Adventures In Ticket-land

Yesterday, I trekked up to central Virginia to my court appearance for a speeding ticket I got in July. Things went about as well as expected: I take traffic school and the ticket disappears. So here are the details.

On Sunday, July 8th, I was driving us back from a visit to Kelly’s parents’ house in Warrenton. I took highway 15, as it goes by Palmyra, the place we were married. It was a beautiful, sunny day. Kelly was in the backseat having a laugh-fest with Hallie. It seemed like a contest between the two as to who could laugh more. I split my attention between the rear-view mirror and the road.

As I turned where highway 15 breaks off of highway 360, I slowed down to 45 MPH, as the road gets crowded with houses. Then I picked up speed again to around 62 or so (the limit was 55). Hallie was giggling now and saying my name. I crested a hill, looked back to see what she was up to, and looked back just in time to see a Virginia State Trooper pass us.

Oops. I watched as his brake lights came on and then looked down at the speedometer. I was going 70 in a 55.

It wasn’t long before he had pulled me over. He asked for the papers and immediately returned to his car – never a good sign. Kelly and Hallie got quiet as he wrote up the ticket in his car.

When he returned with the paperwork, I told him how I’d never gotten a ticket before. He told me to mention it to the judge, as the judge can offer driving school to dismiss the ticket. He was courteous and professional during the stop – and so was I.

We were soon on our way. I spent the drive home fuming for being so dumb. Hallie and Kelly gamely tried playing again – but I wasn’t in the mood to talk. I felt guilty for spoiling their fun.

Yesterday I got my day in court. The courthouse was in beautiful Charlotte County, Virginia. I drove almost exactly 100 miles to get there, on scenic winding roads. Though Mapquest claimed a trip time of two and a half hours, it was actually less than two.

As I approached the end of the line Mapquest had drawn for me, I blinked in disbelief that this little town – with no apparent traffic lights – was where I was supposed to be. A handful of police vehicles parked on the curb quickly told me I had the right place.

The clerk’s office was on my right and was in a state of repair. It, like the neighboring courthouse, seemed to date from another time. Scaffolding covered the outside. Plastic tarps were visible. It was only later that I learned it had been built by Thomas Jefferson. Amazing.

I walked into the clerk’s office and asked where I should be. A friendly female deputy pointed across the sidewalk. “See where that man is smoking? Go in that door.”

A younger bespectacled man in a suit stood idly puffing on a cigarette at the back door to the courthouse. I said hi to him as I shuffled by, on my way to the restroom. He and another lawyer were the only other ones wearing suits. Another friendly deputy – this one close to retirement age – held the door for me as I stepped into the courtroom.

If you can imagine all the old movies showing court in the 1800’s, this room was just like that. In fact, if you overlooked the judge’s computer (probably a relic in itself), you could imagine having stepped back in time. Windows had that drafty, poured-glass look. A not-too-sturdy-looking balcony was above. A handful of people populated the achingly stiff spectator benches. Ol’ TJ built a great country, but he couldn’t build comfortable benches to save his life.

I looked around at those present. There were six to eight deputies (or bailiffs) than offenders present. One trooper stood with them. I didn’t recognize him as the trooper that pulled me over. But then again, its not easy to see faces when you’re looking up over your shoulder.

A clerk frantically typed away at the judge’s computer. The judge himself was a fit, no-nonsense African-American man whose demeanor to me said “ex-military.” He seemed in a hurry to get out and enjoy the great weather, perhaps to play golf.

I sat down in the front row as some poor kid picked up another speeding ticket, the judge cutting of the kid’s mumbling about a “prayer for judgement” by saying he’d already had one. Dejected, the poor schmuck ambled out of the room.

Another defendant’s turn. This time a fellow North Carolinian, dressed in a knit shirt and jeans. Speeds similar to mine. I watched carefully how she interacted with the judge. It wasn’t her first ticket – she’d already had driving school. Instead, the judge ordered her to send in a copy of her driving record and he’d dismiss the charge.

Wow, I thought. Spend two minutes filling out a web form, and a ticket goes away. Pretty easy. I looked at my watch. It was 10:30, a full hour before I was scheduled to be there.

The judge had run out of cases. He looked up for what seemed like the first time since I’d arrived. “Anyone here for traffic cases? Any more traffic cases?”

I raised my hand. “Well, come on up, please.” he answered. The trooper I saw before now approached the bench, seemingly relieved I was here. Guess that is him after all, I thought.

I stepped by a man in a orange jail jumpsuit who’d obviously been here before. Looked like a construction worker who’d tied a few too many on a few too many times. The bored-looking lawyer out smoking was his.

I stood before the judge as his clerk whisked through the paperwork to find my case – all the way at the bottom.

“Mr. Turner, you’ve been accused of going 71 in a 55 zone. How do you plead?”

Of course, there is only one right answer here. I never considered any other answer. “Guilty, your honor.”

He then swore me in and turned to the trooper. “Trooper Wilborn, did you see Mr. Turner commit this offense?”

Trooper Wilborn began to read from his notes. He was cut off by the judge. “Wait. Wait. Have you been sworn yet, trooper?”

“No sir,” was the answer. Up went his hand while the judge swore him in. Trooper Wilborn then read through the details of the ticket. Some site on the Internet said the officer must state facts from his own recollection. I was amused he had to read from his notes, but wisely kept quiet. This judge would drop-kick me out of the courtroom for something so trivial.

Then the trooper did something cool: he spoke up for me. “He did state however, that he had never had a ticket before, your honor.”

“Is that true, Mr. Turner?” he asked. I nodded.

“Ever been to driving school?”

“No, your honor.”

He then went into his well-rehearsed explanation of what constituted a legit driving school. If I got an 8-hour course, the ticket would be dismissed.

“But no Internet courses,” he warned. “The court won’t accept any Internet courses.” Well, at least I could take it in my home state.

He then turned to the trooper. “Since he’s already pleaded guilty, there’s no need for you to be here. You can take care of whatever business you need to.” Case closed. Time spent: one minute.

As the judge dismissed me, I turned to the trooper. “Have a good day,” I said. He nodded in return. I decided he wasn’t one of the hardass cops he could have been. Made me think if I’d mentioned my driving record before he took my license, I may have had a chance of a warning. I wish I’d read the webpage on speeding tickets before I’d picked one up.

The Retirement Bailiff then handed me a blue sheet of paper with the driving school details on it. I then stumbled through the back door to the clerk’s office to pay my court costs. Then I was on my way back. After a lunch at home, I drove back to work.

Slowly.