Courtroom Drama

Well, I just got home a few minutes ago from spending the afternoon at the Clark County Justice Court, as a result of a heavy foot back in March (I was doing 51 in a 35).

It wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be, but I'm glad it's over.

My hearing was scheduled for 2:00 pm today, down in the basement courtroom at the County Gubmint Center. After my last visit, I learned that I shouldn't wear a belt, because everyone has to take them off and go through a metal detector, just like at the airport, only not nearly as organized. Imagine thirty people trying to get through one metal detector, in various stages of undress, and then getting spit out on the other side, standing in the lobby hopping on one foot trying to get their shoes back on.

So I figured that I'd avoid the hassle altogether by wearing easy slip-on loafers and skipping the belt. If my pants were gonna fall down, so be it. I'd wow 'em with my nifty (and lucky) Elvis boxers. When in Rome and all that...

I parked a couple blocks away and hiked to the courthouse, and luckily my pants stayed up. I went through the metal detector a couple of times and it kept beeping, so I got a private wanding. Oh yeah, that's pleasant. Turns out that my loafers have steel shanks in the heel. Whoops.

I gathered my belongings and headed downstairs to the courtroom. On my summons, it said in big letters "PLEASE ARRIVE TEN MINUTES BEFORE YOUR SCHEDULED HEARING TIME". No problemo, I was fifteen minutes early.

I took a seat outside in the corridor among the rest of the miscreants and lawbreakers, and waited. At ten till, I walked up to the door, but there was a sign posted that said not to open the door until my scheduled hearing time.

Ok.

So I sat back down and commenced to people-watch. Of course there was the requisite Reverend Jim-from-Taxi guy sitting there who smelled a lot like the alley next to the Golden Gate, a couple of hip-hop wannabes, and as luck would have it, three smokin' hot blonde gals from Sweden. Or Norway. Maybe they were Dutch... Hell, I don't know, but they weren't speaking English--it was obviously some northern European jibber-jabber.

Once 2:00 pm finally rolled over on the display on my now-silenced cellphone, I went over to the courtroom doors and tried to get in. They were locked, but of course made a loud enough "BANG" when I pulled on them to make everyone, both inside and outside of the courtroom, look up to see who the jackass was trying to open the door.

About ten seconds later a Bailiff with just a little too much authority came out and chastised everyone in the corridor in an exasperated tone to Quit pulling on the door! We'll call you when it's time to come in!!!

Not exactly wanting to be treated like a child there, I asked So how were we supposed to know that?

And he turned around and shot back, Because the door is locked! like I was some kind of moron or something.

Speaking for the group, I said, No, genius, how are we supposed to know the door is locked without pulling on it first?

He ignored the logic of that question and just went back inside.

So we sat and cooled our heels for a bit, and about 15 minutes later he came back out with proper instructions. We were to present him with the top page of our summons' and a photo ID. And then he started telling people that had sandals on that they weren't allowed in the courtroom. That caused quite a stir with a few people, because there are signs all over the courthouse that said "No Shorts. Shoes and Shirts Required"

Well, according to everyone else on the planet, sandals are shoes, but according to this little Napoleon, they were not. Having already insulted everyone else with his unfriendly attitude, this set everyone off that were wearing flip-flops and sandals. He almost had a riot on his hands, but he insisted that he wouldn't let anyone into his courtroom with sandals on.

So what was his solution? He told everyone to go back upstairs to the Clerk's office, take a number, wait in line, and reschedule their court dates.

Talk about a jackass with just a little too much power...

Well, that caused a couple of guys in line to just lose their minds and rain expletives down on the cop--it was getting good, and I was expecting the pepper spray and zip-ties to make an appearance, but everyone in sandals finally headed back up to the clerks office, while the rest of us properly-attired pilgrims gained admittance to the Holiest of Holies.

About two minutes later, the sandal-wearing crowd made another appearance, having been sent back down from the clerk's office, much to the delight of everyone present. I just sat there quietly with a grin on my face while three rows of John Q. Citizen started heckling the bailiff.

I guess you don't make the rules after all, do you?

Apparently, sandals really *are* shoes!

They said it's ok for the Judge to see my toes!

Of course, this wasn't the loud, sitting-in-the-bleachers-at-Wrigley heckling, it was the quiet high-school assembly when the gym-teacher-who-everyone-knows-is-a-molester gets up to speak heckling--just loud enough to cause a few giggles amongst the accused, and definitely loud enough to piss off the bailiff, but not so loud that he had to bring the hammer down.

Once all the paperwork was settled and the instructions were given, they called out seven names to go sit off to the side of the bench, while the rest of us waited in the back. I was in the second group, and we were instructed to sit in the order in which we were called. Of course my lucky Elvis boxers failed me, and instead of getting to sit next to the Swedish Bikini Team, I landed next to Reverend Jim.

But I didn't have to wait long. The judge was a kind and efficient soul, and I spent a grand total of thirty seconds in front of him. He offered me traffic school for $35, and if I finished it within 90 days, my ticket would be reduced to a parking violation and the fine would be $140.

Cha-ching!

Originally, the information I had told me that it was going to cost me $360, so that was a *huge* win in my book!

And I can do the traffic school online--no sitting around in a conference room at a local Best Western for eight hours with a room full of jerkoffs who keep asking questions making the day drag by. (Like I had to do in Phoenix a few years back).

I was pretty pleased with the outcome, and toasted my small victory with a celebratory bottle of Michelob Light as soon as I got home.

In fact, I think it's time for another...

Mikey