Guilty

Posted Fri Aug 31, 2007 in Stories

I finally had my day in court. Way back in June I brought Shadowfax, my ’02 BMW K1200RS, to Nevada from Texas. I rode it through New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, and Nevada. The ride was less comfortable than I wanted, so I decided to trade. On trade day, I was stopped for speeding and then cited for failure to register a vehicle.

Last Wednesday, I had my day in court. Before the court date I called a lawyer and asked him what I should do. He called his ex-wife, who still works traffic court, and asked about the procedures in Lyon County. So, I was instructed to plead not-guilty, then meet with the district attorney and explain what happened. He was certain they’d dismiss the registration charge and negotiate a no-points speeding ticket.

It was the points that worried me. From what I’ve read, when an insurance company receives notice that a points violation has been assessed, insurance rates go up. We’re already paying too much in insurance. So, I wanted a no-points conviction. I figured the cost of the fine and costs would be much less than the potential impact of an increase in insurance premiums. (We pay a lot!)

So, court day came. Wife and I drove to Dayton early and parked the Bimmer in the lot. We went inside. The bailiff, Dave, was already on duty. Dave, a big man with short-cropped gray hair, worked in his office, a M1911A1-style pistol in a holster at his side. His bright blue-gray eyes didn’t miss much and when I approached his office, he asked “What can I do for you?”

“Where is traffic court?”

“Around the corner to the left. But you need to meet with the DA before you get to court. Go downstairs and ask for S. Lee. She just came in.”

So, we headed for the hall where we found an oriental-looking woman mopping spilled coffee from a table in the hall. She had a filing box full of stuff.

“This is not a good way to start the morning,” she said, glancing up at me.

“Let me take the box for you. We’re looking for S. Lee.”

“That’s me. Let’s go downstairs to the office.”

The office was a hole-in-the-wall, with just enough room for a desk and three chairs. I placed the file-box on her desk, which she took and placed on the floor beside her. We chatted about how one becomes a deputy district attorney and about her job. I love to hear people talk about why they do what they do.

She got serious, though, when it came to business. However, it was just business. She agreed to dismiss the charge of failure to register my vehicle. She also agreed to reduce the speeding charge to rural speeding, which carries no points, in exchange for a guilty plea.

I agreed. So, we went upstairs to wait for court and the judge.

The bailiff was pretty busy, so there wasn’t much time to talk to him. I was curious about his job too. Wife spent a lot of time on her favorite pastime — people-watching. I read the historical documents which populate the courthouse.

While reading, a young man walked into the courtroom. He obviously knew the bailiff. We chatted a bit about why he was at traffic court.

“It’s my truck… They keep stopping me. It’s taller than regulations and I had to take the bumper off so the back-up camera would work. The cable wasn’t long enough…”

I looked at his vehicle (image at top). It’s tall all right. “Isn’t that hard to drive?”

“No. It’s a dream. A lot of people look at it. I almost got hit the other day when someone was trying to take a picture of it with their cellphone while driving.

“People drive crazy. But I keep getting stopped when they see me. They even get out a tape and measure it.”

I thought of SiL, who like tall-trucks. “My son-in-law would like it. Do you mind if I take a picture?”

“Not at all.” So I made the image while we chatted. It turned out he was ex-military (82^nd^ Airborne). I thought of many of our young people in the military now.

The appointed time came around, so Wife and I headed into the courtroom. The metal detector sounded as we passed through.

“Just a minute,” the bailiff said to Wife, “I’ll have to check your bag. We don’t want any guns in here.” He checked her bag and found nothing.

He looked at me. “Step back through, sir,” then looked back at Wife. “It’s probably him — he probably has the gun.”

“I’m not carrying.” I responded, but stepped back through the detector. It didn’t sound. We later figured out it was our cellphones that probably triggered the device. We found a seat and looked about. A wide variety of people were in the courtroom. I visited with the bailiff. He came to Dayton from San Diego after things started getting rough in southern California. He didn’t want to raise his daughters in that environment.

“All rise,” he called as the judge entered the chamber. We stood.

The judge called the court to order and began the business of court. He called cases and the two district attorneys did their jobs. The cases were interesting but it was the interaction that was more interesting.

My turn finally came. I entered the gate that separates the proceedings from the audience. The district attorney presented our discussion, getting some of her facts incorrect. The story was essentially correct, but the facts were wrong.

“Do you agree?” the judge asked me.

“Yes sir.”

“How do you plea?”

“Guilty.”

“You understand that you give up your right to a trial?”

“Yes sir.”

“All right. Fine is set to $67. I see you traded the vehicle. You decided on four wheels?”

“No sir. I bought another motorcycle.”

“I assume it is registered.”

“Yes sir. I registered it right away.”

“I used to ride one of those things. People out here drive crazy and I decided to sell it before someone killed me. You be careful out there and watch your speed.” The judge grinned.

“Yes sir,” I said as I headed out of the courtroom.

I paid my fine, satisfied that I had achieved what I thought would be the best outcome I could. But it felt odd having plead guilty. I suppose there is an entire line of thought I could take from there — a philosophical discourse on the guilt of all humanity since the fall of Adam and the sacrifice required to atone for that guilt.

But, I think I won’t. It isn’t that those thoughts didn’t pass through my head on the way back through Carson City to drop off Wife and head for the office. I just think I’ll keep them for myself to mull over. At least the ordeal is over.