Went to court yesterday. Only the second time I’ve ever been, and the first time since I paid a traffic ticket back in college. The county courthouse is in a part of town I don’t normally frequent. Not that it’s a dodgy section or nothin’, just that it’s a little more traffic intensive and the streets curve unexpectedly, so I can never keep straight which way I’m going, and parking can be a mite tricky. In other words, it requires a tiny bit of mental energy, which I avoid expending at all costs.
But there I went, because Top Management learned from a clerk at the courthouse that if I showed up in person, the judge was likely to look favorably upon me. As that’s something that doesn’t happen often with me, I jumped at the opportunity.
I should probably tell you why I was involved with our legal system in the first place. A couple weeks back I was heading over the mountain to Waynesboro to pick up some pizzas. See, they’ve got a Little Caesar’s over there, which we no got over here. And in case you don’t know, Little Caesar’s pizza is cheap. Really, really cheap. As in, five bucks for a large plain or pepperoni. What’s more, our kids love Little Caesar’s. So, since we can get four pizzas for two bucks less than we can get two pizzas here in our tiny little town, getting three and then having leftovers for lunch the rest of the work more than makes it worth the price of the gas (this was pre-the recent gas gouging) and the extra forty-five minutes spent in the car. Besides, it’s a gorgeous drive. So we do that about once a month or so.
And that’s why I was heading over there a few weeks back, having just a fine time listening to Pearl Jam and talking to friend Keri on the phone. And coming the other way, quite rapidly, is a state trooper. I think nothing of it, because I’m the last car in a line of four, and although we’re all about a quarter mile from each other, we’re all going the same speed. So no biggie.
Until I look into my rearview mirror about a minute later and see the state trooper coming up behind me. Fast.
I look down and see that I’m speeding a bit. Not a ton, but a bit. What’s more, I was still on the phone and although I didn’t think that was illegal in Virginia the way it is in New York, I suddenly wondered. And sure enough, he hits his lights.
I pull over, cursing like a drunken sailor with tourette’s, and hang up the phone. Then I roll down the window and wait. And wait. And wait. And finally the cop comes up and asks for my license and registration. I give ‘em to him and wait for him to ask The Question. Which he eventually does.
"Sir, do you know why I pulled you over?"
I tell him that, indeed, I do not. Which was basically true. I had theories, but no real knowledge. Which is pretty much the case with the rest of my life as well.
But why do they always ask that? Do a healthy percentage of people incriminate themselves? "Yes! It’s because of the ten pounds of crack stuffed inside Jimmy Hoffa’s corpse in my trunk, isn’t it? Isn’t it?"
By the by, my Uncle John has been tracing our family history for a few decades now and it turns out I’m related to Jimmy Hoffa. And, no, I don’t know where he is. And, what’s more, I’ll never tell.
Anyhoo, I deny all knowledge of my criminal activities.
"Well, sir, your car was supposed to be inspected back in April," the copper says.
My mind went on the fritz. Seriously, I just blanked for a few seconds while I tried to process this. I wasn’t speeding—or at least that’s not what I was getting busted for. It’s not because I was on the phone. It wasn’t Jimmy Hoffa’s body. It was because I hadn’t had the car inspected. This I had not expected.
I pointed at the windshield. "You mean that thing?" I asked, now realizing that the big April 2004 thing might have been a tip-off. He agreed with me that, yes, it was that thing.
I thought about this, did a little counting my fingers, and had to agree that he’d caught me dead to rights. But I was still having trouble figuring out just how the hell I’d managed to forget to look at my freakin’ windshield for five damn months. I mean, seriously—five months? What the hell? I really was having trouble moving on to the next part of the conversation because I just keep fixating on that.
I was also vaguely impressed that, coming east at roughly sixty miles an hour and me going west at roughly sixty miles an hour, he’d managed to spot my telltale sticker—them’s some eyes on him. But shouldn’t he have been watching the damn road? Later I’d also wonder how the hell the cops had missed it for those five months. Shouldn’t they be doing their damn jobs better?
