Traffic Court

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.