Outside, a tow truck blocked her driveway and her 1996 Chevy Blazer. A man and a woman with a court order told the single mother they had come to take her car for nonpayment of an old credit card debt. With interest and legal fees, the bill totaled more than $2,000, and it came from a company called Commonwealth Receivables. They gave her a choice: Pay the money now, in cash, or hand over the keys.

Dimanche had never heard of Commonwealth and believed the debt had been paid by a social services agency. ''I just said, 'You guys must be insane,''' she recalled.

She had reason to be stunned: The debt was at least five years old. And she'd never gotten notice of the lawsuit against her: When Commonwealth, a local debt collector, went after Dimanche, the address it supplied the court was one where she hadn't lived for more than a decade.

But Dimanche didn't have the paperwork to prove the debt had been paid off, and she didn't have $2,000.

''What could I do?'' she said. ''I gave them the key.''

RELATED: Debt collector Daniel Goldstone is rebuked by federal judges and ordered disbarred by the SJC  GRAPHIC: Collection in the courts  AUDIO: Listen as members of the Globe’s Spotlight Team discuss how they reported this series  MESSAGE BOARD: Post your thoughts on debt collection practices in the US, and tell us if you have had any encounters with debt collectors. If you are interested in sharing your story with the Spotlight Team, just send an e-mail to debt@globe.com.  DEBTORS' HELL PART 2: A court system compromised  DEBTORS' HELL PART 3: Behind the badge  DEBTORS' HELL PART 4: National crisis, official silence  Series homepage

Dimanche is one of thousands of Massachusetts residents who have had their cars seized and lives upended by a pair of debt collection companies, Commonwealth Receivables Inc. of Watertown and Norfolk Financial Corp. of West Roxbury. Run by two brothers, one of whom was disbarred this year for his business practices, Norfolk and Commonwealth have become two of the state's most litigious and aggressive collectors, a Globe Spotlight Team investigation of the debt industry has found.

In America's debt-saturated culture, Chad E. and Daniel W. Goldstone are among the clear winners. They are perhaps the most active local players in a nationwide debt collection industry that has exploded in size and profits, inundating court systems in Massachusetts and across the country with collection lawsuits seeking tens of billions of dollars in debts that are often purchased for collection by the Goldstones and hundreds of other firms for just pennies on the dollar.

The success of such firms is a measure of how dramatically the world of consumer debt in America has changed. It isn't just that consumers lean too heavily on credit cards to get by. It is that, almost unnoticed by policy-makers, many millions of Americans have slid, or been pushed, into a debtor's hell where bank accounts are drained, wages are attached, property confiscated, and threats of jail are an everyday occurrence.

A fate once reserved for the worst deadbeats has become commonplace. The losers are the friends, neighbors, or relatives of just about everyone - people who generally owe the money collectors are after but don't deserve what comes next. People such as Ana R. Rios, a 40-year-old Maynard woman whose car was hooked near midnight even though her debts had been erased through bankruptcy. Or Thomas S. Jessamey, a 45-year-old Saugus man who spent six months struggling to get his car back after it was seized for an old credit card bill.

An estimated one of every 11 consumers has at least one credit card that is more than 90 days past due, according to nationwide data provided to the Globe by the credit reporting agency Experian. Many are already being pursued by debt collectors, or someday will be. And it is a vast army coming after them: In the last decade, the ranks of debt collectors have doubled to 162,000, making debt collection among the fastest-growing sectors of the financial services industry.

In Massachusetts, a Spotlight review of records in all 70 district courts, and interviews with court officials and collection attorneys, found that professional collectors filed an estimated 575,000 lawsuits between 2000 and 2005 - about one lawsuit for every 11 Bay State residents. The vast bulk of those were filed as small-claims actions in the district courts, where debt collectors always have lawyers and the debtors almost never do.

At nearly every stage, the Globe found, the debt collection system in the state is stacked against the average consumer:

• Many small-claims courts have effectively become accomplices of collection firms, routinely giving them the upper hand in court cases while casually disregarding the rights and dignity of ordinary citizens.

Ana Rios with the 1995 Buick that constables seized at 11:30 the night of her birthday in 2004 for an old credit card debt -- a debt that had been discharged. (Globe Staff Photo / Michele McDonald)

• Collectors almost always win the lawsuits they file, without being asked for evidence that the debts they are chasing are actually owed.
• Like Dimanche, debtors frequently receive no notice of the lawsuits against them because debt collectors provide courts with outdated addresses for the people they are suing.
• The disabled, the elderly, and the working poor are often talked into repaying their debts from their monthly government checks, which by law are protected from legal judgments.
• And an obscure posse of law enforcement agents - constables and deputy sheriffs - operate freely as the blunt instrument of collection firms, with neither their steep fees nor their sometimes heavy-handed tactics regulated.

It is, in short, a system made safe - and very profitable - for Massachusetts collectors like such as Commonwealth and Norfolk, and for others like them across the country.

''The creditors are all repeat players. They know exactly how the game works,'' said Elizabeth Warren, a Harvard Law School professor who studies consumer debt. ''We're watching a fight between two players, one a skilled repeat gladiator, and one who's thrown into the ring for the first time and gets clubbed over the head before they even get a sense of what the rules are.''

Commonwealth and Norfolk have built a reputation for operating at the hard edge of this increasingly aggressive and methodical trade.

It is a business with many reputable players, firms that collect money zealously but rarely cross the line of fairness. And then there are those that seem to live by another set of rules.

Commonwealth, owned by 41-year-old Chad Goldstone, and Norfolk, owned by his brother Daniel, who is 44, are among the most active users of the state's small-claims courts, where lawsuits are limited to $2,000 or less. Together, the two firms have filed about 12,000 lawsuits in each of the last four years in all but two of the state's 70 local courts, according to records examined by the Globe. That is more than 10 percent of the state's small claims caseload.

And as for car seizures, a tactic many collectors consider harsh and unseemly, the Goldstones have made it an everyday practice.

''The way he handles cases offends us,'' said Richard S. Daniels Jr., the owner of a large Boston collection law firm, speaking of Daniel Goldstone. ''His practice is abusive.''