Okay. So he goes back to his cruiser to write me up my ticket and I’m sitting there thinking, okay, jackass, you’re busted. And you got no one to blame but your own pinheaded self. What’s more, I knew, I just knew that the ticket was gonna cost me like $85. I could feel it in my very bones.
And after ten minutes, Mister State Trooper (please don’t stop me) comes back and hands me the ticket. And I look at it very quickly and I see that it’s only $33! Calloo! Callay!
The irony of me being oh so very pleased at getting tapped for thirty-three bucks when I’d been willing to drive for an hour to save eight bucks was not lost on me even then. But, you know, eighty-five bucks versus thirty-three? When I’d been caught red-handed? I couldn’t help it. I was still pissed at myself, but nowhere near as badly as earlier, when I kept thinking that if I could, I’d clone myself, just so I could beat myself to a bloody pulp—that’s how mad I was. But no more. Now I was merely pissed at myself, rather than homicidal. What’s more, since it costs about fifteen bucks to get the car inspected, that comes out to about a buck and a quarter per month. So by being five months late, I saved myself six bucks. So that $33 ticket is really only $27. Yes, I was reaching, but in times of trouble, I do that.
So I go and get the pizzas, which have now been ready for half an hour and the drive is not nearly as pleasant as at other times. And I come home and tell Top Management about it and she begins beating herself up for not remembering that the car needed to be inspected even though she sometimes will go months without driving it, usually needing to be piloting the minivan. And I glance down at the ticket on the counter and see that there’s something I hadn’t quite noticed before.
That would be the $55 processing fee.
On top of the $33 for the ticket, that means my ticket came to…wait…hold on…that’s…carry the one…no, there’s no need to carry, so let me start over…oh, that’s right. $88. Three bucks more than I wanted to homicide myself for.
It was not a good night.
We weren’t able to get the car in to be inspected for several days, which left us short a car. No big deal, since we’ve set up our lifestyle to avoid more driving than necessary. But the Saturn’s the car I normally drive to the grocery store or the library, since it gets nearly twice the mileage of the minivan. So for four days I guzzled as I was gouged. But eventually we got it inspected.
I thought about contesting the ticket. Well, not exactly "contesting"—I mean, little as I wanted to pay the eighty-five bucks, I’m at heart something of a law and order guy: I did the crime, I should be prepared to do the time. Or pay the fine. You know. But the guy at the garage mentioned that if you show up at court and prove that you got it inspected, they’ll sometimes at least knock the fee down. Which sounded nice, and wasn’t completely news, but at some point you have to figure in how many hours it’ll take and is saving fifteen bucks worth two hours of your time? Is thirty bucks? Where’s the line?
Well, for me, it became slightly clearer this weekend when I was bitching about the processing fee, since that’s what really frosted me—the duplicity of it. If they just charged me the $88, I would have been really upset, even though it was completely my fault, because I don’t have that kind o’ cash to spare. But, hey, that’ll learn me to get my car inspected, right? Right. My fault, completely.
But it’s the bullshit way they jack the price up. If I’m going to be charged $88, charge me $88. Don’t make it $33 and then tack on some $55 processing fee. Tell you what, I’ll take the five minutes and file the paperwork for you and we’ll skip the processing fee, ‘kay? Otherwise, call a spade a spade and an $88 ticket an $88 ticket. I want no trickery from my legal system.
Well, the feller who was driving me, the brothers and the parents to dinner last Saturday night (delightful, thank you very much), said the reason they break it up that way is to save the judge’s time. See, he said, you’ll never, ever get the processing fee waived, so since the most you can talk your way out of is the $33, and even that might just be reduced, not waived entirely, people figure it’s not worth their time. Which doesn’t make the processing fee any less duplicitous. But does make it understandable. And clever.
