On courting disaster and coming out ahead
"Is Officer [J.] here?"
The lawyer asking was a cookie-cutter carbon copy of the bottom-feeders in their bad suits milling about the periphery of the courtroom. For whatever reason, they were the only people (apart from the bailiff) allowed to remain standing.
"If he shows, it'll be on crutches" was the reply and my heart skipped a beat.
Everyone talks about how there's that infinitesimal chance that the arresting officer will not show up for a ticket hearing and you will get off scot free. Everyone claims to have seen it happen or know someone who has seen it happen or known someone to whom it has supposedly happened; but over time I had come to believe that it never happens, that this was just another urban myth like the alligators in the sewers and straight-acting homosexuals.
Until yesterday.
It's hard to make a credible claim to good driving after receiving tickets for two six-point offenses within three weeks of each other, but I nevertheless do not consider myself reckless. That's why the entire situation stung so bad. Well, that and the fact that 12 points in a 12 month period virtually guaranteed me a trip to traffic school (or whatever the hell the refresher course is called).
Looking back at my eleven year record, I receive a speeding ticket every two years, which I don't think is that unreasonable given that there is a one-to-one mapping in my case of being stopped by the police and receiving a ticket (unlike everyone else I know who mysteriously manage to get off with "warnings" from time to time (Am I missing something? Is "warning" a euphemism for oral sex?)). In general, I consider these citations and the subsequent fines as biennial wake-up calls. Over the course of twenty-four months, my foot becomes increasingly leaden until I am pulled over and alerted to the fact. I then tighten up my driving and reset the process back to the start. I feel as though this system is a decent and fair one; a couple hundred dollars every two years invested in keeping me relatively safe.
The system broke down, however, when, on June 2nd of this year, I found myself approaching four and a half lanes of solid bumper-to-bumper traffic at the Dulles Toll Road and 495 intersection. It was a sea of cars as far as the eye could see and escape lay just to my left in the form of an exit from the airport road. For whatever reason, this particular exit from the airport road was configured in such a way that it was more of a merge lane than a true exit, such that it is possible for traffic from the toll road to merge onto the airport road just as easy as it is for those on the airport road to exit onto the toll road.
Except of course that this is illegal.
Poorly documented by an oddly minute no-left-turn sign a hundred feet back but nevertheless obviously illegal.
This hadn't stopped me from executing the maneuver one or two times in the past, only on those occasions where there was no hope of even the left-most of the four lanes of traffic making it through the hellish clusterfuck that results from the side-by-side exits onto 495 North and 495 South. I fully knew the risk, having seen police stationed there before. I was in no particular rush, having left work particularly early on that day.
I guess I just felt like gambling.
It probably helped that I watched one or two cars execute the exact same maneuver as I approached the traffic snarl. Checking my mirrors and over my shoulder to be certain there was no oncoming traffic on the airport road, I flipped on my left turn signal and "merged" via the exit, landing directly in the lap of a police officer. I was flagged down and told to pull to the end of a rapidly growing queue of offenders. There were actually two police cruisers stationed there, working in tandem to take advantage of what they know is a clearly a common problem. I sat as two more cars were forced to line up behind me. By this point, the operation was so long that it stretched to the actual exit and was visible to anyone on the Toll Road (lucky bastards).
Officer number two pulled to the end of the line and issued the citations to the owners of the two cars behind me while officer one set about working his way from the front. I counted eight cars total; I was number six. It turns out six is the loneliest number when officer two takes off after sending seven and eight on their way, leaving me last in line.
I had a lot of time to think, something in the range of forty-five minutes, such that receiving my ticket was a relief from the sort of purgatorial torment of watching the traffic jam on the Toll Road gradually resolve itself until what was once bumper-to-bumper was now a pleasantly unattainable flow of four lanes at approximately 55-65 mph.
The relief turned a tad sour, though, when he explained that he was charging me with reckless driving, rationalizing that there had been two fatalities from people doing exactly what I did, yada, yada, yada. My mind was too busy processing the idea that I would need to go to court and hire a lawyer to avoid a felony on my record. A felony, really? I don't believe reckless drivers proceed in such a cautious manner that they check their blind spots and signal their intention to turn. But I suppose I could put on my emergency flashers immediately before intentionally committing vehicular homicide and it wouldn't do much to mitigate the severity of the act.
Regardless, what followed was a torturous six weeks of obsession. D. probably suffered the worst, having to endure my long rants and neurotic debates about whether or not to hire a lawyer, what sort of argument to make for a reduced charge, the general injustice of the world and so forth.
