The Case of the “Oops, I’ve Fallen and Can’t Get Up”
I woke up real early today, folks. The air in Florida had that crisp bite to it—nippy enough to make you reach for a coat, gloves, and maybe a cup of steaming joe. Now, I know you Northerners are probably laughing at the idea of 60 degrees being cold, but hey, down here that’s practically frostbite weather.
So, I geared up, grabbed my hat—my trusty fedora—and headed out the door, only to hit a slippery spot on the mat outside. BAM! I nearly did a split that would’ve made a gymnast jealous. That little tumble got me thinking about slip and fall cases, and wouldn’t you know it, fate has a funny way of working.
I strolled into my favorite greasy spoon, the one with Flo behind the counter serving up sass with every cup of coffee. The Admiral was perched on his usual stool, spinning tales about the high seas. Flo caught my eye, gave me that wink of hers, and asked, “What’s cooking this morning, sailor?” That new nickname was enough to make me roll my eyes, but before I could even muster a comeback, my phone rang and saved me from more of the Admiral’s sea stories.
On the other end was a lawyer calling himself Mr. Smith from some firm—Howie, Dueum & Cheatum, or something equally shady sounding. He wanted to know if I was an expert on slip and fall cases, especially on marble floors. I let out a chuckle and told him I was an expert at my own falls, but sure, I could help.
He spilled the beans. A lady took a dive in a fancy hotel lobby, right on a set of marble stairs, and now she was suing, claiming the floor was too slick. I asked whose side he was on, and he said the hotel’s. I told him I’d need to visit the scene and run my trusty slip meter—the BOT 3000, for you folks taking notes—and he agreed. We set up a meeting.
Next day, I headed south to the hotel, gear in hand and a coffee in the other. The lawyer met me with a bunch of suits from the hotel. I asked my usual questions, got the lay of the land, and they led me to the spot where the lady claimed she’d met her downfall. It was a fancy white marble floor, gleaming like a politician’s promise. There was a long hallway from the conference center leading to the stairs.
I set up my meter and took slip readings. All came back safe as a nun at bingo night. Like I always tell the rookies at my seminars, those readings only show what’s happening at that moment—doesn’t mean something couldn’t have made it slippery before.
As I was packing up, I spotted a bunch of cameras trained on the stairs like a hawk on a field mouse. I asked one of the suits if they had footage of the lady’s slip. They all shrugged like a bunch of school kids caught passing notes. I suggested they ring up security.
Soon enough, a tall guy who looked like he could box out half the NBA came along. I asked him the same thing, and he said, “Let’s check it out.” We ducked into a room with screens stacked like a Las Vegas sportsbook. We narrowed down the time and sure enough, there she was—strutting down that hallway like she owned it. She whipped out her phone, started tapping away like a teenager with a new crush, and—BAM!—down she went, texting all the way.
I turned to Mr. Smith, grinning. “Looks like she doesn’t have much of a case.”
He cracked a smile and said, “Nice work, Stone Detective. Another case cracked.”
