theblogofthehandoftamm

This morning I took up the mantle of representing myself in matters legal and went to my local court offices to follow up on my intention to contest the ticket I received two weeks ago in that outrageously corrupt sting operation.

Having been advised that wait times can be ridiculous for those who wish to have their day in court, I got myself to the place of proletarian protest for 8:30, a half-hour prior to opening. Not surprisingly, the line-up was about 40 people long, because other people must have received the same advice as myself. Or it was simply a matter of experience; I hate to seem judgmental, based solely on appearances, but the look of many of the assembled left me with the impression that they have more regular dealings with the court system than little ol’ innocent me.

This was soon deepened as I stood in line and overheard strangers take up conversation with one another and discussing the finer points of their cases, gambits that had proved successful in the past, and obscure points of law that might serve their needs. I was a total amateur in a group of experts in the field of delaying, reducing, or obliterating convictions. Many of those with traffic-related charges struck me as potentially cab drivers and contractors, who probably rack up minor infractions as part of the job. Still others conveyed more a sense of danger, and that their charges were likely more serious in nature. Perhaps failure to muzzle a pitbull, falling behind in restitution payments, or ignoring restraining orders. All walks of humanity and transgressors of the law were represented first thing of a raining Tuesday morning.

I got to the front of the line and was issued a number and handed a form, at which point I was to proceed into the adjoining room to see a representative at the kiosk when my number came up. Foolishly, I had failed to bring a pen in with me and none were to be provided. No problem, I thought; there are about 25 people in front of me so I’ll just slip to the car and get a pen. Wrong ‘em, boyo. The round trip for a ballpoint may have taken me under two minutes but already my number had been called. They were now on T409 to my T408. I rushed up to a wicket anyway and explained my dilemma to a stone-faced civil servant in what looked to be clothes for laundry day. [Has all pride gone out of office work?] He told me that I would now need to go and get a new number.

With thoughts of swift, sure revenge in my head I went back to line #1, which was only about six people deep now and got my replacement number. I hurriedly went back to the ‘servicing’ area to make sure I didn’t miss being called again. Form filled out, time now began to drag like Rupaul. My number was suddenly nowhere near to coming up. How does this work? Down with the government! Throw the rascals out!

Not that I was bored for any length of time. As I had a writing instrument, I was now the most popular person in the room. While I got ready to test the convictions of our legal system, a young lassie who was selflessly testing the tensile strength of denim across her shapely posterior asked me if she could borrow my pen. I chose not to tell her I’d just had it in my mouth and passed it along with gentlemanly comportment and perhaps a low bow. After that, some Australopithecus asked same, followed by a series of pre-hominids with vehicular charges pending. One such cro-magnon type decided that his sense of entitlement didn’t agree with the shabby treatment at the hands of our legal clerks.

At 5’5” in both directions, he was something of an imposing figure with Noriega’esque complexion and a pointy goatee. This fellow looked like his mouth had gotten him into all kinds of trouble that even his car couldn’t manage. He huffed and puffed that he had already been through here before and that he didn’t needed to be treated like someone who didn’t know English. The rent-a-cop at the door was already starting to think about what sort of restraint might be required if and when Angry Man started kicking up his size 7s. Having regained his composure, while filling out his forms (with my pen), he starts hitting on some lady marshal as she walks by, asking if she’ll sell him her hat. He’s now making jokes like he’s Jack the Lad at some bar, wondering aloud why they don’t send us through metal detectors if this is a court house. “Lucky I’m not packing my piece,” he cracks wise. Why does this not demand action on the part of the bored cops as they walk through the room on their way in and out of court appearances? Nope, cops only react when you crawl through a stop sign at an abandoned intersection, it would seem.

The denim tester had by now taken up a seat next to me and was working the metallic hot fuschia mobile phone like it was a genie’s lamp. I bet she was wishing she’d need to borrow my pen again but then my number came up. I knelt and took my leave of this fair maiden and returned to Mr. Sloppy T behind the bullet-resistant plexi. I handed over my form and he wandered to a filing cabinet, where he fished out the corresponding paperwork from Officer “Soon to be Off the Force and Lucky to be Guarding an Empty Warehouse” Kelly. After stamping my paper he advised me that I can expect to hear about my court date in three to six months.

That’s it, that’s all. Out I went, back into the rain, satisfied that I had the wheels of justice in motion. Do not trifle with thehandoftamm, as my retribution is guaranteed to satisfy: me.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, September 30th, 2008 at 2:02 pm and is filed under crankiness. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.