I had a few high points - such as when I discovered that I was charged with a misdemeanor version of reckless driving, not the felony (i.e. Reckless Driving - General). I had my low points - such as when I calculated out the combined points from my recent speeding ticket and the reckless driving to equal exactly the cut off for required re-education. Finally, I had my glimmer of hope moments - such as when I paid $8 to get the official eleven year driving record from the DMV and discovered my latest speeding ticket did not appear.
I believe this last detail was key to me escaping the situation relatively unscathed.
After a solid twenty-four hours obsessing over what to wear (went with a short-sleeved, button-down blue Kenneth Cole shirt and black pants, business casual, suggesting neither the wealth of something fancier nor the recklessness of one of my myriad red or burgundy shirts), how to style my hair (went with down rather than spiked, flaunting my gray and reducing the perception that I'm a young guy living on the edge), and most importantly what to say (as with all things, I pre-lived my conversations with the judge in my head no less than one thousand times, varying tone, approach and word choice), I finally found myself in court.
It was a rollercoaster.
On the drive there, a police cruiser followed me in. I glanced at the officer while stopped at a light and was ninety percent certain it was the tub of lard that issued me my ticket. There went one potential avenue of escape.
After taking my seat in second row (immediately behind what appeared to be the entire county of Fairfax highway patrol), I overheard a conversation in which my officer's injury was revealed and doubt was cast upon his attendance. I was mistaken when I identified him on the road earlier (to be honest, they all look alike to me).
"If he shows up, it will be on crutches."
I'm sure I looked incredibly suspicious to those packed into the pews of that courtroom, perpetually glancing around and over my shoulder, hoping I wouldn't see an incredibly fat man lumber in on crutches. Had I really dodged a bullet? Would I finally get to be that guy, the one who perpetuates the stories of the great injustice of our traffic court system that whimsically dismisses serious cases while prosecuting lesser ones simply because the officer couldn't make it into court?
I would love to be that guy, but it turns out to not be that easy.
After working his way through those defendants who required a Spanish language translator, the judge began addressing the cases of my missing disabled accuser, in alphabetical order of course. I stiffened in my seat, anticipating, hoping, praying for the word "dismiss" to emerge from his lips.
First up was a latino gentleman, Alvarez or something to that effect.
"Mister [A.], you are charged with reckless driving (general)-"
What luck, I thought, He must be one of the line of 8 to 10 people stopped on that same day. I figured his fate would be my own.
"-Your officer is unable to attend the hearing today. Because I know nothing of the details of your case, I am not comfortable dismissing it outright. I am, therefore, going to reschedule your court date for October 16, when Officer [J.] is next available. Thank you."
I was crestfallen.
Once again, hope was snatched out of my grasp at the last minute. I cursed that fucking urban myth for ever inspiring fantasies that the absence of the arresting officer might spell escape. But it was far worse than that - October 16th is my birthday, a birthday for which I have already purchased plane tickets and hotel reservations in Vegas. Destiny just took an enormous shit on my world. Doom assured, I settled back and waiting for him to wend his way to the 'W's.
Somewhere along the way, though, hope was rekindled. After a couple more cases, the judge's story changed. He started offering those charged with reckless driving (general) a choice - either return on October 16th to face trial or plead to the lesser charge of improper driving. Those who received this offer were unanimous in accepting the latter option. I couldn't figure out why [A.] was more harshly penalized than the rest. At first I assumed racial profiling, but then I realized the judge was consulting each individual's driving record before presenting them an alternative to rescheduling.
Once again, my hopes were tainted by fear and doubt. I had literally received a speeding ticket for driving 20 mph over the speed limit less than a month prior. There was no rationale by which a judge could allow me to plead down reckless driving when not six weeks earlier I had committed another act that was, for all intents and purposes, of equivalent severity. The thing is, I checked my DMV transcripts and that ticket didn't show up. Was it possible that the judge's resources were no greater than my own, that the DMV somehow either lost my info or was so backlogged that they had not yet updated my official record?
I stood for an eternity as he perused the printout of my past offenses.
"You'll have to hold on for a minute, I'm checking something..." he said.
I was gripping the sides of the podium, sweat trickling down the small of my back. In my mind, everything rested on whether that speeding ticket showed up in my record.
I can only assume it didn't because he made the offer.
"I would love to take the improper driving plea," I purred obsequiously. I almost threw in something about my birthday being on October 16th but decided it was best to cut my losses.
I believe it was the perfect storm of fortuitous circumstances: an injured officer, a missing speeding ticket. I nearly danced my way down the hall to pay my $150 fine for the 3-point offense of "improper driving." All I could think of was not only was I safe, but my birthday in Vegas was safe. My luck has been spectacular lately and I sense great things on the gambling front. I was walking on air on my way out of there, practically flying.
