My Traffic Court Experience
Mr. Pabulum assigns me a staggeringly large amount of work, and his other associates don't do it when I'm not around, and he's been known to accidentally spill hot coffee ("With EQUAL! Not Sweet-N-Lo!") into the laps of his associates who fall behind, so I didn't want to take a vacation day to go to fucking traffic court. So I signed up online for the earliest time they could see me, and they gave me an appointment of at 8:30. I'm supposed to be at work at 9:00, but I thought maybe if I showed up early I could get in, make my case, tell them who I work for, have the matter dropped, and get out of there in time to get back to the office before our Master Plan of Domination fell too far off track.
(Yeah. And maybe I'd also meet Bill Gates and Angelina Jolie in line, and one of them would give me a bajillion dollars while the other one gave me ahummer. (Before you ask - No, I don't particularly care which one does which. When I'm getting a bajillion dollars and a hummer, I don't get nitpicky about details.))
So I get to the court at 7:00, an hour and a half before my scheduled appointment, in the hope of being able to see the judge early if someone else misses their appointment or something.
Except the building doesn't even open its doors until 8:00.
So I have to wait outside with the other people like me who don't know how the system works. There's a rolling hotdog cart, but I see neighborhood dogs backing away from it with hackles raised and teeth bared, so I decide not to risk it. I spend my time listening to the hare-lipped guy wearing the Papal miter made of bloody newspapers, carrying poster boards with a lot of big emphatic writing on them, trying to convince me that God is dead and that Life is God and that American Imperialism is driving us toward WWIII. Check, check, and check. Preach it, my harelipped brother.
People start lining up at the front door at about 7:30, which confuses me because the sign says they open at 8:00. So, feeling superior because of my highly-evolved reading skills, I stay semi-comfortably seated on the concrete planter. By 7:45, though, the line is over 100 yards long, so I wander overto stand with the rest of the huddled masses.
At 8:05 the doors are opened. We shuffle bovinely past the Bloody Pope, who is chanting "Imperialism is dead! Imperialism is dead!" and trying to get us to chant it with him. I know it's uncharitable of me, but I note that one shouldn't try to chant "Imperialism is dead" when one has a harelip. It kind of ruins the effect.
Inside the courthouse is the security checkpoint. I suffer through the body cavity search with, if I may say so, stoic aplomb. I just kinda wish theyhadn't done it right there in front of everyone. It reminded me too much of work that way.
It's now about 8:15. My plans of getting in before my appointment time are pretty well dashed by now, but I hurry upstairs (I'm in Division 102, which after some searching I am able to find out is in room 705, which after further searching I find out is on Floor 3). I finally reach the door, to find about half of the people with whom I was in line waiting there too.
Okay, now, those of you who have been to traffic court have probably been laughing at my naiveté this whole while, but I thought when you got an*appointment,* that appointment was for *you.* Apparently that's not the case in the lower intestine of our fine judicial system. EVERYONE gets an appointment for 8:30, which makes all of my clever plans amount to a small pile of stinky nothing. I would say that God was laughing at me, but I'm not sure if God is dead, or Life is God, or what. I'm pretty sure about the American Imperialism thing, but that point doesn't seem useful at this juncture. American Imperialism didn't give me a speeding ticket; American Bureaucracy did.
At 8:35 I call Mr. Pabulum's 2nd Secretary to let them know I'll probably be late today, and to apologize for being stupid enough to think that I could get through this experience with a minimum of fuss and bother.
The doors to Division 102 open at 8:45. We shuffle in, Spanish speakers to the left, English speakers to the right. There is no special section for people who work in the Entertainment Industry.
We sit.
We wait.
They play a recording about what Traffic Court is really about. It's actually an arraignment proceeding. If you plead Not Guilty, you're done for the day -- you'll be given a court date at which the ticketing officer will appear (and be paid time and a half for doing so) and demonstrate to you that there's no fucking way you can ever possibly argue your way out of a traffic ticket. Then the judge will tell you why a $100 fine actually requires $875 to pay off. Governor Schwartzenegger's name will be mentioned, with at least one reference to the Terminator.
If you plead Guilty or No Contest, you may see the Cashier and pay your fine. If you got a fix-it ticket, you may show proof that you indeed have fixed-it, and you will only be charged $10 in court costs. There is no eating, drinking, gum chewing, speaking, arguing, flag waving, or Constitution-invoking permitted. ThankYouAndHaveANiceDay.
We wait some more.
...And some more.
The court reporter and translators and a couple of lawyers desultorily do some business, but they seem to be moving underwater. There's a distinct lack of urgency or even alacrity in any of their actions. Every move is under the watchful gaze of two armed bailiffs, whose gaze could be described as "steely-eyed" if they weren't quite so mind-numbingly bored. Maybe if we go back a couple Ages and refer to them as "bronzey-eyed," that would be more accurate. "Sleepy-eyed" is just petty.