So we decided to just pay the damn thing and chalk it up as a Life Lesson Learned. And no more pizza from Waynesboro. In fact, no more pizza for a few months, probably. Which means our children’ll think we’ve cut out one of the main food groups.
But when Top Management called to pay by phone, the county clerk said, "Well, did you get the car inspected?"
Top Management informed him that, yes, indeed we did. "Well, if you want to save yourself the eighty-five dollars, you can just come down here anytime before your 1:00 pm court date and the judge'll waive the whole thing."
Hmm. Conflicting information. But as we saw no reason for the clerk to fib, we scheduled a trip to court for me the next morning.
And now we’re pretty much back at the beginning of this piece. Damn but I can take a long time filling in backstory, can’t I?
So I park in one of Charlottesville’s two parking garages and walk to the courthouse which is located in historic Courthouse Square. Or maybe Court Square. I dunno. Anyhoo, it’s got cobblestone streets and pretty much no one around. Very pretty and historic-looking and slightly goofy, what with all these big buildings yet no people. Felt slightly post-apocalyptic.
Well, I located the county courthouse, courtesy a big sign out front which informs me that it was built in 1744. Old. Groovy. So I walk in and I have a choice of doors: Jury Room, Witness Room, Men’s, Ladies’…or the double-doors straight ahead which has no sign on it. And to get to them, I need to go through a metal detector which has no one nearby. In fact, as far as I can tell, I’m the only one in the building.
So I go through the double-doors. What choice do I have? And I find myself in court. With the judge sitting on the bench, the bailiff nearby, a prosecutor at one table, and the defendant and defense attorney at the other. And the five people sitting watching this all turn to look at me. And I look down at myself in my shorts, my sneakers with no socks and bright red t-shirt, holding Sports Illustrated and I suddenly feel very, very out of place.
Not sure what else to do, I sit down. And the judge and his assistant and the attorneys confer on when the trial should be postponed to, and they juggle dates, and talk about the defendant—a suburban-lookin’ mom in her mid-50s who looked very, very much like a neighbor of ours—and her parole. And this takes about five minutes and then it’s over and everyone leaves. Except for me.
So I go out in the hall and I catch the lady who was conferring with the judge on his schedule and ask where I should go and she explains that I should be at the County Courthouse Annex, which is attached to this building, but around the side. Oh, of course. I should have known. Duh.
So I go and that’s more like it: I walk in and there’s the clerk’s office right in front of me. Finally. Solid ground again. And they make me wait about ten minutes, then take my stuff and say, great, now, where’s the little pink slip? I look down at the two pages of the ticket and the bill showing I got the car inspected and all three of them are yellow.
"Pink…slip?" I say slowly.
Another clerk comes over to talk to me—I guess it was clear I was so stupid it was a two-person job. And they explain that I should have been given a pink slip and they frequently put it right in the glove compartment and didn’t they?
"Pink…slip?" I say slowly. "Glove compartment? Who?"
They look at each other, wondering if they’re going to need security on this one, then slowly say the exact same stuff again. Finally, they ask if I’d gotten the car inspected.
"Well, yeah," I say and point at the bill.
"Okay," the guy says. "When they inspect your car, they give you a little pink slip of paper. They normally put it in the glove compartment. We need that."
Twenty years I’ve been getting my car inspected, and normally on time. And I’ve never known this. How many other basic Adult 101 things am I unaware of? The mind reels.
So I go out to the car, leaving the yellow sheets with them. It’s a five minute walk to the garage, my heart pounding, wondering if it’s there. It is. Whoo-hoo!
I go back and the female clerk’s already made copies of my other papers, grabs the pink slip, makes a copy of that and tells me I can call tomorrow to find out the verdict.
And that’s that. I’m so very happy.
Until I’m pulling out the garage and I look at my ticket and I say, "I was just at the courthouse. If I’d had this validated, would I have just saved myself two bucks?"
She smiles brightly and says, "Sure would!"
