The defendant told me the judge would dismiss my testimony. I’m the judge hearing this case.

A Cold Winter on Maple Street

The defendant told me the judge would dismiss my testimony. I’m the judge hearing this case.

I was in jeans and a worn sweater when Victor Krauss told me the judge would throw out anything I said in court. I’d stopped by my mother’s apartment building on Maple Street to check on her after she’d called saying the heat wasn’t working again, the third time this month.

It was February, and temperatures were in the 20s at night. She was 78 with arthritis and couldn’t handle the cold.

I’d been a judge for 12 years and had learned to compartmentalize my professional life from personal matters. But standing in that frigid hallway listening to my mother’s landlord dismiss her complaints made my blood pressure spike in ways that courtroom testimony never did.

Victor Krauss was the property manager for Riverside Towers, a rent-controlled building that housed mostly elderly residents on fixed incomes. He stood in the hallway with a clipboard, his expensive coat and polished shoes contrasting sharply with the peeling paint and water-stained ceiling tiles surrounding us.

My mother had introduced me as her son Michael and nothing more. Krauss barely glanced at me before turning back to her.

“Mrs. Davidson, I’ve explained this three times already. The heating system is old and we’re working on repairs. These things take time. If you don’t like the conditions you’re welcome to find somewhere else to live.”

His tone was dismissive, bordering on contempt. My mother clutched her cardigan tighter around her shoulders and I could see her hands shaking, not just from cold, but from fear.

She’d lived here for 15 years since my father died. This was her home and her community; she couldn’t just leave.

I stepped forward and kept my voice level despite the anger building in my chest.

“The lease guarantees heat between October and April. It’s a legal requirement. When exactly will the repairs be completed?”

Krauss looked at me properly for the first time and something shifted in his expression—calculation mixed with irritation.

“Who are you exactly?”

“Her son.”

“The one who never visits.”

The accusation hit its mark because there was truth in it. I worked 60-hour weeks and visited maybe twice a month.

Guilt was a weapon he wielded instinctively.

“I’m asking about the repairs. When will the heat be restored?”

Krauss smirked and tapped his clipboard against his leg.

“I’ll get to it when I get to it. Meanwhile your mother can use a space heater if she’s so cold though I noticed she keeps her windows open half the time anyway so maybe the problem isn’t the heating system.”

That was a lie. My mother kept her windows closed and sealed with plastic in winter; I’d helped her do it in November.

“That’s not true and you know it. You’re obligated by law to provide adequate heat. If you don’t fix this within 48 hours I’ll be filing a complaint with the housing authority.”

Krauss’s smirk widened into something uglier.

“Go ahead, file whatever you want. I know people at Housing Authority. I know people everywhere. You think some bureaucrat is going to care about one old lady complaining?”

“They’ll send an inspector who will check a box and leave. Nothing will change.”

He leaned closer and I could smell cigarette smoke on his breath.

“But you know what will change? Her rent. When her lease comes up for renewal in May I’ll be increasing it to market rates. She’ll be paying double what she pays now.”

My mother made a small sound of distress behind me. I knew she couldn’t afford double rent on her Social Security income.

Krauss heard it too and his smile showed he’d achieved exactly the reaction he wanted.

“You seem like a smart guy, lawyer maybe? You understand how things work. Your mother has a sweet deal here below market rent in a decent building. She wouldn’t want to risk that over a few cold nights would she?”

The threat was clear: complain and face retaliation through rent increases. It was illegal, but proving it would be difficult, his word against hers about the reasoning behind any rent increase.

“This is tenant intimidation and it’s illegal. You can’t retaliate against tenants for asserting their legal rights.”

Krauss actually laughed.

“Prove it. Go ahead and try. You think you’re the first person to threaten me with legal action?”

“I deal with tenant complaints every day. I know every loophole and every delay tactic. By the time anything gets to court if it ever does it’ll be your word against mine.”

“And let me tell you something about judges in this county.”

He pointed his finger at me and his voice dropped to something conspiratorial and smug.

“They side with property owners not with tenants. They understand that people like me provide housing and take financial risks. They don’t want to discourage investment in this city.”

“So even if you manage to get this in front of a judge which you won’t he’ll dismiss your testimony as biased family member testimony and side with the professional property manager who has documentation and proper procedures.”

“That’s how it works in the real world. You can play lawyer all you want but at the end of the day I win. I always win.”

I felt something cold settle in my stomach, not fear, but something else. It was the absolute certainty that this man had said these exact words before to other tenants, that this was his standard operating procedure.

It was intimidation backed by a cynical understanding of how the legal system could be manipulated. He’d studied the weaknesses and exploited them systematically.

“You seem very confident about how judges operate.”

My voice was flat and Krauss must have heard something in it because he looked at me more carefully.

“I’ve been to housing court plenty of times. I know how these judges think. They’re overworked and underpaid and they don’t want to deal with every tenant complaint that comes through.”

“They want to move cases quickly. They want documentation and professionalism and I provide both. Some nobody tenant complaining about cold nights that gets dismissed in 5 minutes. I’ve seen it happen dozens of times.”

He straightened his coat and prepared to leave.

“So here’s my advice. Tell your mother to buy a space heater and stop complaining.”

“Be grateful she has a roof over her head at the rent she’s paying and don’t threaten me with legal action because I will make her life very difficult.”

“The heat will get fixed when I have time to fix it. End of discussion.”

He turned and walked toward the elevator, his expensive shoes clicking against the worn linoleum. I watched him go and didn’t say anything.

My mother touched my arm and I could feel her trembling.

“Michael, please don’t make trouble. I can’t afford to move. I can’t afford higher rent. I’ll be okay with a space heater until he fixes the heat.”

I drove home to my house in the suburbs thinking about Victor Krauss’s face when he’d said judges would dismiss my testimony. I thought of his absolute confidence in his understanding of how the system worked and his certainty that he was untouchable.

I’d been a judge for 12 years and had presided over hundreds of cases. I’d always tried to be fair and impartial to follow the law regardless of my personal feelings.

But I’d also seen exactly what Krauss described: landlords with professional documentation and smooth attorneys facing off against unrepresented tenants who couldn’t articulate their complaints properly. I’d seen cases dismissed for lack of evidence or procedural failures.

The system wasn’t designed to be unfair, but in practice it often was.