A dude in a long black dress comes in. One of the bailiffs says "Stay seated and come to order. Yadda blah blah yadda." The judge (who is apparently referred to as a Commissioner at this level, buy I'll continue to call him Judge because I'm in a frigging COURT, damn it, and I want to talkto a JUDGE, not a farking COMMISSIONER) seems pleasant and good natured. He opens with a joke that isn't very funny, but at least he's trying.
The Judge says he knows that everyone has a story. If we want to tell our story, we should inform him of such up-front and then go wait in the back to get our chance. There are a lot of people here who just want to say "Not Guilty" and get their court date, or to prove that they've fixed whatever was wrong with their car, and it's not fair to make all those people with quick transactions wait for you to tell your sob story about how your dog ate your speedometer or how the laws of this nation don't apply to you because you are a sovereign state unto yourself.
He asks if we understand. We all nod solemnly. The Spanish translator asks the left side of the courtroom if they understand. They cabaceo solemnemente.
We get to work. They do things alphabetically here, and since Mr. Pabulum required me to change my legal last name to Associate, I'm the second guy to see the judge.
Being one of the people who nodded solemnly just a few moments ago, I say I'm guilty of the offense but would like to give an explanation. The judge asks me to wait in the back of the room, and he'll get to me in 20 minutes or so. It's now about 9:30.
I sit in the back of the room.
There are maybe 50 people here.
Maybe half of them have very simple and quick issues.
The other half have explanations.
All of those with explanations - every stinking one of those goddamn people, who nodded solemnly right along with me - launches into their explanations right there. And the judge listens, in some cases discussing the issues with them for up to 10 minutes, without making them wait in the back of the room like I am. He listens to their pleas and passes down his rulings. Typically, good-looking girls with pretty smiles have most or all of the charges dropped, while anyone who shows any lack of deference is hit with the Judicial Hammer of Wrath. At one point the judge says to a disgruntled person who will have to pay $950 because he procrastinated in getting a headlight fixed: "Oh, well. Justice is in the eye of the beholder."
Well, I suppose honesty is good. Sure would have preferred impartiality,but, hey, whaddaya want out of life?
By 11:00 they finally run through the people with appointments. I gather up my folder with my evidence, in hope that I will get to present my case and be rewarded for being the only guy who actually obeyed instructions ... and then they start calling up the walk-ins. These are people who didn't bother getting appointments, but rather just wandered in.
There are maybe 30 ofthem.
About half of them have very simple and quick issues.
The other half have explanations.
Now, they weren't there are the beginning when the judge informed us how things are supposed to work when you have an explanation. And, frankly, by that time I'm not at all surprised that he lets them ramble on about how they failed to appear at court on 3 different dates because they slept through the alarm clock each time. Cute girls get a slap on the wrist, everyone else gets either the full penalty or gets something extra tacked on for failing to show respect.
Finally, they're finished. It's nearly noon. I've been waiting five hours to state my case, which is two-and-a-half hours longer than it would have been if I hadn't been the only solemn nodder to obey the wishes of the court. I am finally allowed to approach the shaky podium with the 1960s-era microphone to present my case.
My crime was this - going 55 in a 35.
My argument is thus - this particular piece of road is very wide, and has no crossroads for half a mile ... and all different kinds of conscientious drivers tend to speed up through it. I have photos showing how the road becomes much wider than the road leading to it. I have satellite pictures showing the large median and how the right side is bordered by the LA River, and so any pedestrians or cross traffic would have to cross more than 50 feet of open road before being in any danger of collision. I have charts from when I drove that same stretch of road several times the weekend after I got the ticket, showing that *everyone* (soccer moms in minivans, limousine drivers, grandmothers, guys with small dicks in big Humvees) tends to drive around 55 miles an hour on that 1/2 mile of road.
The judge nods sagely. He clears his throat and peers at me over hisglasses.
He says "If this is the argument you wanted to make, you shouldn't have waited around. You should have pled Not Guilty and made this argument in court."
Well, gee, thanks for telling me that now. Trying to keep the frustration out of my voice, I say that I did indeed break the law, and so I thought a Not Guilty plea would have been perjury or something.
He shrugs, not giving a shit. He says he can't drop the case, but he'll cut the fine in half and allow me to go to Traffic School. I don't mention the fact that he COULD drop the case if he wanted to, but that I didn't expect him to do so because I'm not a cute chick. That's the kind of thing that has caused him to rule with an Old-Testamenty rod of ironin the past.
I visit the Cashier. The fine has been reduced to $25, so I have to pay them $152. If you ask me why, I'll be forced to mumble something about Governor Schwartzenegger, and make at least one reference to the Terminator.
Thus ends My Traffic Court Experience. Thank you for your time.