Seizing cars to collect old debts is lawful in Massachusetts. But time and again, those working on the Goldstones' behalf have turned it into an excruciating ordeal for consumers, making dark-of-the-night collection visits, and holding cars hostage until debtors can scrounge up the cash to pay down a past-due amount.

Almost always, debtors who have their cars towed wind up paying far more than their original debt. Part of that is interest, of course. But it is also the result of hefty fees charged by the people who work on the Goldstones' behalf, the kind of people Dimanche found knocking at her door just after dawn - locally appointed constables, deputy sheriffs, and tow lot operators.

And in cases where debtors are unable or unwilling to pay the debt, plus the high seizure, towing and storage fees, their cars are often auctioned for a fraction of their market value. Or they are junked, leaving the debtors without transportation and still liable for most, or all, of the debt.

The sight of a tow truck at the door is unsettling enough. But for some debtors chased by Norfolk and Commonwealth, it is literally the first they have heard that they are being sued. In several lawsuits examined by Globe reporters, Dimanche's among them, the two companies provided incorrect addresses to the courts, with the result that judgments were issued without the knowledge of the debtors. But finding the right address is seldom a problem for the constables and sheriffs Norfolk and Commonwealth hire to seize debtors' cars.

As Dimanche said in a hand-written plea to the court days after her car was taken: ''I, Marie Dimanche, was never notified of any court hearing, and a judgment was passed without my presence to defend myself.''

But no court motion could fully describe what Dimanche had lost. The day she handed over her keys - her only means to get to work and her children to school - was the last day she would ever see her car.

Leaders in car seizures

How many others sued by the Goldstones have had their cars seized? The courts, which authorize the actions, don't keep records that would allow such a tally.

But other official documents strongly suggest that the two firms have been seizing thousands of cars a year. For example, in affidavits filed in a lawsuit involving Norfolk Financial, Chad Goldstone and an employee of Daniel Goldstone estimated that, four years ago, a single constable company was hooking about 1,200 cars a year for the two brothers. In a two-year period, 2004-2005, deputy sheriffs in four counties - Plymouth, Norfolk, Bristol, and Worcester - seized 1,073 cars just for Norfolk Financial, a Globe review found.

That volume makes the two firms the dominant players in car seizures statewide.

Both brothers and their lawyer, John J. O'Connor of the Boston law firm of Peabody & Arnold, defend the propriety of their business practices. ''We work hard to handle all matters with courtesy and fairness, and in compliance with all legal requirements,'' they said in a written statement.

Only Chad Goldstone spoke to the Globe at any length; Daniel Goldstone agreed to a sit-down interview, but then cancelled it. The Goldstones cited state privacy laws and federal statutes that protect debtors as justification for declining to answer most questions about their businesses, or to discuss lawsuits they have filed.

The Goldstone brothers run separate companies, but that wasn't always the case. In 1992, Daniel Goldstone purchased a defunct collection law firm, renaming it Goldstone & Sudalter, and for several years Chad worked for Daniel, proving especially adept at managing computer systems that have made debt collection a highly efficient business. But in 1997 Chad Goldstone left the business to form Commonwealth Receivables. By then, Goldstone & Sudalter had been sued for bilking its largest client, Sears, Roebuck and Co. out of more than $800,000 - a case that would eventually lead to Daniel Goldstone's disbarment. (Read court documents related to this case here.) Daniel Goldstone established Norfolk Financial in 1999.

Even though they parted ways, the brothers remain alike in many respects as businessmen. Both buy delinquent credit card debt. Both employ similar collection tactics. Both work with small staffs from offices so poorly marked and out-of-the-way that they are difficult to find.

And though they are among the top filers of collection lawsuits in Massachusetts, neither company is registered as required by law with the state Division of Banks, which is charged with oversight of debt collection companies. Through their attorney, the Goldstones claim they are exempt because they purchase the debts they try to collect, and do not collect debts for other creditors. But David J. Cotney, chief operating officer for the Massachusetts Division of Banks, said every company in the state that collects defaulted debt, including Norfolk and Commonwealth, must be licensed. ''I don't know what basis they would use to exclude themselves,'' he said.

The Goldstones, as debt buyers, are part of a growing trend that has transformed the collection industry. As the number of deeply indebted consumers has climbed, credit card companies and banks have become increasingly likely to sell off their uncollected accounts in bulk. Purchased by large debt-buying companies, the accounts are then repackaged and re-sold to smaller and smaller firms.

Daniel W. Goldstone, at his collection agency, Norfolk Financial Corp., was disbarred this year. In 1996, a federal judge determined he had bilked a client out of more than $800,000. (Read court documents related to this case here.) (Globe Staff Photo / John Tlumacki)    RELATED: Debt collector Daniel Goldstone is rebuked by federal judges and ordered disbarred by the SJC

By the time local companies such as Commonwealth and Norfolk pick up this kind of ''stale'' debt, they are buying it on the cheap from firms that have tried and failed to collect. It is their opportunity to make a profit but it also presents a challenge. ''How can [they] be successful where those who went before weren't?'' said Nicholas F. Ortiz, a consumer lawyer with a lawsuit pending against Norfolk Financial. ''That's where we come to seizing cars.''

Chad Goldstone said the debts he buys are typically one or two years old, although Commonwealth lawsuits examined by the Globe were often for credit card debt that was four or even five years old. Goldstone said he pays 6 or 7 cents on the dollar for the accounts he buys - $60 or so for a $1,000 debt - and generally collects 18-20 cents on the dollar.

Both brothers file nearly all their lawsuits in small claims because the filing fee is capped at $40 and judgments come with greater speed and ease. Chad Goldstone, with a staff of only six, estimated he sues as many as 7,800 people a year and almost always prevails - largely because more than 80 percent of the people he sues don't show up in court. ''People ignore the letters and the phone calls, and then we get a default judgment. That's an ostrich mentality,'' he said.

Or, he added, it's a ''game of chicken,'' in which Commonwealth keeps up the pressure until the holdouts give in, scraping together a negotiated amount, to avoid having their cars taken, or to get a vehicle back.

