I woke up in a cold sweat. It wasn't
yet 6 a.m., but in my nightmare-addled brain it was high noon,
believe me. In the dream, I was at a function of some sort with
nameless, faceless people, but I knew I would need to leave to permit
enough time for me to get home, shower, and change into some decent
clothes. I had a date in traffic court and needed to get ready.
But, I noticed that way too suddenly I was almost out of time. No
time to get out of my running gear, no time to shower. Just enough
time to get in my car and drive to court. Feverishly racing around
the multi-tiered parking lot, I could not find my car. It was not
where I would have sworn I parked it earlier. Incredibly
frustrating. Infuriating, actually. The seconds ticked away in my
head as if they were gongs from a huge hammer. At some point, I knew
I had to abandon the car – which had my wallet and speeding ticket
inside – and make a run for the courthouse. As I got to the
street, my moves were exactly what they would be if I were trying to
run while at the bottom of a pool. Agonizing, slow motion, not
nearly fast enough to keep up with the warp speed that my brain was
moving. I woke up staring breathlessly at the clock.
Such was the effect my pending court
date had on my psyche. It's not as if I was up for grand theft auto;
no, just speeding. We've all been there, right? Maybe not in
traffic court, but on the high end of the dial, so to speak. I had
been traversing the Island of Palms Connector this past January, the
bridge that takes you from the mainland to the barrier island where
we live, and there wasn't a car in sight in my lane. The radio was
blasting its coverage of the South Carolina primary which was going
to take place the next day. I was paying absolutely no attention to
my speedometer, just stories of Newt and Mitt and Rick. When I
noticed a car in the oncoming lane make a whiplash worthy u-turn, and
pull up close behind me, I knew instantly I was in trouble. Let's
just say I was heading over the bridge closer to warp 3 than to the
posted 55 m.p.h. speed limit. When the officer pulled me over as I
got over to the island, he strolled up to my car and asked, “Is
there an emergency I need to know about?” I couldn't bring myself
to conjure one up so I went to Plan B which, essentially, called for
a generous amount of groveling. To no avail, of course. The officer
advised me this was “an arrestable offense” seeing as how I was
clearly trying to take flight without having first filed a flight
plan. He wrote me a ticket for a king's ransom, but suggested I go
to court to see if maybe the judge might uncharacteristically take
pity on me and lower the ransom a trifle.
My court date arrived. I decided not
to go in a suit – too presumptuous and, frankly, virtually unseen
on this island. I went with a respectable dress shirt and a pair of
khakis: Isle of Palms formal, you might say. I'm not sure what I
expected, but I was stunned to see the hearing room filled to the
rafters with other similarly nervous looking individuals. I roughly
counted close to 60. Young, old, white, black, male, female – the
gang was all there. My first thought after seeing this almost
standing room only crowd was to wonder why I had been obsessing about
what I should wear. I'd say a good handful of people looked like
they had every intention of going surfing as soon as they could see
daylight again. Others were just in shorts and t-shirts. Bluejeans abounded. There was
an occasional tie but I attributed that more to the fact these were
working folks making what they hoped would be a short stopover on
their way to work rather than folks dead set on trying to charm and
impress a judge.
As I watched the slow procession of one
after another plead guilty and make exactly the same
arguments I had painstakingly thought through in my own mind the
night before, I realized I needed to understand that: a) this would
not be an opportunity for an oral argument as I had known in my legal
career, and b) it probably wouldn't matter what I said whether I
could have one minute or twenty to make my pitch. Brevity was the
key. My nerves danced like a horde of gremlins inside my head and
stomach. My heart pounded. When the judge suggested to one lady
that she ask for a continuance to get a lawyer since she faced
possible imprisonment, my stomach did a nice little jackknife and my
heart skipped several beats. He wouldn't do that to me, would he? I
did note that all the speeding cases that preceded mine were for
violations far milder than what I would have to account for, allowing
my head to make all the crazy assumptions of what would happen to me.
By the time my name was called, I was fairly certain that I faced
exile and that I would be branded a terrorist.
I approached the podium and listened as
the officer I had unfortunately crossed paths with this past January
recounted for the judge the charges against me. I had a notion that
things might not go swimmingly when the first thing the judge said to
me was – and this is a direct quote – “Let me get this
straight. Were you driving or were you flying?” Thinking it
better not to respond with a joke, I assured him I was driving. I
whizzed through my story, and the judge just stared at me for too
long a moment. He spoke and ruled. My fine would be reduced a tiny
bit, but, as a gesture of goodwill, he would lower the number of
points that would go on my record. He sort of obliquely mentioned my
good attitude and politeness as grounds for his largesse.
Learning in advance from my neighbor,
Brian, that payment of any fine in traffic court here would need to
be made in cash, I had stuffed my wallet with all the 20s the ATM
could spit out. I could not fold the wallet to get it in my pants
pocket.
Now I can.
