The California State Bar has charged a founding partner of Downtown LA Law Group, a law firm at the center of a scandal that has embroiled Los Angeles County’s historic sex abuse settlement, with signing up dozens of clients in states where none of the firm’s lawyers were licensed to practice.
The bar charged Salar Hendizadeh, who left the firm this fall, on March 5 with helping one of Southern California’s largest personal injury law firms sign accident victims across the country, despite lacking attorneys who could litigate the cases in other states. Hendizadeh was charged with eleven counts, including deceptive advertising and charging illegal fees.
State Bar Chief Trial Counsel George Cardona said in a statement the allegations, if proved, “represent dishonest and illegal conduct.”
Hendizadeh and a spokesperson for Downtown LA Law Group did not provide a comment Monday.
The firm had roughly 40 clients in Texas, where it operated under the name “Lone Star Injury Law Firm” and branded itself “Texas’s #1 Injury Law Firm,” according to the complaint.
The firm had one L.A.-based attorney licensed to practice in Texas, Darren McBratney, but he left the firm in early 2022. The bar claims the firm refused to remove the attorney’s name from its website for years, ignoring a cease and desist letter from McBratney’s new employer.
Typically, attorneys can take cases in states where they’re not licensed, but they need to partner with local counsel or get permission from the court. In many cases, the bar alleged, DTLA made no effort to do so and left their out-of-state clients in the lurch.
The firm told a Maryland car crash victim her case was worth $1 million and encouraged her to see a California spinal surgeon who charged roughly $300,000 for surgery, according to the complaint. She fired the firm after she got a settlement offer of $160,000 — not enough, she believed, to cover her medical fees, the complaint said.
Attorneys signed up a Tennessee client who was injured at a Nashville rental car business, but the one-year statute of limitations ran out before they filed the case, the bar complaint said. The firm offered to pay for all of his medical bills and one year of physical therapy “as a form of restitution,” according to the complaint.
The charges come as DTLA faces another pending investigation from the State Bar in connection with thousands of sexual abuse lawsuits the firm filed against Los Angeles County, along with a probe from the district attorney’s office. Both have said they are looking into allegations surfaced by The Times last fall that DTLA paid clients to file claims, some of which were allegedly fabricated, that became part of a $4-billion settlement, the largest of its kind in U.S. history. The firm has repeatedly denied all wrongdoing.
The firm was founded by three longtime friends: Daniel Azizi and Farid Yaghoubtil, who are cousins, and Hendizadeh, a friend from elementary school. They began working together in August 2013, the month Hendizadeh got his California bar license, according to the complaint.
The bar complaint charges only Hendizadeh, though it also mentions Yaghoubtil, who shared the responsibility for marketing and client intake, according to the complaint.
The bar says Yaghoubtil repeatedly asked for a referral fee from a woman injured in a Michigan drugstore after she dropped the firm for allegedly taking too long to file her lawsuit. The client had to find her own attorney, the bar said, eliminating the need for a referral fee.
“Why would you tell the lawyers to not pay us a referral fee? That makes no sense.” Yaghoubtil texted the woman on Aug. 16, 2022. “But why not let us get the referral fee? Very sad. Have a nice night.”
By day, you’d be forgiven for walking past the newest theater in downtown L.A.
It isn’t hidden in an alley or obscured via a nameless door. No, this performance space is essentially a theater in disguise, as it’s designed to look like an electrical box — a fabrication so real that when artist S.C. Mero was installing it in the Arts District, police stopped her, concerned she was ripping out its copper wire. (There is no copper wire inside this wooden nook.)
Open the door to the theater, and discover a place of urban enchantment, where a red velvet door and crimson wallpaper beckon guests to come closer and sit inside. That is, if they can fit.
With a mirror on its side and a clock in its back, Mero’s creation, about 6 feet tall and 3 feet deep yet smaller on its interior, looks something akin to an intimate, private boudoir — the sort of dressing room that wouldn’t be out of place in one of Broadway’s historic downtown theaters. That’s by design, says Mero, who cites the ornately romanticized vibe and color palette of the Los Angeles Theatre as prime inspiration. Mero, a longtime street artist whose guerrilla art regularly dots the downtown landscape, likes to inject whimsy into her work: a drainage pipe that gives birth, a ball pit for rats or the transformation of a dilapidated building into a “castle.” But there’s just as often some hidden social commentary.
With her Electrical Box Theatre, situated across from the historic American Hotel and sausage restaurant and bar Wurstküche, Mero set out to create an impromptu performance space for the sort of experimental artists who no longer have an outlet in downtown’s galleries or more refined stages. The American Hotel, for instance, subject of 2018 documentary “Tales of the American” and once home to the anything-goes punk rock ethos of Al’s Bar, still stands, but it isn’t lost on Mero that most of the neighborhood’s artist platforms today are softer around the edges.
Ethan Marks inside S.C. Mero’s theater inside a fake electrical box. The guerrilla art piece is near the American Hotel.
“A lot of galleries are for what can sell,” Mero says. “Usually that’s paintings and wall art.”