Daniel Goldstone has filed nearly as many lawsuits as his brother - about 22,000 over the last four years. And he appears to have resorted to car seizures at least as often.

Daniel Goldstone did tell the Globe last year that he takes no pleasure in hooking cars: ''I find it distasteful, seizing cars. ..... It is an avenue of last resort,'' he said.

That claim would come as a surprise to many of the debtors he has sued.

Driven to the brink

At 48, Joanne M. Johnson has been disabled with severe depression for five years. She gets by, barely, on a $739 disability payment. The one thing the Leominster resident owns of any monetary value is her midsize sedan, a 1996 Plymouth Breeze. It is her only means of transportation to medical appointments and to the thrift shops and food banks she visits when she can't make ends meet.

In 2001, when Johnson became ill, she lost her job as a supervisor in the packing department of a local manufacturing firm, then defaulted on a credit card with a $500 limit. Norfolk stepped in, bought the debt, and in 2004 filed a lawsuit against her for $1,035 - the debt plus three years' interest.

That's when the process went awry. When Norfolk sued, it supplied the Leominster District Court with an address where Johnson had never lived. The court put a hold on the suit when the notices came back undelivered. But for reasons court officials would not explain, the suit was then allowed to go forward after another notice was sent to Johnson - at the same wrong address. And when Johnson didn't show up for her court date, Norfolk automatically won.

Then, with a judgment in hand, Norfolk phoned Johnson and told her to appear in court in early February 2005 to work out a payment schedule, according to Johnson. When she arrived, an attorney was there to answer questions. Johnson said she assumed he was a legal aid lawyer. In fact, he was a lawyer for Norfolk Financial who, Johnson said, never identified himself.

The lawyer asked her to fill out a financial statement and then, before she could figure out what was happening, she found herself before a judge.

''I told the judge that once my car was paid off, I could pay $10 a month,'' she said. ''All he said was, 'OK.' He stamped the paper and said, 'You're finished.' Nobody looked at me and said, 'We're going to take your car.'''

But that's what happened. On April 1, 2005, less than two months after her court hearing, Worcester County sheriff's deputies, who had no trouble finding Johnson's correct address, appeared at her home at about 8 a.m. and took her car. To get it back, Johnson would have had to pay a sheriff's fee, towing, and storage charges and interest, in addition to the $1,000 court judgment. The tally: $1,380.

With the help of a legal aid lawyer, Johnson filed for bankruptcy. But it was not until three months later, after a bankruptcy court judge threatened to jail the tow lot owner, that her car was returned - damaged, says Johnson.

The trauma of losing her car sent Johnson into a downward emotional spiral. Within a week, she became suicidal, and checked in at the emergency room at the HealthAlliance hospital in Leominster. Then she was transferred by ambulance to a psychiatric ward, where she spent two nights under a suicide watch.

While the record is clear that court papers were not sent to Johnson's correct address, Daniel Goldstone said that his company had met the legal requirements for serving notice. As for the seizure, he said: ''Norfolk provided the court's execution to the office of the county sheriff, who caused Ms. Johnson's car to be seized.''

Left in humiliation

For Audrey E. Anderson, a 71-year-old retired Wellesley College teacher, dealing with Chad Goldstone's company, Commonwealth Receivables, turned into an annual nightmare, with Commonwealth seizing her car three times - in 2001, 2002, and 2003.

But what the collection firm took from Anderson wasn't just her 1995 Toyota Camry, she said. It was a retiree's sense of independence. Because her car was seized, Anderson had to lean on her 85-year-old husband, Ezra, and friends, in ways she often found humiliating. ''When you're a strong person and you have your car taken, that's like losing your right arm,'' she said. ''You can't do anything.''

Unlike Joanne Johnson, Anderson did receive a notice from Framingham District Court to appear for her initial hearing, on a debt of $2,019. But she also received a letter from Commonwealth saying, ''Our representatives are willing to work with you on this matter so that your appearance in court may not be necessary.'' (Norfolk sends debtors letters with nearly identical language.)

Anderson said she called to negotiate, started making $50 monthly payments, and was again told she might not need to appear in court. But when she didn't show, Commonwealth won its case against her by default. And when Anderson missed a payment several months later, Commonwealth, armed with its court judgment, sent constables and a tow truck for her car.

If Anderson couldn't afford to pay off her remaining debt, she also couldn't afford the $600 fee charged by the constable for taking her Camry, she said. To get the car off the tow lot, Anderson paid a $135 towing and storage fee, and entered into two monthly payment plans: One to BayState Constable Service Inc. and another to Commonwealth, making an initial payment of $110 to each firm.

Anderson's records show she made some of those monthly payments. But with a limited income based largely on Social Security benefits, Anderson said, she fell behind. And once again, Commonwealth had her car towed.

Anderson managed to retrieve her car a second time, scraping together a payment of $1,075 and entering into another agreement to make monthly payments to Commonwealth. But when she fell behind a third time, the company took her car for good - along with, she said,

medication for her asthma, diabetes, and high blood pressure that she had left in the vehicle. ''Can you re-seize this one?'' the fax from Commonwealth to BayState read. ''You should have the original [documents]. Thanks!''

Even though Anderson shelled out a total of $2,741 in debt payments, constable fees, and other charges - more than the original debt - she would never see her car again. Three years later, she still doesn't know what happened to it. When the Globe asked about its whereabouts, O'Connor, Commonwealth's lawyer, would only say that the Camry had been lawfully seized.

Yvonne W. Rosmarin, an Arlington attorney who has sued both Goldstone brothers on behalf of other consumers, said she believes it is unfair and misleading for the Goldstones to suggest to debtors that they do not have to go to court, without telling them that they will automatically lose their cases if they do not appear.

''The debtors work out payment plans, then there are default judgments issued against them and their cars are hooked,'' Rosmarin said. ''It seems to me outrageous.'' Rosmarin also said she believes the tactic is a violation of the federal Fair Debt Collection Practices Act.

O'Connor, the Goldstones' lawyer, insisted that the letters are ''in no way'' deceptive and that they comply with federal law.