-- Mr. Pabulum's Associate, Minor Offender
....Oh, have I mentioned that three weeks after I got the speeding ticket in question, I got ANOTHER speeding ticket on the exact same stretch of road?
Hm, I wonder if I should just pay the thing, or if I should go to Traffic Court again? Maybe if I get there early I can still get to work on time...
(Yeah. And maybe I'd also meet Bill Gates and Angelina Jolie in line, and one of them would give me a bajillion dollars while the other one gave me ahummer. (Before you ask - No, I don't particularly care which one does which. When I'm getting a bajillion dollars and a hummer, I don't get nitpicky about details.))
So I get to the court at 7:00, an hour and a half before my scheduled appointment, in the hope of being able to see the judge early if someone else misses their appointment or something.
Except the building doesn't even open its doors until 8:00.
So I have to wait outside with the other people like me who don't know how the system works. There's a rolling hotdog cart, but I see neighborhood dogs backing away from it with hackles raised and teeth bared, so I decide not to risk it. I spend my time listening to the hare-lipped guy wearing the Papal miter made of bloody newspapers, carrying poster boards with a lot of big emphatic writing on them, trying to convince me that God is dead and that Life is God and that American Imperialism is driving us toward WWIII. Check, check, and check. Preach it, my harelipped brother.
People start lining up at the front door at about 7:30, which confuses me because the sign says they open at 8:00. So, feeling superior because of my highly-evolved reading skills, I stay semi-comfortably seated on the concrete planter. By 7:45, though, the line is over 100 yards long, so I wander overto stand with the rest of the huddled masses.
At 8:05 the doors are opened. We shuffle bovinely past the Bloody Pope, who is chanting "Imperialism is dead! Imperialism is dead!" and trying to get us to chant it with him. I know it's uncharitable of me, but I note that one shouldn't try to chant "Imperialism is dead" when one has a harelip. It kind of ruins the effect.
Inside the courthouse is the security checkpoint. I suffer through the body cavity search with, if I may say so, stoic aplomb. I just kinda wish theyhadn't done it right there in front of everyone. It reminded me too much of work that way.
It's now about 8:15. My plans of getting in before my appointment time are pretty well dashed by now, but I hurry upstairs (I'm in Division 102, which after some searching I am able to find out is in room 705, which after further searching I find out is on Floor 3). I finally reach the door, to find about half of the people with whom I was in line waiting there too.
Okay, now, those of you who have been to traffic court have probably been laughing at my naiveté this whole while, but I thought when you got an*appointment,* that appointment was for *you.* Apparently that's not the case in the lower intestine of our fine judicial system. EVERYONE gets an appointment for 8:30, which makes all of my clever plans amount to a small pile of stinky nothing. I would say that God was laughing at me, but I'm not sure if God is dead, or Life is God, or what. I'm pretty sure about the American Imperialism thing, but that point doesn't seem useful at this juncture. American Imperialism didn't give me a speeding ticket; American Bureaucracy did.
At 8:35 I call Mr. Pabulum's 2nd Secretary to let them know I'll probably be late today, and to apologize for being stupid enough to think that I could get through this experience with a minimum of fuss and bother.
The doors to Division 102 open at 8:45. We shuffle in, Spanish speakers to the left, English speakers to the right. There is no special section for people who work in the Entertainment Industry.
We sit.
We wait.
They play a recording about what Traffic Court is really about. It's actually an arraignment proceeding. If you plead Not Guilty, you're done for the day -- you'll be given a court date at which the ticketing officer will appear (and be paid time and a half for doing so) and demonstrate to you that there's no fucking way you can ever possibly argue your way out of a traffic ticket. Then the judge will tell you why a $100 fine actually requires $875 to pay off. Governor Schwartzenegger's name will be mentioned, with at least one reference to the Terminator.
If you plead Guilty or No Contest, you may see the Cashier and pay your fine. If you got a fix-it ticket, you may show proof that you indeed have fixed-it, and you will only be charged $10 in court costs. There is no eating, drinking, gum chewing, speaking, arguing, flag waving, or Constitution-invoking permitted. ThankYouAndHaveANiceDay.
We wait some more.
...And some more.
The court reporter and translators and a couple of lawyers desultorily do some business, but they seem to be moving underwater. There's a distinct lack of urgency or even alacrity in any of their actions. Every move is under the watchful gaze of two armed bailiffs, whose gaze could be described as "steely-eyed" if they weren't quite so mind-numbingly bored. Maybe if we go back a couple Ages and refer to them as "bronzey-eyed," that would be more accurate. "Sleepy-eyed" is just petty.
A dude in a long black dress comes in. One of the bailiffs says "Stay seated and come to order. Yadda blah blah yadda." The judge (who is apparently referred to as a Commissioner at this level, buy I'll continue to call him Judge because I'm in a frigging COURT, damn it, and I want to talkto a JUDGE, not a farking COMMISSIONER) seems pleasant and good natured. He opens with a joke that isn't very funny, but at least he's trying.