And it took every ounce of willpower to resist the urge to speed.
The lawyer asking was a cookie-cutter carbon copy of the bottom-feeders in their bad suits milling about the periphery of the courtroom. For whatever reason, they were the only people (apart from the bailiff) allowed to remain standing.
"If he shows, it'll be on crutches" was the reply and my heart skipped a beat.
Everyone talks about how there's that infinitesimal chance that the arresting officer will not show up for a ticket hearing and you will get off scot free. Everyone claims to have seen it happen or know someone who has seen it happen or known someone to whom it has supposedly happened; but over time I had come to believe that it never happens, that this was just another urban myth like the alligators in the sewers and straight-acting homosexuals.
Until yesterday.
It's hard to make a credible claim to good driving after receiving tickets for two six-point offenses within three weeks of each other, but I nevertheless do not consider myself reckless. That's why the entire situation stung so bad. Well, that and the fact that 12 points in a 12 month period virtually guaranteed me a trip to traffic school (or whatever the hell the refresher course is called).
Looking back at my eleven year record, I receive a speeding ticket every two years, which I don't think is that unreasonable given that there is a one-to-one mapping in my case of being stopped by the police and receiving a ticket (unlike everyone else I know who mysteriously manage to get off with "warnings" from time to time (Am I missing something? Is "warning" a euphemism for oral sex?)). In general, I consider these citations and the subsequent fines as biennial wake-up calls. Over the course of twenty-four months, my foot becomes increasingly leaden until I am pulled over and alerted to the fact. I then tighten up my driving and reset the process back to the start. I feel as though this system is a decent and fair one; a couple hundred dollars every two years invested in keeping me relatively safe.
The system broke down, however, when, on June 2nd of this year, I found myself approaching four and a half lanes of solid bumper-to-bumper traffic at the Dulles Toll Road and 495 intersection. It was a sea of cars as far as the eye could see and escape lay just to my left in the form of an exit from the airport road. For whatever reason, this particular exit from the airport road was configured in such a way that it was more of a merge lane than a true exit, such that it is possible for traffic from the toll road to merge onto the airport road just as easy as it is for those on the airport road to exit onto the toll road.
Except of course that this is illegal.
Poorly documented by an oddly minute no-left-turn sign a hundred feet back but nevertheless obviously illegal.
This hadn't stopped me from executing the maneuver one or two times in the past, only on those occasions where there was no hope of even the left-most of the four lanes of traffic making it through the hellish clusterfuck that results from the side-by-side exits onto 495 North and 495 South. I fully knew the risk, having seen police stationed there before. I was in no particular rush, having left work particularly early on that day.
I guess I just felt like gambling.
It probably helped that I watched one or two cars execute the exact same maneuver as I approached the traffic snarl. Checking my mirrors and over my shoulder to be certain there was no oncoming traffic on the airport road, I flipped on my left turn signal and "merged" via the exit, landing directly in the lap of a police officer. I was flagged down and told to pull to the end of a rapidly growing queue of offenders. There were actually two police cruisers stationed there, working in tandem to take advantage of what they know is a clearly a common problem. I sat as two more cars were forced to line up behind me. By this point, the operation was so long that it stretched to the actual exit and was visible to anyone on the Toll Road (lucky bastards).
Officer number two pulled to the end of the line and issued the citations to the owners of the two cars behind me while officer one set about working his way from the front. I counted eight cars total; I was number six. It turns out six is the loneliest number when officer two takes off after sending seven and eight on their way, leaving me last in line.
I had a lot of time to think, something in the range of forty-five minutes, such that receiving my ticket was a relief from the sort of purgatorial torment of watching the traffic jam on the Toll Road gradually resolve itself until what was once bumper-to-bumper was now a pleasantly unattainable flow of four lanes at approximately 55-65 mph.
The relief turned a tad sour, though, when he explained that he was charging me with reckless driving, rationalizing that there had been two fatalities from people doing exactly what I did, yada, yada, yada. My mind was too busy processing the idea that I would need to go to court and hire a lawyer to avoid a felony on my record. A felony, really? I don't believe reckless drivers proceed in such a cautious manner that they check their blind spots and signal their intention to turn. But I suppose I could put on my emergency flashers immediately before intentionally committing vehicular homicide and it wouldn't do much to mitigate the severity of the act.
Regardless, what followed was a torturous six weeks of obsession. D. probably suffered the worst, having to endure my long rants and neurotic debates about whether or not to hire a lawyer, what sort of argument to make for a reduced charge, the general injustice of the world and so forth.