Lives disrupted

Losing a car is bad enough. But losing a car, a house, and a job was what faced Michaelyn S. Rackley and her husband, Raheem R. Weldon, in 2001, after Norfolk Financial filed a lawsuit against Rackley - and sent notice of the suit to the wrong address. She lives in Athol. Norfolk sued her at an address in Waltham.

Unlike Chad Goldstone, Daniel Goldstone often goes after debtors' homes, as well as their cars. Real estate records examined by the Globe show that, over the last four years, Norfolk has put liens on more than 1,000 homes throughout the state. Once a lien is placed on a home, it cannot be sold or even refinanced unless the lien holder is paid.

Norfolk filed its lawsuit against Rackley on May 1, 2001, for a $543 credit card debt. Court records show that the notice sent to Waltham was returned undelivered - which should have prompted the Waltham District Court to demand a correct address from the collector, or dismiss the lawsuit. Nonetheless, on Aug. 13, 2001, Norfolk won an automatic judgment against Rackley - because Rackley did not appear for a hearing she knew nothing about.

Then last summer, Norfolk first came after Rackley's car, and then her home.

The Worcester County deputy sheriffs and a tow truck hauled 8away her 1998 Subaru Forester in June. As a consequence, Rackley had to quit her job delivering newspapers for the Worcester Telegram & Gazette.

In July, Daniel Goldstone placed a lien on the couple's Athol home. In October, Rackley had no choice but to pay off the debt - $1,038, with accumulated interest - when the couple went to refinance their home.

But Rackley never got her Subaru back. After it was seized, the storage charges mounted daily - all the way to $5,600 by October. In December, Direnzo Towing & Recovery of Millbury sold the vehicle to recoup its costs, according to the Worcester County sheriff's office.

Rackley has since filed a federal lawsuit against Norfolk. And Norfolk has moved to have the suit dismissed, asserting that all of Rackley's claims ''are meritless as a matter of law.''

Rackley said she's found the experience frustrating. Norfolk, she said, is ''very underhanded. It's almost like they get a list of names and pick one out of a hat and say, 'Okay, we're going after that one.'.''

And then there was the case of Marie Dimanche, the Mattapan mother who awoke to a 6 a.m. visit from constables working for Commonwealth Receivables.

Dimanche thought the debt Commonwealth was trying to collect had been paid by Travelers Aid Family Services, an agency for the homeless that had once helped Dimanche find a place to live. An official with the agency said it often provides financial assistance to clients, paying off old debts and restoring credit.

When Commonwealth rejected her explanation, Dimanche's effort to keep her car off the auction block became a race against time. Scrambling to understand the legal actions that had been taken against her, she filed a motion in November 2002 in Boston Municipal Court, asking to have the court's judgment against her lifted.

Dimanche, in her motion, said she never received notice of Commonwealth's lawsuit because of the outdated address the firm provided to the court. She emphasized the urgency of her case: her car was to be auctioned on Nov. 22.

The court responded by scheduling a hearing for Dec. 5 - more than a week after the scheduled auction. And on Nov. 22, her car was sold for $2,197 - about a third of the vehicle's market value, according to the National Auto Dealer's Association Used Car Guide.

Days later, on Dec. 5, a judge lifted the judgment against Dimanche. But by then it was too late. Dimanche resigned herself to bumming rides and using the MBTA to get to work and take her daughters to school. It was two years before she could afford to buy another car.

But a reliable means of transportation wasn't the only thing Dimanche and her children lost: Without her car, Dimanche was unable to make use of a City of Boston scholarship for computer training courses in Quincy - training that Dimanche said would have qualified her for a better-paying job at Sears, her employer.

''They don't understand that they're altering people's lives,'' Dimanche said of Commonwealth. ''It's not like you can just catch a ride and go on like normal.''

Part 2: A court system compromised

Dignity faces a steamroller

Small-claims proceedings ignore rights, tilt to collectors

Finally, he hoped to face down for good the debt collector who had been hounding him and his mother for more than two years over a $980 credit card bill. He'd had to miss his first scheduled hearing in small-claims court a year earlier, and a note in his file explained why: ''Phone call from defendant - he is in the Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, D.C., upon return from Iraq and losing both arms.''

A lot of things could have gone Damon's way in the wake of that phone call. None did.

The clerk who took the call could have advised Damon that, under federal law, he could delay the case while he recovered.

The court could have challenged the debt collector, Norfolk Financial Corp., about the claim in its lawsuit that Damon was not a soldier - a claim made under penalties of perjury.

And a clerk should have simply dismissed the case when Damon, having recovered sufficiently to take a $400 flight home from the hospital, arrived for a hearing in September of 2004, only to find the collection lawyer unprepared.

FOLLOW-UP: Mass. chief justices react to Spotlight report  GRAPHIC: Small claims lawsuits in Massachusetts  ANNOTATED DEBTORS' FORM: Murky instructions  MESSAGE BOARD: Post your thoughts on debt collection practices in the US, and tell us if you have had any encounters with debt collectors. If you are interested in sharing your story with the Spotlight Team, just send an e-mail to debt@globe.com.  DEBTORS' HELL PART 1: Preying on red-ink America  DEBTORS' HELL PART 3: Behind the badge  DEBTORS' HELL PART 4: National crisis, official silence  Series homepage

But such simple justice was denied Damon, as it is thousands of other debtors when they come up against the lowest level of the state court system.

The ''people's court'' has become the collectors' court, a Globe Spotlight Team investigation has found. It is a de facto arm of a fast-growing and aggressive industry that has swamped court dockets with lawsuits - cases that often lead to threats of jail for debtors.

Created to provide a low-cost, level playing field for citizens with disputes of $2,000 or less, the small-claims courts have mutated into a system that often ignores individual rights and shows favoritism toward collectors and their lawyers. On some days, indeed, collection lawyers appear to be in charge - with no oversight by judicial officials.

Debtors often feel intimidated in this arena, and with reason. The system is tilted against them. And 150 years after the state's last debtors' prison was shuttered, some, even now, find themselves locked up for failing to pay. A Brockton man, for example, was imprisoned for four weeks over last Christmas.

