I have always had this fantasy that one day, somehow, I would evade the issuance of a speeding ticket by way of irresistible charm or untapped intimidation. But when that chance came one day in January while driving (quite fast) on Forest Park Parkway, I found myself unable to follow through.
The moment I saw the officer in the rearview mirror, sauntering toward my car, I crumbled. My idea of saying something cute like “What seems to be the problem here, officer?” had suddenly escaped me. With a hint of sarcasm, I graciously accepted the ticket (for going 52 mph in a 40-mph zone) and drove off, angry at myself for being so submissive.
So to make up for my fleeting affair with vulnerability, I decided shortly thereafter that I would not pay the fee, but instead would go to court.
I had heard from several friends that if the officer wasn’t there to represent herself, I could walk away without paying a thing. On one hand I hoped to disprove this theory, as that seemed like a cheap way to get out of a ticket, but on the other hand, in no way did I want to pay the $120.50 owed to the City of St. Louis.
I thought carefully the morning of my court date about what to wear: nothing too skimpy, nothing too pretentious, nothing too grunge. I needed to exhibit an air of decency, but not so much that I didn’t evoke some pity. I needed a perfect balance—so I decided on my best pair of jeans, a turtleneck sweater and a pair of Converse high-tops.
I arrived at the courtroom 10 minutes early. The marshal opened the door at exactly 1 p.m., and my fellow alleged lawbreakers and I filed into the overheated room. The first thing I noticed upon entering the courtroom was a portrait of Mayor Slay hanging on the wall. At least he was there in spirit, I thought. The second thing I noticed was that there was no sign of the officer who had ticketed me. I was golden.
As I settled into my seat, waiting for the process to begin and sweating (whether from the nervousness or the stifling heat, I wasn’t quite sure), I thought not only of the excuses I would give, but also, more important, how I would give them. Confidently? Ignorantly? Seductively? Passively? Intelligently?
My palms began to sweat, and my ears burned. My heart made a thumping sound so loud that I was afraid the lady next to me (who had already chewed away an entire fingernail) and the fellow in front of me (whose leg wouldn’t stop bouncing) would hear. I started to wonder what I was doing there in the first place. Who were these people around me? Were they required to appear in court? Or were they just a bunch of weasels like me?
“Please rise,” the marshal shouted as the judge, a small man of about 35, emerged from his chambers carrying a Dr. Pepper. He was handsome and clean-cut and looked to be in a hurry. “Why is it so hot in here?” he said to himself as the first transgressor approached the bench. He took off his robe to reveal a navy Polo sweater, then cracked open his soda while she introduced herself.
He cupped his ear with one hand and said, “What’s your name? I can’t hear you. Smide? Smeeth? Oh, Smith, right …” He took a sip of his Dr. Pepper and looked at her with limited interest as she explained her situation.
The woman next to me in line was in her late twenties, roughly five years my senior, dressed in work clothes and carrying a large purse—the kind I hate. She was pretty and looked fairly innocent. She must have identified with me because she started chatting me up.
“What awful thing did you do?” She talked too loudly, and I wanted her to stop.
“Speeding,” I whispered.
“Ahh,” she said as my eyes begged her to can it. “I ran a stop sign.” She rolled her eyes as if she thought rolling a stop sign should not be punishable by law. I looked around, hoping no one was looking at us. Then she went into her whole story—how she had forgotten to pay her ticket, then had gotten a letter in the mail notifying her of a warrant out for her arrest, blah blah blah blah blah …
It was her turn to see the judge, and she prepared with a smattering of lip gloss, a gesture I thought highly unnecessary and on the verge of provocative. She approached the judge and stated her name.
“What’s that? I’m nearly deaf,” he said. I think we had all deduced that by now. She repeated her name and presented her story, to which he responded, “I suggest you get a lawyer. Next!”
It was my turn.
“Truckey,” I said when he asked my
name, “Sarah.”
“Huh?”
“Truckey, Truck-E-Y,” I said louder. “Sarah.”
“You got ticketed for speeding.”
“Yes, and I disagree with the charge.” Who did I think I was saying something like this?
He stared at me blankly, then squinted
his eyes.
“Well,” he said, “I’ll give you another court date when the officer can come back, and you can tell her this in person.”
Whoa. Wait a minute, I thought. My lawyer-esque pizzazz had suddenly disappeared. I was left only with the rebuttal I had rehearsed just once.
“I thought she was supposed to show up today, if at all,” I said.
He peered at me again. “Sit down. I’ll get to you in a minute.”
Then I watched as a Bosnian man, with the help of an interpreter, got his fine waived. Then the judge let another couple off merely due to “a clean record.” I had a clean record. Why couldn’t this happen to me?
Once the courtroom was empty, the judge called me up again, asking my name for the second time. “Tell ya what,” he said, and I thought I could hear a compromise coming. “I’ll charge ya $48.50 in court costs. Can you pay that today?”
I had spent 40 minutes in an overheated room with 50 of St. Louis’ pettiest criminals, the city’s most casual judge and the world’s loudest talker, and I had survived. I took the elevator to the ground floor to pay my dues, by check, to the City of St. Louis. While filling in the amount, $72 less than initially required, I bit my lip, trying to suppress a smile.
