I was on my way to a meeting. An important meeting. In Columbia. I was thinking about the meeting and all the important people in it. And all the important things we would talk about. That’s when it happened.
I saw the blue lights flash behind me—no need to turn on the siren. I pulled over, turned the car off, rolled down the window, and waited. The officer came up to the window and asked for my license, registration, and insurance info. I have learned to wait until they ask before doing anything. Seeing me reach for the glove compartment (do they still call it that?) while walking up makes the officer wonder, “Is he reaching for something or hiding something?” I unbuckled my seat belt to get my wallet out of my back pocket. (Another thing- always wait until they get there to unbuckle. That way, they don’t ask why your seat belt was unbuckled.) After examining my documents, he said, “Mr. Henderson, you were going 46 in a 30 miles per hour zone.” No argument from me. He was right. He told me to wait a minute while he went to his cruiser. He came back with the ticket. “I’ve reduced your ticket down to 39 and 2 points. You can pay ahead of time or go to traffic court.” He told me the date, time, and address. I thanked him for reducing it. The fine was $76. It would not affect my insurance. At least, not yet.
I decided to go to court. Not because I was contesting the ticket. I was guilty as charged. But if, for some reason, the officer didn’t show up in court, they might dismiss the ticket. And besides, what else do I have to do?
The day for the court came. I was scheduled to be there at 8:15 am. Since Columbia is 60 miles away, I got up at 5:30, left the house by 6:30, drove an hour and fifteen minutes (Columbia traffic at the end slowed me down), found a parking spot, and walked to the building.
There must have been 125 people already there! We were all standing outside, waiting for the doors to open. Most were looking at their phones, busy doing important things. I talked with a couple of people, assuming they were there for the same reason I was. (They weren’t.) Then I started singing Folsom Prison Blues, doing my best Johnny Cash. No one joined in. Then I started Workin’ on the Chain Gang. You could hear Sam Cooke turning over in his grave. People turned and looked at their phones from another direction. I may have been the only person there who was born in the 1900s.
An officer came out and said, “Everyone here for jury duty, form a line to the right.” About a hundred people moved to the right. Including the two I had been talking to about speeding and going to jail—the twenty-five of us not-yet-convicted felons lined up on the left. I looked at the people in the jury duty queue. A few were wearing suits, and most were in casual clothes. One woman was in pajamas. Not cute ones. These you would not wear to Walmart. And she was wearing bedroom slippers. I thought, “Now there’s someone who will hear a lawyer say ‘Your honor, please dismiss this juror.’”
The jury folks went in first. Then the rest of us did our perp walk in and through the security area. We spread out around the courtroom, more sparsely seated than most churches on Sunday morning. A man went around collecting our tickets. An officer asked us to watch a film in which a judge advised us of our rights. Then the officer said anyone who wanted to take the Traffic Education Program (TEP) could do so. It would cost $285, take 7 hours online, and require 4 hours of community service, which we could do at our local church. Then the ticket would go away. It was a good deal if you had a four-point ticket. He said he would answer any questions, but could not give legal advice. But he mouthed, “But take the course.” About half of the people raised their hands asking for the application.
The judge walked in. Then came three police officers. Mine was not there! I unfurrowed my brow. The judge was very good at going through the cases. She was patient with the offenders, always explaining their options, never losing her temper even when they asked the same thing four times in a row. Finally, my name was called. I approached the bench. “Mr. Henderson, your officer (she said his name) is not able to be here this morning.” I knew she was going to say, “So we are dismissing your case.” Instead, she said, “You can plead guilty or no contest, and I will reduce your fine by twenty percent. Or you can plead not guilty and come back in September. What do you wish to do?”
I threw myself upon the mercy of the court. “I’m guilty, your honor.” “Okay. Your fine is $61. Have a good day.”
I left the room, did the perp walk to the place where you pay the fine, and gave the City of Columbia $61. I did some quick math as I was walking out. I saved $15 on the fine, but paid $16 for gas driving to Columbia and back. And I got up at the butt crack of dawn to do it.
Walking through the folks standing around as I headed back to my car, I started singing with the Bobby Fuller Four. Or The Crickets. Or The Clash. “Breaking rocks in the hot sun…”
Again, no one sang along.
Michael Henderson 