More commonly, the threat of jail is a scare tactic, another way to force quick results in this rubber-stamp system, where the supreme priority in many courts is to move the flood of collection cases along - with little regard for the merits, or the dignity of individual defendants.

Peter Damon is one whose dignity took a considerable beating. (Read court documents related to this case here.)

As he reached the head of the security line that April day, Damon's new prosthetic arms, clearly visible in his Johnny Damon baseball shirt, set off the metal detector. By the time the 33-year-old veteran got to the hearing room, he was two minutes late. Tentatively, he approached the desk of the assistant clerk-magistrate.

''Yes?'' said the clerk, William J. Martin 3d. Damon stammered out his name, at which Martin snapped, ''This is not the time for that,'' and then scolded, ''Have a seat. I don't know what possessed you to do that.''

Damon ultimately won that day, when Norfolk's lawyer suddenly offered to dismiss the case. Martin obliged: ''Dismissed,'' he said, never glancing up from his desk.

In his victory, Damon was one of the lucky ones. A Globe review of proceedings and records in 20 of the state's 70 small-claims courts found that court officials and collection lawyers routinely break court rules, almost always to the detriment of the defendant. Collectors are almost never asked to prove the debts they claim; defendants are rarely informed of their rights. And debtors, usually too strapped to afford a lawyer, must contend with this legal mismatch alone.

Russell Engler, a professor at the New England School of Law who studies the way people are treated in civil court, said unrepresented parties often get steamrolled. While it can be tricky for clerk-magistrates and judges when only one side has a lawyer, he said, those are precisely the cases in which court officials should act to redress the imbalance.

''You have a system that is supposed to be accessible to ordinary people,'' Engler said. ''Instead, it's operating as a swift tool for corporations with power and with lawyers.''

The chief justice of the district court system, Lynda M. Connolly, expressed surprise, during a February interview with the Globe, at the extent to which corporate debt collectors have come to dominate small-claims sessions. Some of the abuses described to her by the Globe were, she said later, ''horrific.''

Diane Albertson's experience in court was nothing short of humiliating.

Debt collector Norfolk Financial Corp. claimed that Peter Damon, who lost his arms in Iraq, was not a soldier. (Globe Staff Photo / Michele McDonald) (Read court documents related to this case here.)

A 50-year-old mother and nursing student, Albertson stood before Judge Thomas Barrett in Brockton District Court on Feb. 7, called to account for a $438 oil bill that she believed, mistakenly, she had paid. She admits she had been sloppy about the matter, missing court dates twice, in the crush of family and school obligations. And after an initial court judgment against her, she sent a check to satisfy the debt, but stopped payment on it.

That made the plaintiff, Stanley Litchfield of Scudder Fuel, angry - and understandably so. The firm had waited more than a year to be paid. But even he was shocked at what the judge did that day.

''Take your rings off,'' Barrett said, according to the court's audio transcript of the hearing.

''All of my jewelry?'' Albertson replied in dismay. ''I can't give you my wedding ring.''

''Let me see it,'' Barrett said, ordering her to approach the bench and splay her hands before him. He then told her sternly to remove the other rings, including her diamond and amethyst engagement ring, and her earrings.

''Are you serious?'' Albertson asked, near tears.

''We'll hold them until the debt's paid,'' Barrett said. ''Either that or I'll incarcerate you. Do you want me to incarcerate you?''

Albertson handed over her jewelry, keeping only the thin gold band on her left ring finger. A bailiff sealed them in a plastic bag, where they would stay for a month.

Engler, the law professor, called Barrett's behavior ''outrageous.''

''Litigants are supposed to be able to be heard and be treated with respect,'' Engler said. ''The judge sets the tone for everything.''

Barrett declined to be interviewed.

Humbling experiences

Humiliations large and small are an everyday reality in many Massachusetts small-claims courts. Often, debtors are treated with less courtesy than the accused felons in the criminal court across the hall, and their rights are less respected.

Examples abound:

• In Quincy District Court, a clerk-magistrate barks at defendants packed into a cramped room if they don't reply loudly enough to the call of their names. In New Bedford, collection lawyer Martin Odstrchel calls the name of an older woman who has been waiting in line for two hours; as she hobbled toward him, leaning on her cane, he admonishes, ''Hurry up.''
• In Worcester, more than 60 people summoned for civil debt collection cases sit in a large courtroom that says ''Criminal'' over the door. The noise from the adjacent lockup is so loud it drowns out the magistrate as she calls out the list of lawsuits. Angrily, she shouts for quiet, not realizing the noise is coming from the prisoners; the cowed debtors on the benches before her are silent.
• And in Lowell District Court, on the Tuesday before Christmas, an assistant clerk-magistrate calls debtors up to her desk, one by one, to review their promises to pay. She then warns every one: ''If you don't pay, you could be found in contempt, and you could go to jail.''

Connolly, the district court chief, said it's reasonable for court officials to inform debtors of the worst-case scenario. But pressed as to whether the courts ought to issue jail threats, Connolly said, ''Let's be very clear: It is not appropriate for anybody to threaten anybody, in small claims or any place else.''

Yet such threats are a common tool, both in small-claims court and in the district court civil sessions, which handle debt cases between $2,000 and $25,000.

Last year, Jack Fraioli, the owner of a small, struggling cleaning enterprise, was called before a judge in Dedham District Court after falling behind on payments he'd promised to make to a vendor. His $9,000 debt had ballooned to nearly $12,000, with interest and fees. Fraioli's wife was ill and the family's cars had been towed three times by debt collectors. After being badgered in the court corridor by a collection lawyer, Hindell S. Grossman, he agreed to pay $250 a month, even though he knew that would be a stretch.

In the courtroom, Judge Sarah B. Singer reviewed the agreement and warned Fraioli of the serious import of his promise to pay.

''It's not a promise to get this lady off your back,'' she said, referring to Grossman. ''Pay the money or go to jail.'' She added, ''That's a result no one in this room wants to see.''

