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“I got hurt on the job — in my first few minutes, actually — and can’t find a lawyer anywhere to take my case.” That was how my conversation began with 17-year-old “Beau,” who was calling from Charleston, S.C.
“Well, Beau, what kind of job do you have, and how were you injured?”
“Mr. Beaver, you will figure it out sooner or later, so I might as well be upfront. This was to be a weekend job as a porch pirate, working for a guy who runs a crew. A box I picked up exploded, spraying pink glitter everywhere — like what would happen in a gender reveal — and then a loud alarm sounded.
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“In my hurry to get away, I tripped over a sprinkler head on the front lawn, fell and fractured my right wrist.
“I want to file a workers’ compensation claim and also sue the homeowner who rigged this booby-trapped package, but when I try to speak with an attorney, everyone laughs at me.”
I thought, “Yeah, I would, too!” But why would a porch pirate, also known as a thief, from the South be calling me?
Morally satisfying, entertaining videos
We’ve all seen — on the news and other websites — videos of a porch pirate swiping a package and walking away with a look of great satisfaction on their face, and then BOOM! The package explodes, covering the thief in brightly colored powdered dye or glitter. Next, we hear the creep swearing loudly.
There are hundreds of these videos that are morally satisfying, especially to anyone who has been the victim of a porch pirate.
Unfortunately, many are AI-generated, but everyone I’ve spoken to enjoys watching the instant karma that’s delivered.
Now, going into business as a porch pirate requires only two things: a vehicle and being morally bankrupt. But what if you don’t have reliable transportation that enables a quick getaway and still have dreams of financial independence through theft?
You go to work for someone who has both.
As Beau explained, “I met a guy who hires people to steal packages. The process was very smooth, very professional.” This is how Beau described it:
The “employer” had one vehicle follow actual delivery drivers and report the addresses where parcels were delivered.
Wearing high-visibility safety vests, Beau and his cohorts were driven to those addresses, where they placed a business card for a tree trimming company on the porch near the recently delivered package, took a photo of it to make the process appear legit, then they would grab the package and leave. (The boss wanted a photo to keep all the Beaus from ripping him off.)
Not only did Beau share a photo of this event, he had an actual video — from walking up to the porch to when he fell.
“This was my first house,” he said. “I was nervous, and instead of selecting the photo option on my phone, I accidentally pushed the button for video.” (He also mistakenly picked up a package that had already been sitting on the porch, not the one that had just been delivered.)
He played it for me. I almost fell out of my chair, laughing.
Why was this South Carolina teen reaching out to a lawyer in California?
Beau explained that he did not tell his father what “the job” was, only that he fell and needed to speak with an attorney.
“My dad reads your Kiplinger column, and you interviewed a lawyer there some time ago, so we thought you might be able to put us in touch with someone.”
Even if I could, I would not.
Could a homeowner actually be held liable in this case?
Every law student in America can tell you about the 1971 Iowa Supreme Court case Katko v. Briney.
The Brineys owned an unoccupied farmhouse that had been repeatedly vandalized and burglarized. They set up a loaded shotgun trap in a bedroom, set to fire when the door was opened, aimed to hit an intruder in the legs. No warning signs were posted.
Katko broke into the house to steal antique bottles and jars and was severely injured when he triggered the trap.
After pleading guilty, he sued the Brineys for actual and punitive damages and was awarded $30,000. The Brineys had to sell much of their farm to satisfy the judgment.
I remember to this day the outrage of students in Professor Ogren’s torts class at Loyola Law School in Los Angeles. How could any lawyer help to reward this thief? How could a state Supreme Court validate the judgment?
This case is still precedent for the proposition that courts do not approve of potentially deadly booby traps, placing human safety over the value of property.
The law generally permits the use of deadly force only when a person is present and faces an imminent threat of death or serious bodily harm. Booby traps, by definition, operate when the owner is likely not present, removing the possibility of a human judgment call on the necessity of force.
Clearly, our genius Beau tripped over a sprinkler head — which was not part of the booby trap — and the glitter did not cause injury. Juries and judges would think, “The kid got what he deserved” — and that is why no lawyer playing with a full deck would take his case.
Has any homeowner been prosecuted or sued for an exploding “bait” package of glitter or dye? I could find no cases, anywhere, over the past several years.
That said, it isn’t recommended that you booby-trap your packages.
My advice to Beau
I thanked Beau for his call, telling him that he was far luckier than he realized.
“You were about to embark on a path that could lead to state prison. Think of the fractured wrist as the luckiest break of your life. Get an education, or a trade, steer clear of creeps who dangle quick-money schemes before your eyes. Also, tell your family the truth and about our conversation.”
He promised to do so. I think he will.
Dennis Beaver practices law in Bakersfield, Calif., and welcomes comments and questions from readers, which may be faxed to (661) 323-7993, or e-mailed to Lagombeaver1@gmail.com. And be sure to visit dennisbeaver.com.
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This article was written by and presents the views of our contributing adviser, not the Kiplinger editorial staff. You can check adviser records with the SEC or with FINRA.
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