“Don’t show cleavage,” advised Vince, when I asked what I should wear to traffic court. Not that I would deliberately show cleavage, but things sometimes do slip and slide a bit, and he urged caution.
“How about this?” I asked holding up a seersucker-inspired striped pantsuit. He shook his head. “Too playful, you want to look like you take your case seriously.”
“How about this?” I repeated, holding up a bright dress in my favorite turquoise color, but my courtroom fashion consultant looked unenthused.
“Too colorful?” I asked, and he nodded, adding, “But a dress is good. You want to look serious but cute and vulnerable.”
We were strategizing with all the conniving of the Casey Anthony defense team, all for a traffic ticket.
“I’ve got it,” I announced holding up a black and white dress that I could wear with a black shrug sweater and my white necklace.
“Remember, no cleavage,” Vince repeated.
I looked at my black and white, no-cleavage ensemble that was serious but girly and cute at the same time. Perfect.
But at that moment, the day’s brief rendezvous with perfection came to a screeching halt.
I could remember grabbing my Metro card on the way out the door, but once I got to the car I couldn’t find it. By then, I was running a little late and I was afraid I wouldn’t make it on time, so after a frantic and futile scan for the card, I just left without it. Once at the Metro station, I made the error of diverting from my usual pattern and went in Garage One instead of Garage Two. The garage was full on the lower levels, but I could see empty spaces ahead. The empty spaces were a mirage. Yes, there were spaces, but they weren’t legal ones until 10 a.m. My stress level started to escalate as I drove around frantically searching for a parking space. Finally, I found one and then there was more futile searching for my Metro card, so after rushing to the station, I purchased a fare pass, bolted up the escalator, and I finally made it to Rockville. By then I was feeling more sweaty than cute.
I knew the courthouse wasn’t far from the Rockville Metro station, so when I arrived in Rockville, I asked a Metro manager to point me in the right direction. “Just go up the stairs and over the bridge,” she said, as if I would run smack into it. I walked over the bridge and the courthouse wasn’t obvious, but I followed signs with arrows pointing to “Courts” until I saw an imposing stone building with “Judicial Center” carved into the stone façade.
While I was going through security, they stopped me. “You can’t bring this in,” they said, holding up the Red Cross pocket knife attached to Vince’s keys. That darned knife gets us into so much trouble and the identical knife has been confiscated many times at airports, but we just replace it. It’s only a $10 dollar knife but, by now, replacing it has probably cost more than $100. I was at least relieved when they allowed me fill out a tag and essentially “check” the keys and attached pocket knife. At least I didn’t have to throw it away again.
Once inside, I asked to be pointed in the direction of traffic court. I was running late but could still be on time, or so I thought until they informed me that I was in the wrong building. “You have to go down the street and around the corner (which meant that the “court” arrows didn’t direct me to the correct court).”
I retrieved my checked keys and hurried off in search of the traffic court building. By now, I was afraid I would be late and I was huffing and puffing and sweating some more into my cute but serious black and white dress.
Fighting back panic, I finally made it to what I was pretty sure was the right courthouse. “Here, you’ll have to check these,” I said, holding up the keys with the pocket knife. The security guy shook his head. “We can’t hold those. You’ll have to go back and put them in your car.”
“But I don’t have a car,” I said. “I took the Metro. The other courthouse was going to check it; can’t you check it for me?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Different rules.”
By then, I was very perturbed and becoming unraveled. I wanted to throw the keys at the guy, but instead, I had no choice but to unhook the pocket knife and throw it in the trash, where it landed with a decisive thud, propelled by the pent up force of my frustration.
When I got to traffic court, there were only about ten people in the courthouse. “All rise,” said the bailiff as the judge, a woman, emerged. I knew then that my attempt to seem cute and vulnerable was to no avail and I was especially glad that I wasn’t showing cleavage because I’m pretty sure that would have backfired.