It’s the little things. I get ‘em wrong every single time.
***
So I called the clerk’s office just now. And I said, "Hi, I’m calling to find out the judge’s ruling on my traffic ticket I got—they said I could call today. Am I calling the right number?"
The person on the other end said, I kid you not, "Probably. Hold." Click.
I waited five minutes, no hideous hold music—a bonus normally, but which had me wondering if I’d been hung up on. Finally, a different person came on and said, "The judge waived the whole thing. Have a nice day." Click.
Which had me wondering if I was the only person in my whole county who’d had a ticket thing the day before. Does that seem likely? Otherwise, how’d they know it was me?
So I got off scot-free (so to speak), about which I have very mixed feelings. I mean, I’m so glad I don’t have to pay…but I’m not sure that’s justice. I broke the law. Shouldn’t I have to face some sort of punishment? Isn't that the way this stuff is supposed to work?
I’m a conflicted individual. But a slightly less-poor one than I might have been.
I'd say your punishment was the torture of wondering if you got off or not, combined with being carless while you get it inspected....
Woo-hoo! Love it when they waive the fee.
My dh got pulled over for speeding (7 miles over the limit) called me, and I appropriately gave him all the grace I'd want in a similar situation. Then he called back five minutes later: Warning! There's nothing like a reprieve. We drive so slowly now. :)
Julie
Posted by: Julie | Thursday, September 15, 2005 at 07:40 PM
I'd say your punishment was the torture of wondering if you got off or not, combined with being carless while you get it inspected....
Yeah, right. Good try, though. :)
My dh got pulled over for speeding (7 miles over the limit) called me, and I appropriately gave him all the grace I'd want in a similar situation. Then he called back five minutes later: Warning! There's nothing like a reprieve.
The only time I've ever gotten a warning for speeding was on the New Jersey Turnpike, of all places. I find that incongruous.
It was my shortly after I began working in NYC. I flew down to Virginia Beach for the weekend, and Top Management drove up from Greensboro, where she was attending grad school. Sunday night I drove brother Jay's car home, and then the next weekend I was going to drive back down and then fly home. Got all that?
So it's about three o'clock in the morning and I'm on the turnpike and I'm just losin' it. I didn't yet discover the joy and magick of coffee, so I'm hopped up on Vivarin but it's a losing battle. I've got the radio cranked and the window down and trying oh so hard to stay awake but it's tough.
So I start screaming. Just yellin' my fool head off, as loud as I can, trying to wake up some. And I yell and I yell and I yell and I'm suddenly aware that there's a car next to me, keeping pace, two lanes over. And I look over and see two cops watching me.
They drop back and pull in behind me and hit their lights. And they come up and ask The Question:
"Sir, do you know why we pulled you over?"
Umm...because you think I'm insane?
No, it was for speeding. And they let me off with a warning. Maybe they didn't notice the screaming somehow. Or maybe they were just afraid of me. Because I think they probably should have patted me down. But I'm sure glad they didn't.
Woke me the hell up though, I can tell you that.
Posted by: Scott | Friday, September 16, 2005 at 11:25 AM
Scott, you need to write a book of blog entries. :) You have a gagillion incidents straight from your own bad-ass life that... well, I can't quite find the words, but they do keep me awake better than coffee. :)
Julie
Posted by: Julie | Saturday, September 17, 2005 at 07:09 AM
Scott, you need to write a book of blog entries.
Unfortunately, I got it backwards--I'm writing a blog full of book entries. You get paid the other way 'round, which is why I'm doing it this way. Because, you know, I'm an idiot.
...tthey do keep me awake better than coffee.
Well, hell's bells! High praise indeed. I can tell you for a fact, however, that I don't smell nearly as good in the morning. Alas for my poor fambly. On the other hand, that's what they get for choosing so unwisely when they picked me.
Posted by: Scott | Wednesday, September 21, 2005 at 11:37 AM