Judges regularly hear debt cases in civil court, but in 1993, the responsibility for small-claims cases was turned over to clerk-magistrates. Today, judges get involved in small claims mainly when people ignore judgments against them. That can make cases sent to judges more highly charged, observed Jason David Fregeau, a consumer lawyer in Longmeadow. Some judges, he said, ''tend to treat people who owe debts like criminals.''

The sheer volume of cases seems to encourage rough or dismissive treatment of defendants, the Globe found. There were nearly 122,000 small claims filed in 2005 in Massachusetts, marking an 11 percent rise over the past decade. Meanwhile, court budgets have been slashed and court staff reduced by 14 percent since 2000. Officials say there's barely time to get through the docket, much less attend to the considerations behind each claim.

''It is not unusual, given the extraordinary number of cases before our district courts, that the urgent overwhelms the important,'' Connolly said. ''We can do better.''

Connolly, after the February interview with the Globe, appointed a panel to review the small-claims courts, convened a training session for clerks and judges, and is studying ways to make defendants more aware of their rights and to curb the influence of collection lawyers. One early change: Court officials have been told to be sure debtors do not agree to make payments out of their government assistance checks.

'If we see areas that we can improve, then we will make those improvements,'' said Connolly, who became chief justice two years ago. ''I am committed to doing that.''

A bargain for big collectors

The courts don't track the number of cases filed by debt collectors. But the Globe, after hand-counting cases in the state's computer system, interviewing numerous clerks and judges, and attending dozens of hearings, determined that at least 60 percent of all cases funneled through the civil courts are brought by professional collectors. One credit card firm, Capital One Financial Corp., filed more than 38,000 small-claims lawsuits against Massachusetts consumers in the last four years.

At Boston Municipal Court, the state's busiest small-claims court, roughly 85 percent of the lawsuits are brought by companies collecting old debts, according to Kevin F. Callahan, first assistant clerk-magistrate for the civil division. The downtown court has handled 40,000 small claims in five years; it gets so many suits from Norfolk Financial, Commonwealth Receivables Inc., Filene's, and NStar that it had ink stamps made for each one.

At a cost of just $40 to file a lawsuit for any amount up to $2,000, debt collectors find a bargain in Massachusetts small claims. A victory in court lets them pursue a debt for up to 20 years, and earn 12 percent annual interest on it - a rate that's matched or exceeded in only five states. The Legislature hasn't adjusted that rate since the 1980s.

''We're sophisticated collection agencies for these people,'' Callahan said. ''This is a lucrative business for some. ..... I hate it.''

It isn't just the indulgence of court officials that makes winning these cases so easy for debt collectors. The defendants also do their part: About 80 percent of people sued for debts in Massachusetts courts fail to show up at all, according to the estimates of clerks and lawyers and the Globe's observation.

There are many reasons for that. Some people ignore letters from collectors and the court, the sort of carelessness that got them in trouble in the first place. Others know they owe money, but can't easily get time off work.

Still others never receive notice of the court date. In Massachusetts, notices of lawsuits are sent by first-class mail to the address supplied by collectors. Often these addresses are out of date, yet the courts assume the defendant was notified unless the letter is returned. This is

a flawed system, the Globe found in a test: Of 100 letters sent to the same person at incorrect addresses across the state, just 52 came back marked ''return to sender'' by the post office; the other 48 simply went missing. (See some of the returned envelopes here.) A backup requirement that debtors receive notice by certified mail was dropped two years ago as a cost-saving measure.

Even when properly delivered, the notice sent to defendants would confuse almost anyone. The debtor's instructions are listed in tiny, faint type on the back of the form, and are in many ways misleading. For example, they say that plaintiffs must prove their claims - something that never occurred during the many hearings attended by the Globe. They also fail to warn defendants of the serious consequences of failing to appear: The collector automatically wins, gaining the right to seize property, garnish wages, put a lien on a home, or get a civil arrest warrant to have the defendant hauled into court. (See the debtors' instructions with notes here.)

Even defendants who do show up tend to lose most of the time, and for a simple reason - they owe the money, or at least part of it. But many cases that could be contested are not. With a little information, and pluck, lawyers say, many defendants could turn the tables against the collectors by demanding that they produce evidence of the debt.

''You have rights, too. It's not just the creditor,'' said Joseph B. McIntyre, a collection lawyer in New Bedford.''But you've got to be brave enough to vindicate your rights.''

Most people simply settle, he said, and the work flow of the court system is built on that assumption. ''They'd have a problem if everybody wanted a trial,'' he said.

Margaret A. Donnelly, an 85-year-old widow from Duxbury, is one who fought back.

Living on Social Security and suffering from congestive heart disease, Donnelly was barely making ends meet in the summer of 2004. Struggling to cover the cost of her medications and her electric bills, she said she was stunned when a Plymouth County deputy sheriff appeared at her door with a warrant for her arrest. He said she had been sued for $1,471 and had missed her court date.

It was an old fight with Chase Manhattan Bank over a Visa card coming back to haunt her, one she thought had long since been resolved. Determined to set the matter straight, she went to Plymouth District Court on June 1, 2004, and, on her own, filed a motion to remove the judgment against her, despite pressure from court officials to get it over with and pay.

''It's absolutely appalling,'' Donnelly said. ''The people who tell you to 'Just pay it.'. ''

At a July hearing, the collection law firm Lustig, Glaser & Wilson asked the court for more time to gather evidence to support its claim -- a common request as debt collectors often start with limited information about the debt owed. In the meantime, the court allowed the firm to put a lien on Donnelly's condominium.

Nearly a year and two trips to court later, Donnelly was still demanding proof, and Lustig, Glaser could produce none. Finally, in June 2005 the law firm threw in the towel and the case was dismissed.

The managing partner of the law firm, Kenneth C. Wilson, said he could not comment on the Donnelly matter because federal and state laws bar discussion of debt cases with outside parties.

Clerks routinely give plaintiffs the benefit of the doubt. And basic questions of fact are rarely asked or answered: Might the plaintiff's claim be false or overstated? Might they be after the wrong person?

