Freedom Lawyers of America

http://www.nytimes.com/2003/12/30/nyregion/30MESS.html?8hpib

A Bronx man trapped for two days under an avalanche of newspapers,
magazines and books was rescued by firefighters and neighbors yesterday in
a small urban drama that recalled the macabre 1947 tale of the Collyer
brothers.

The victim, Patrice Moore, 43, of 1991 Morris Avenue, near Tremont Avenue,
was found shortly after 1 p.m. in a 10-by-10-foot room crammed with paper
and other detritus that completely filled it, except for a small corner
where he slept, neighbors and city officials said.

A reclusive man who lived alone and had been saving magazines, newspapers,
books, catalogs and junk mail for a decade - and had apparently thrown none
of it out - Mr. Moore was buried standing up under the collapse on
Saturday, according to neighbors, who heard him moaning and mumbling
through the door, which had been blocked by all the paper.

The landlord broke in with a crowbar and neighbors began digging into the
entombing piles of publications, communications and advertisements. Calls
to the city brought the police, three companies of firefighters, health and
buildings officials, and officials from the Office of Emergency Management.

It took more than an hour to extricate Mr. Moore - 50 garbage bags of his
paper had to be hauled out just to reach him - and he was taken to St.
Barnabas Hospital with leg injuries, apparently the result of the weight
that fell on him and the fluid that accumulated in his legs during his
captivity. He was reported in stable condition last night, a hospital
spokesman said.

Deon Baitmon, 35, a next-door neighbor who was one of a few people who knew
Mr. Moore had been living in a room filled with paper, said she had tried
to persuade him to get rid of some of it, without success. "I told him,
`You've got to be able to get in and out,' " she said, "but he didn't
really want to hear about that."

While it was hardly comparable, the episode echoed the strange cautionary
tale of Langley and Homer Collyer, who lived for years barricaded in a
12-room mansion at Fifth Avenue and 128th Street in East Harlem with their
legendary collection of stuff - tons of newspapers, magazines and books; 14
grand pianos, chandeliers, mirrors, bottles, rotting groceries and an
automobile chassis.

On March 21, 1947, alerted by a mysterious phone call, the police broke in
and found the body of Homer, who had been blind and bedridden. After
lengthy searching, they found Langley's body under piles of junk. He had
apparently died of a heart attack weeks earlier after triggering one of
many booby traps set for burglars, and Homer had died of starvation several
days later.

While people who hoard obsessively are generally regarded as troubled,
there is no agreement among experts on the causes of the phenomenon, which
dates back thousands of years. Cases are uncovered from time to time, often
after the death of a recluse discloses hidden wealth or troves of
possessions behind an otherwise unremarkable facade.

After getting a glimpse into Mr. Moore's room yesterday, some neighbors
recalled that almost every day for the past decade he had received a heavy
load of mail: newspapers, magazines, books that he ordered with a variety
of names and never paid for, and tons of unsolicited advertising and other
mail.

A cursory examination of the stacks turned up numerous copies of Sports
Illustrated, Nascar racing publications, Vibe, Scuba Diving, Essence,
skiing magazines, Savoy, Sound and Vision, Fitness magazine and copies of
the Harvard Business Review.

"He got everything," said John Thomas, a neighbor. "You name it - he got it
- except Playboy."

Bennie Jones, 62, the owner of the three-story brownstone, said: "I knew he
was getting a whole lot of magazines, but I had no idea there were so many
inside. I can't see how he had any space to move in there. It's crazy. He
had the place stacked up with magazines, and they fell on him."

Mr. Moore, who was unemployed and paid his $250-a-month rent from the
public assistance money he received, lived the quiet life of a hermit, his
neighbors said, rarely going out and never allowing visitors into his
windowless room on the parlor floor, halfway down a dark, narrow corridor.

"His room is his private room," Ms. Baitmon said. He opened the door to get
his mail, which was addressed to people named Joe Smith, Pamela Cruise and
other fictitious names, but bore his apartment number, 1-B. Occasionally,
she said, she heard his radio or his voice, singing or mumbling to himself.

Over the weekend, she heard his voice from time to time, but there were no
cries for help, nothing very coherent. "He was just talking through the
door a bit," she said, and noted that she had not been alarmed.

The discovery of Mr. Moore's plight was almost an accident. It happened
that he had asked his landlord last week for a small loan, and Mr. Jones
went to his door with a couple of dollars yesterday. He knocked on Mr.
Moore's door. There was no answer at first, but then he heard a voice
inside. It sounded strange.

It occurred to Mr. Jones that Mr. Moore might need help. The door was
locked, but Mr. Jones got a crowbar and pried it open. Stacks of magazines
and books had fallen against the door, and he had to get a couple of
neighbors to force it open.

They were astonished by what they found inside. The room was stuffed from
wall to wall and floor to ceiling with stacks of paper. They also heard
moaning from a corner, behind the stacks. "He was trapped in a little
corner," said Mr. Thomas. "We had to take books out just to get to him."

Mr. Jones called 911, and by the time the firefighters of Engine Company 42
arrived, the neighbors had hauled away enough material to create a path and
to unpaper Mr. Moore nearly down to his waist. Another obstacle remained. A
bookcase, apparently the only piece of furniture in the room, had also
fallen, wedging Mr. Moore tightly in an almost upright position.

The firefighters raised the bookcase, hauled away more loads of paper and
eventually freed Mr. Moore, who was carried out on a stretcher.

"He couldn't say much," Mr. Thomas recalled. "He was in pain."

Even as Mr. Moore driven away, the neighbors said, a postman was arriving
with another delivery of newspapers, magazines and junk mail for him. "He
never threw anything away," Mr. Thomas said.