I had a few high points - such as when I discovered that I was charged with a misdemeanor version of reckless driving, not the felony (i.e. Reckless Driving - General). I had my low points - such as when I calculated out the combined points from my recent speeding ticket and the reckless driving to equal exactly the cut off for required re-education. Finally, I had my glimmer of hope moments - such as when I paid $8 to get the official eleven year driving record from the DMV and discovered my latest speeding ticket did not appear.
I believe this last detail was key to me escaping the situation relatively unscathed.
After a solid twenty-four hours obsessing over what to wear (went with a short-sleeved, button-down blue Kenneth Cole shirt and black pants, business casual, suggesting neither the wealth of something fancier nor the recklessness of one of my myriad red or burgundy shirts), how to style my hair (went with down rather than spiked, flaunting my gray and reducing the perception that I'm a young guy living on the edge), and most importantly what to say (as with all things, I pre-lived my conversations with the judge in my head no less than one thousand times, varying tone, approach and word choice), I finally found myself in court.
It was a rollercoaster.
On the drive there, a police cruiser followed me in. I glanced at the officer while stopped at a light and was ninety percent certain it was the tub of lard that issued me my ticket. There went one potential avenue of escape.
After taking my seat in second row (immediately behind what appeared to be the entire county of Fairfax highway patrol), I overheard a conversation in which my officer's injury was revealed and doubt was cast upon his attendance. I was mistaken when I identified him on the road earlier (to be honest, they all look alike to me).
"If he shows up, it will be on crutches."
I'm sure I looked incredibly suspicious to those packed into the pews of that courtroom, perpetually glancing around and over my shoulder, hoping I wouldn't see an incredibly fat man lumber in on crutches. Had I really dodged a bullet? Would I finally get to be that guy, the one who perpetuates the stories of the great injustice of our traffic court system that whimsically dismisses serious cases while prosecuting lesser ones simply because the officer couldn't make it into court?
I would love to be that guy, but it turns out to not be that easy.
After working his way through those defendants who required a Spanish language translator, the judge began addressing the cases of my missing disabled accuser, in alphabetical order of course. I stiffened in my seat, anticipating, hoping, praying for the word "dismiss" to emerge from his lips.
First up was a latino gentleman, Alvarez or something to that effect.
"Mister [A.], you are charged with reckless driving (general)-"
What luck, I thought, He must be one of the line of 8 to 10 people stopped on that same day. I figured his fate would be my own.
"-Your officer is unable to attend the hearing today. Because I know nothing of the details of your case, I am not comfortable dismissing it outright. I am, therefore, going to reschedule your court date for October 16, when Officer [J.] is next available. Thank you."
I was crestfallen.
Once again, hope was snatched out of my grasp at the last minute. I cursed that fucking urban myth for ever inspiring fantasies that the absence of the arresting officer might spell escape. But it was far worse than that - October 16th is my birthday, a birthday for which I have already purchased plane tickets and hotel reservations in Vegas. Destiny just took an enormous shit on my world. Doom assured, I settled back and waiting for him to wend his way to the 'W's.
Somewhere along the way, though, hope was rekindled. After a couple more cases, the judge's story changed. He started offering those charged with reckless driving (general) a choice - either return on October 16th to face trial or plead to the lesser charge of improper driving. Those who received this offer were unanimous in accepting the latter option. I couldn't figure out why [A.] was more harshly penalized than the rest. At first I assumed racial profiling, but then I realized the judge was consulting each individual's driving record before presenting them an alternative to rescheduling.
Once again, my hopes were tainted by fear and doubt. I had literally received a speeding ticket for driving 20 mph over the speed limit less than a month prior. There was no rationale by which a judge could allow me to plead down reckless driving when not six weeks earlier I had committed another act that was, for all intents and purposes, of equivalent severity. The thing is, I checked my DMV transcripts and that ticket didn't show up. Was it possible that the judge's resources were no greater than my own, that the DMV somehow either lost my info or was so backlogged that they had not yet updated my official record?
I stood for an eternity as he perused the printout of my past offenses.
"You'll have to hold on for a minute, I'm checking something..." he said.
I was gripping the sides of the podium, sweat trickling down the small of my back. In my mind, everything rested on whether that speeding ticket showed up in my record.
I can only assume it didn't because he made the offer.
"I would love to take the improper driving plea," I purred obsequiously. I almost threw in something about my birthday being on October 16th but decided it was best to cut my losses.
I believe it was the perfect storm of fortuitous circumstances: an injured officer, a missing speeding ticket. I nearly danced my way down the hall to pay my $150 fine for the 3-point offense of "improper driving." All I could think of was not only was I safe, but my birthday in Vegas was safe. My luck has been spectacular lately and I sense great things on the gambling front. I was walking on air on my way out of there, practically flying.
And it took every ounce of willpower to resist the urge to speed.