She dreamed, however, of an anti-establishment place that could feel inviting and erase boundaries between audience and perfomer. “People may be intimidated to get up on a stage or at a coffee shop, but here it’s right on street level.”
It’s already working as intended, says Mero. I visited the box early last week when Mero invited a pair of experimental musicians to perform. Shortly after trumpeter Ethan Marks took to the sidewalk, one of the American Hotel’s current residents leaned out his window and began vocally and jovially mimicking the fragmented and angular notes coming from the instrument. In this moment, “the box,” as Mero casually refers to it, became a true communal stage, a participatory call-and-response pulpit for the neighborhood.
Clown Lars Adams, 38, peers out of S.C. Mero’s theater inside a fake electrical box. Mero modeled the space off of Broadway’s historic theaters.
A few days prior, a rideshare driver noticed a crowd and pulled over to read his poetry. He told Mero it was his first time. The unscripted occurrence, she says, was “one of the best moments I’ve ever experienced in making art.”
“That’s literally what this space is,” Mero says. “It’s for people to try something new or to experiment.”
Marks jumped at the chance to perform for free inside the theater, his brassy freewheeling equally complementing and contrasting the sounds of the intersection. “I was delighted,” he says, when Mero told him about the stage. “There’s so much unexpectedness to it that as an improviser, it really keeps you in the moment.”
A downtown resident for more than a decade, Mero has become something of an advocate for the neighborhood. The area arguably hasn’t returned to its pre-pandemic heights, as many office floors sit empty and a string of high-profile restaurant closures struck the community. Mero’s own gallery at the corner of Spring and Seventh streets shuttered in 2024. Downtown also saw its perception take a hit last year when ICE descended on the city center and national media incorrectly portrayed the hood as a hub of chaos.
Artist S.C. Mero looks into her latest project, a fake electrical box in the Arts District. Mero has long been associated with street art in the neighborhood.
“A lot has changed in the 13 years when I first got down here,” Mero says. “Everybody felt like it was magic, like we were going to be part of this renaissance and L.A. was going to have this epicenter again. Then it descended. A lot of my friends left. But I still see the same beauty in it. The architecture. The history. Downtown is the most populous neighborhood in all of L.A. because it belongs to everybody. It’s everybody’s downtown, whether they love it or not. And I feel we are part of history.”
Art today in downtown ranges from high-end galleries such as Hauser & Wirth to the graffiti-covered towers of Oceanwide Plaza. Gritty spaces, such as Superchief Gallery, have been vocal about struggles to stay afloat. Mero’s art, meanwhile, remains a source of optimism throughout downtown’s streets.
At Pershing Square, for instance, sits her “Spike Cafe,” a mini tropical hideaway atop a parking garage sign where umbrellas and finger food props have become a prettier nesting spot for pigeons. Seen potentially as a vision for beautification, a contrast, for instance, from the nature intrusive barbs that aim to deter wildlife, “Spike Cafe” has become a statement of harmony.
Elsewhere, on the corner of Broadway and Fourth streets, Mero has commandeered a once historic building that’s been burned and left to rot. Mero, in collaboration with fellow street artist Wild Life, has turned the blighted space into a fantastical haven with a knight, a dragon and more — a decaying castle from a bygone era.
“A lot of times people are like, ‘I can’t believe you get away with that!’ But most people haven’t tried to do it, you know?” Mero says. “It can be moved easily. It’s not impeding on anyone. I don’t feel I do anything bad. Not having a permit is just a technicality. I believe what I’m doing is right.”
Musician Jeonghyeon Joo, 31, plays the haegeum outside of S.C. Mero’s latest art project, a theater in a faux electrical box.
After initially posting her electrical box on her social media, Mero says she almost instantly received more than 20 requests to perform at the venue. Two combination locks keep it closed, and Mero will give out the code to those she trusts. “Some people want to come and play their accordion. Another is a tour guide,” Mero says.
Ultimately, it’s an idea, she says, that she’s had for about a decade. “Everything has to come together, right? You have to have enough funds to buy the supplies, and then the skills to to have it come together.”
And while it isn’t designed to be forever, it is bolted to the sidewalk. As for why now was the right time to unleash it, Mero is direct: “I needed the space,” she says.
There are concerns. Perhaps, Mero speculates, someone will change the lock combination, knocking her out of her own creation. And the more attention brought to the box via media interviews means more scrutiny may be placed on it, risking its confiscation by city authorities.
As a street artist, however, Mero has had to embrace impermanence, although she acknowledges it can be a bummer when a piece disappears in a day or two. And unlike a gallerist, she feels an obligation to tweak her work once it’s out in the world. Though her “Spike Cafe” is about a year old, she says she has to “continue to babysit it,” as pigeons aren’t exactly known for their tidiness.
But Mero hopes the box has a life of its own, and considers it a conversation between her, local artists and downtown itself. “I still think we’re part of something special,” Mero says of living and working downtown.
And, at least for now, it’s the neighborhood with arguably the city’s most unique performance venue.