Yes, they might. George Rodrigues of New Bedford twice had to go to court over a $1,665 NStar bill that was not his. Both times, the DHL driver had to take time off work, costing him $200 a day, to convince the court it had the wrong guy.

The NStar debt belonged to a different George Rodriguez - ending with a z. The fellow NStar was after was 21; Rodrigues is twice his age. But in court, it was Rodrigues who faced the burden of proving he was innocent. ''How many times can I show them my information?'' Rodrigues asked.

The clerk would not accept Rodrigues's proof of his identity; he insisted on a hearing, at which NStar's lawyer finally dropped the case.

A tipped scale

This is the way it was meant to be in small-claims courts: two people without lawyers facing one another. But reality has outstripped that notion. Defendants hardly ever have lawyers, while the corporate plaintiffs always do.

And the collection lawyers sometimes seem to direct the sessions.

In Framingham District Court last Sept. 14, the clerk's chair sat empty for 15 minutes after the scheduled 1:30 start of the session. Two collection attorneys moved to fill the gap, starting at 1:20. With clipboards and stacks of paperwork, they stood at the front of the courtroom, calling out defendants' names and asking them to come forward. They negotiated some cases and scheduled others for future dates, with no clerk present.

One defendant, Loretta Jenkins, was there on her lunch break. She discussed her debt with a lawyer, whom she thought was a district attorney. The lawyer told her not to bother waiting for the magistrate, but to ''get this over with and get back to work.'' So she signed a payment agreement and left.

By the time clerk-magistrate Thomas J. Begley entered the courtroom, the majority of the cases had been dispensed with. There was no one to ensure that the defendants had not been pressured into payments they could ill afford.

Judge Connolly, speaking generally, defended the right of litigants at any level of the court system to settle their differences without the supervision of a clerk or judge.

But Engler, the New England School of Law professor, said lawyers too often take advantage of debtors in such unsupervised conversations. It is, he said, ethically improper for plaintiff lawyers to advise debtors what to do. And it's up to the courts to monitor this behavior. ''The court has to give it something other than a rubber stamp,'' he said.

Begley, in an interview, said he didn't know that defendants were confused about the role of the lawyers. Subsequently, on April 25, he posted a letter to attorneys in his court, telling them not to speak to defendants before the start of hearings and requiring all parties to stay until their payment deals are reviewed. ''We won't accept any further agreements until we see both parties,'' he said.

But when it comes to specifically informing debtors of their rights, most clerks say they want to avoid any appearance of advocacy. They therefore feel it's not proper to tell debtors they can dispute a debt or demand documentation of it. Or that if they are on public assistance, they can't be forced to use that money to satisfy a judgment.

Only at the Boston Municipal Court did the Globe observe a clerk carefully questioning defendants about their ability to pay. At one session, assistant clerk-magistrate Patrick F. Mullaney asked each debtor whether he or she had a

Roslyn A. Bakst leaves the New Bedford District Court, where she and her husband, attorney Arthur M. Bakst, work to collect debts. (Globe Staff Photo / John Tlumacki)

job and could truly afford the payments they were agreeing to make. He asked if they were on any kind of public assistance, and if so, told them the case would be dropped for a year.

''One part of the government is giving them something to get by,'' Mullaney said. ''It doesn't seem to make sense that another part of the government is ordering them to pay money.''

Even the plaintiffs' lawyers at Boston Municipal ask defendants if they have the means to pay, because Mullaney requires them to do so.

Connolly said the courts must rely on the ''good faith'' of the lawyers who appear before them to uphold the rules. But, with so many unrepresented debtors going up against lawyers, she acknowledged, ''There's an imbalance there. There's no ifs, ands, or buts about it.''

That imbalance is exacerbated by another widespread practice in debt cases - the use of ''covering'' attorneys.

These are legal practitioners who are paid small sums by collection firms to raise their hand and say ''here'' when a case is called. They appear at courts around the state, often representing as many as a dozen plaintiffs in a single session. And they typically know only the barebones facts of a given case, a name and the sum that's supposedly owed.

Covering lawyers usually don't need to know more; they're simply there to collect default judgments against people who don't show up. On a busy day last September in Lowell, for instance, a handful of covering lawyers had only to say ''plaintiff'' for the record 132 times. Their work was done in 90 of those cases, because the defendants did not appear.

Enforcers' might goes unchecked

They have the power to take your car, your money, and sometimes your freedom. And they bring some uncommon credentials to the job.

Consider these resume highlights:

Kenneth J. Dorsey: Manager of a Jamaica Plain gin mill. Ran illegal gaming operation. Busted by Boston Police. Rifle and shotgun confiscated. Guilty plea, 1994.

Kevin J. Dalton: Plymouth County deputy sheriff until 2001. Fired after State Police probe into alleged shakedown of a company seeking a contract with the sheriff's department, an accusation he denies.

Constance M. Sorenson: Filed for bankruptcy in 2003 with $47,000 in delinquent credit card debt. Fined for punching a woman in the mouth outside a bar. Arrest warrant pending for failure to pay $100 fine in another case. Along with that baggage, Sorenson, Dalton, and Dorsey also carry badges - as officers in the murkiest backwater of the Massachusetts law enforcement community. They earn their keep as constables, independent operators appointed by cities and towns to serve court papers and execute court orders.

In Boston alone there are 186 of them, and Mayor Thomas M. Menino has given arrest powers to every one, including Dorsey and 87 others with criminal arrest records for offenses including firearms violations, indecent assault and battery on a child, and impersonating a police officer. Seven have been appointed in spite of guilty verdicts, among them one convicted twice in the last four years of beating his wife. (See a full list of crimes that Boston constables have been arrested for here.)

Constables are an odd, anachronistic leftover from colonial days. No training is required, no oversight is provided, and no state agency keeps track of their identities, much less their numbers - an estimated 1,500 to 2,000 statewide.

Yet many among them, including Dorsey, Dalton, and Sorenson, are foot soldiers for the most aggressive debt collectors in Massachusetts. They make their money by night, or at first light, with a frightening thump on the door, seizing cars by the thousands from intimidated debtors who have missed, or ignored, court orders to pay their creditors.