One man’s name was called and the judge told him his charge was dismissed because the police officer wasn’t in court. The man seemed flustered, clutching notes in his hand and you could tell he was just itching to present his case.
“If I were you I wouldn’t say anything and I’d just take my papers and get out of here,” advised the judge. “It’s like it never even happened.” Finally, the reality of his pardon struck him and he exited smiling, the object of my envy. The judge moved quickly through her cases until the only people remaining were an elderly gentleman with his daughter and me.
“If you’re still here, that means that, according to our records, you are pleading guilty or guilty with explanation,” she said. “If that is not the case, you’ll need to let me know right now. In the case of a guilty plea, I can’t let you go if the officer isn’t here, because the officer wasn’t asked to appear.”
So only the other guy and I had confessed, but that meant we were idiots. If we hadn’t confessed, maybe we could have gotten off, like the guy with the notes. The elderly man was called up first and his approach was simple and direct to the point of being sweet. “I was on my way to visit my sick wife, which I do every day, and it just happened,” he said, of the speeding charge. “I’m sorry.”
The judge launched into an explanation of what she was about to do, which was to offer him probation before judgment, meaning he would have no points on his license and no permanent blot on his record, provided he received no tickets for three years. I was also hoping for probation before judgment, otherwise known as p-b-j, in order to avoid having a charge on my record that would affect my insurance rates. However, the judge offered even more explanation.
“Supposedly, with probation before judgment, the insurance companies don’t have access to a record of the charge,” she said, “but I don’t believe that for a minute. I think they see everything.”
Maybe she was just trying to be helpful, but it was like she was just rubbing in the fact that the best we could hope for after entering a guilty plea was probation before judgment and that was a sham. If we were going to plead guilty, maybe it would have been better to just pay the ticket and avoid the morning’s stress.
I was the last person in the courtroom, so I brilliantly deduced I was next.
“Do you intend to plead guilty with explanation?” asked the judge.
“Well, yes, that was my plan, but after what you just said about probation before judgment, I’m not so sure,” I replied.
It was a bad start. My plan had been to speak with contrite gentleness, but the stress, frustration and now confusion of the entire morning seeped out. Rather than sounding entirely contrite, my voice had just a bit of an edge and I was in danger of coming off as difficult.
“That’s neither here nor there,” she said, and I realized there was no turning back.
“Yes,” I said, decisively. “I’m guilty with explanation.”
“Then, let’s hear your explanation.”
“I was making a right hand turn at a stop sign, and I stopped momentarily, but I didn’t come to a complete one, two, three stop before making my turn. When the police officer stopped me, he said, ‘You’re going to have to make more of a stop than that,’ and he’s right. My stops were getting sloppy and it was good to be reminded of that. Since then, I’ve been more cautious and deliberate about my stops. Since I’m usually a very cautious driver, I was hoping for whatever mercy you can show me.”
At least by the end of my little speech I had the demeanor I had been going for and I think the judge was sympathetic.
As expected, I got p-b-j and a $120 fine.
On the way out of the courthouse, I stopped at the front and peered into the trash can. I could only see a Starbucks paper cup in a plastic trash bag, so I fished around and retrieved the pocket knife, feeling somewhat self-satisfied, despite the fact that most observers would assume I was a mentally ill, trash scavenging hoarder.
On the way home, I passed a car on the side of the road that had evidently struck and killed a dog. The dog, obviously someone’s beloved pet, lay on its side in front of the car. The dog had trimmed, curly style hair that made it appear lamblike. The people in the car must have cared or they wouldn’t have stopped. My heart ached, both for the family that lost their pet, and for the car’s driver, who must feel terribly guilty over what was no doubt an accident.
Some guilty people get off scot free. Others, like me, get some measure of mercy. And some, like that poor little, lamblike dog are just victims in a fallen world where innocents, whether dogs or children, are often slain, and where justice seems capricious.
Some people say that God doesn’t see us, but I don’t believe that for a minute. I think He sees everything. And for now, after all, we’re really just on probation before judgment.
