano for her presence that day, scheming behind my back like she had before? I’d bet my soul she did. The system, the lies, the betrayal—it’s a rigged game, and I, a devoted mother, was its latest casualty.

The Devastating Impact of an Incompetent Attorney

In the midst of my desperate fight to be with my son, I learned a heart-wrenching truth: the foundation of my legal battle was flawed from the start. Several attorneys I hired after parting ways with my initial counsel, Attorney Serrano, reviewed my case filings and delivered a crushing revelation. They told me, with heavy sighs and pointed words, that Serrano had set my case on a disastrous course. His missteps, his lack of diligence, had done me no justice, leaving me to navigate a legal nightmare with a foundation of sand. The pain of this realization cut deep—my fight for Samuel, my precious son, had been undermined by the very person I trusted to protect us. I cannot stress enough how critical it is to secure competent, skilled counsel from the outset. A single wrong choice can ripple through your life, threatening everything you hold dear, as it did for me.