The Judge says he knows that everyone has a story. If we want to tell our story, we should inform him of such up-front and then go wait in the back to get our chance. There are a lot of people here who just want to say "Not Guilty" and get their court date, or to prove that they've fixed whatever was wrong with their car, and it's not fair to make all those people with quick transactions wait for you to tell your sob story about how your dog ate your speedometer or how the laws of this nation don't apply to you because you are a sovereign state unto yourself.
He asks if we understand. We all nod solemnly. The Spanish translator asks the left side of the courtroom if they understand. They cabaceo solemnemente.
We get to work. They do things alphabetically here, and since Mr. Pabulum required me to change my legal last name to Associate, I'm the second guy to see the judge.
Being one of the people who nodded solemnly just a few moments ago, I say I'm guilty of the offense but would like to give an explanation. The judge asks me to wait in the back of the room, and he'll get to me in 20 minutes or so. It's now about 9:30.
I sit in the back of the room.
There are maybe 50 people here.
Maybe half of them have very simple and quick issues.
The other half have explanations.
All of those with explanations - every stinking one of those goddamn people, who nodded solemnly right along with me - launches into their explanations right there. And the judge listens, in some cases discussing the issues with them for up to 10 minutes, without making them wait in the back of the room like I am. He listens to their pleas and passes down his rulings. Typically, good-looking girls with pretty smiles have most or all of the charges dropped, while anyone who shows any lack of deference is hit with the Judicial Hammer of Wrath. At one point the judge says to a disgruntled person who will have to pay $950 because he procrastinated in getting a headlight fixed: "Oh, well. Justice is in the eye of the beholder."
Well, I suppose honesty is good. Sure would have preferred impartiality,but, hey, whaddaya want out of life?
By 11:00 they finally run through the people with appointments. I gather up my folder with my evidence, in hope that I will get to present my case and be rewarded for being the only guy who actually obeyed instructions ... and then they start calling up the walk-ins. These are people who didn't bother getting appointments, but rather just wandered in.
There are maybe 30 ofthem.
About half of them have very simple and quick issues.
The other half have explanations.
Now, they weren't there are the beginning when the judge informed us how things are supposed to work when you have an explanation. And, frankly, by that time I'm not at all surprised that he lets them ramble on about how they failed to appear at court on 3 different dates because they slept through the alarm clock each time. Cute girls get a slap on the wrist, everyone else gets either the full penalty or gets something extra tacked on for failing to show respect.
Finally, they're finished. It's nearly noon. I've been waiting five hours to state my case, which is two-and-a-half hours longer than it would have been if I hadn't been the only solemn nodder to obey the wishes of the court. I am finally allowed to approach the shaky podium with the 1960s-era microphone to present my case.
My crime was this - going 55 in a 35.
My argument is thus - this particular piece of road is very wide, and has no crossroads for half a mile ... and all different kinds of conscientious drivers tend to speed up through it. I have photos showing how the road becomes much wider than the road leading to it. I have satellite pictures showing the large median and how the right side is bordered by the LA River, and so any pedestrians or cross traffic would have to cross more than 50 feet of open road before being in any danger of collision. I have charts from when I drove that same stretch of road several times the weekend after I got the ticket, showing that *everyone* (soccer moms in minivans, limousine drivers, grandmothers, guys with small dicks in big Humvees) tends to drive around 55 miles an hour on that 1/2 mile of road.
The judge nods sagely. He clears his throat and peers at me over hisglasses.
He says "If this is the argument you wanted to make, you shouldn't have waited around. You should have pled Not Guilty and made this argument in court."
Well, gee, thanks for telling me that now. Trying to keep the frustration out of my voice, I say that I did indeed break the law, and so I thought a Not Guilty plea would have been perjury or something.
He shrugs, not giving a shit. He says he can't drop the case, but he'll cut the fine in half and allow me to go to Traffic School. I don't mention the fact that he COULD drop the case if he wanted to, but that I didn't expect him to do so because I'm not a cute chick. That's the kind of thing that has caused him to rule with an Old-Testamenty rod of ironin the past.
I visit the Cashier. The fine has been reduced to $25, so I have to pay them $152. If you ask me why, I'll be forced to mumble something about Governor Schwartzenegger, and make at least one reference to the Terminator.
Thus ends My Traffic Court Experience. Thank you for your time.
-- Mr. Pabulum's Associate, Minor Offender
....Oh, have I mentioned that three weeks after I got the speeding ticket in question, I got ANOTHER speeding ticket on the exact same stretch of road?
Hm, I wonder if I should just pay the thing, or if I should go to Traffic Court again? Maybe if I get there early I can still get to work on time...
posted by Steve Barr at 5:19 PM
3 comments