Most constables prefer to knock politely during daylight hours to deliver subpoenas and the like for their $35 or $40 fee.

CHAT TRANSCRIPT: Spotlight editor Walter V. Robinson discussed the debt series  FOLLOW-UP: Judges say they have launched reforms  RELATED: Nearly half of Boston constables have arrest records  RELATED: Bay State laws on property seizures mostly antiquated, routinely ignored  GRAPHIC: Credit collection woes  LIST: Constables' crimes  MESSAGE BOARD: Post your thoughts on debt collection practices in the US, and tell us if you have had any encounters with debt collectors. If you are interested in sharing your story with the Spotlight Team, just send an e-mail to debt@globe.com.  DEBTORS' HELL PART 1: Preying on red-ink America  DEBTORS' HELL PART 2: A court system compromised  DEBTORS' HELL PART 4: National crisis, official silence  Series homepage

But their more aggressive colleagues do much, much better than that, thanks to a 1990 amendment to state law that allows them to charge whatever they like for auto seizures. The result is price-gouging: Constables charge debtors between $600 and $900 to accompany the tow truck that arrives to hook a car. The fee used to be capped at $25.

When debtors cannot raise the cash to pay the debt and the seizure fees, their cars are sold at auction. Here again the constables are part of the game: Proceeds of the auction are split among the constable, the tow lot, and the creditor. Almost always ignored, the Globe found, is a state law requiring that the first $700 of the sale proceeds be returned to debtors.

In this obscure trade, constables have some well-armed competitors: the county deputy sheriffs, who sit one short rung up the law enforcement ladder and have grabbed an increasing share of the business. For sheriffs, too, the pursuit of a payout can sometimes take precedence over fairness. In one case earlier this year, two deputy sheriffs in Worcester County threatened to arrest a woman who stood between them and her car - waving bankruptcy papers that should have exempted it from seizure. Nonetheless, she lost her car for 10 weeks.

Since 2001, sheriff's departments in just five counties - Worcester, Norfolk, Bristol, Plymouth, and Middlesex - have seized about 2,500 cars for debt collectors, most often for a fee of $600 per car. And like constables, they rarely tell debtors they are entitled to the first $700 from the sale of a seized auto.

The extraordinary expansion of the debt sold off for collection is one powerful force behind some of the collection abuses documented in the Spotlight investigation.

As debt is sold and re-sold, companies that buy the right to collect it often know little about the debtor: name, last known address, card issuer and account number, and amount due. That limited picture can cause problems for everyone involved.

Sean McVity, managing partner at Garnet Capital Advisors, a New York investment banking firm that brokers the sale of debt portfolios, said many large banks selling off debt have a ''buy-it-as-is'' attitude, providing only minimal data when they sell accounts, and charging buyers hefty fees if they come back for more documentation. He called it a ''dangerous'' practice.

Sparse data makes for major miscues: Outdated addresses mean that many consumers get no notice that they have been sued. And, with increasing frequency, the wrong person is targeted.

Collectors, too, are disadvantaged. Often, they have little evidence to support their claim on a past-due amount.

Michelle A. Weinberg, a legal aid lawyer in Chicago noted that, in Illinois as in Massachusetts, debt collectors have to file an affidavit with their lawsuits attesting to the legitimacy of their claims. ''But the affidavits are plainly false,'' Weinberg said. ''If the plaintiff has anything, it is only a computer printout.'' In every case she has taken, Weinberg said, she has challenged the veracity of the affidavit, and ''in every instance, the debt collector has dropped the case.''

Federal banking regulators have set no rules for how much data the banks should provide when they sell a customer's debt.

Some states, however, have moved to fill the void. Maine, West Virginia, and Minnesota, for instance, are developing reputations for aggressively regulating debt collection agencies that mistreat consumers.

And judges in a handful of states, including New Jersey, Maryland and Michigan, have found the imbalance between collectors and debtors so troubling that they are looking for change.

In Michigan, the three justices of the Southfield District Court in suburban Detroit, citing widespread abuses by debt buyers, want to update court rules to curb what they

describe as ''predatory'' practices, ''particularly for the majority of defendants who are not familiar with the court system and who cannot afford an attorney.''

The judges complain about numerous practices, many of which, the Globe found, are also commonplace in Massachusetts courts. In Michigan, the judges wrote:

• The sale and resale of uncollected debts often leads to cases involving outdated addresses, so debtors receive no notification they have been sued.

• Suits are mistakenly filed against the wrong consumers, or against people who have already repaid a debt.
• Debt collectors seldom have evidence of the original debts they are claiming.
• Debt collectors often misrepresent the amount owed by adding unwarranted interest charges.

Even consumers who pay off their debts have no guarantee the matter ends there. In Massachusetts and other states, collectors who win court judgments are required to notify the court when a judgment is paid. But many do not - leaving consumers powerless to erase black marks on their credit reports when they go to buy a car or refinance a home. They are often forced to take on higher interest rates, and with them larger payments and a greater likelihood they will slip back into financial trouble.

Cheryl Cook, a clerk in civil court in Orange County, Calif., said her court spends a lot of time fielding calls from people who are trying to clear up an old judgment that they paid. ''It's just crazy,'' Cook said. ''It's an extremely frustrating thing for anybody to go through.''

And among those who collect debts, some express growing unease about the way debtors are treated.

One is Richard S. Daniels Jr., a Boston lawyer whose firm has been collecting debts on behalf of clients for nearly 30 years and files about 20,000 small-claims lawsuits a year - more than any other debt collector in the state. And yet Daniels said the current practices of the credit card industry have left a sour taste in his mouth.

''Any system that puts people's backs up against the wall doesn't work,'' he said in an interview. Daniels described the penalties and fees that credit card companies tack onto consumer bills as ''usurious'' and ''totally unconscionable,'' making it impossible for people to get out of debt. Such charges, Daniels declared, amount to ''classic abuse I wish to hell Congress would do away with.''

''This used to be an honorable business,'' Daniels said, when discussing collections for credit card companies. ''Now, the guys on the other side are thieves.''