THE DUI DIARY: Chapter Nineteen

Well, it looks like I lost my appeal. I got a message from Earl saying that the appellate court got back to us, and they turned down our appeal. They didn’t seem to believe my Fourth Amendment rights had been violated by the length of the safety roadblock check. Also, they didn’t think the cases Earl cited in the brief were relevant. He did tell me that he thought this decision was unfair, and he intended to file a motion to reconsider. Failing this, he believes an appeal to the Illinois Supreme Court would have a chance.



Considering all of this, I figured that I was going to go on trial today. I guessed wrong, as it turned out. I showed up at 8:30 sharp and found myself standing in a nearly empty courtroom. Maybe it was because New Years was just a few days ago; either that, or the crime rate is dropping.


The two gentlemen sitting in front of me were discussing baby names. One of them said, “Don’t you find it funny that girls are named after bottles of booze or religious moments?”


Religious moments? Like what? The crucifixion? He didn’t elaborate. And I don’t think I’ve ever met a girl named Wild Turkey (although I’m still hoping, fingers crossed).


The other guy said, “I’ma name my baby girl Stripper Pole. Folks be callin’ her S.P. Williamson. Some dude gonna’ ask her what S.P. stand for, and she be like, Stripper Pole!”


The bailiff then said to the second guy, “Take your hat off, please.”

He did. It was weird; I’ve been in court a shitload of times, and I’ve seen some guys wear hats. Some even wear hoods. Never before have I heard the bailiff ask someone to remove their hats. Come to think of it, down in the lobby, they asked me to take my belt off. They’ve never done that before. Is there some kind of new regulation, or something?


Removing one’s hood makes sense, but why should anyone remove their hat? Is it some kind of respect thing? I never could understand that bullshit.


Anyway, the judge entered, and everyone rose, as per usual. There’s another ritual of respect I don’t understand. If I didn’t rise, I’d be found in contempt of court, just the same as if I would have called the judge a cocksucker. The two actions seem to be equated. It’s all one big bullshit pageant, and after all the times I’ve been in court, I’m tired of it. We don’t need the pomp and circumstance. The judge should just sit the fuck down and get to work earning his taxpayer wages. If I wanted to jump through hoops, I’d go to church.


The judge heard a few cases, and then he ran out of things to do. There were just a handful of us in the crowd, all presumably waiting for our lawyers. I took a look around and didn’t see any of my team of bloodthirsty attorneys. I started wondering why they wanted me to be here at 8:30 and not even show up themselves for an hour and a half. What was the fucking point? Was this some kind of strategy? They certainly did it often enough.


One time, I heard the state’s attorney and the judge talking, and I distinctly heard Don’s name mentioned. The judge was looking at me. Were they talking about me? What the fuck was going on? Where were my lawyers?


I got up and went to the bathroom. Got some water. Blew a cobweb of snot into the rough paper towels. Because I’m sick. Fucking sick, again. I’m floating high on a cloud of DayQuil, and everything seems distant.


When I got back to the courtroom, I tried to relax with my book. Ed Gorman’s THE DARK FANTASTIC. It’s a collection of short stories from one of the awesomest writers working today. If you’re not a fan of Gorman’s work, you’re probably a corpse.


I got through a couple of stories before I looked up to see that the court was absolutely packed, elbow to asshole. The judge came back in, and he was ready to rock out with his cock out. He started taking cases left and right, hacking down defendants like he was Henry Lee Lucas. He was in a pissy mood, and anyone who didn’t follow procedure was summarily dealt with. God help the person who doesn’t call HERE when his or her name is mentioned.


There were some kids in for consuming alcohol at the age of 17. He intimidated the fuck out of them, which I felt was a bit unfair considering how they didn’t have attorneys. Then there was the guy who came up without saying he was here. He looked Latino, so the judge automatically assumed he didn’t speak English. “Habla inglese?” he asked in a mocking tone.


“Sure,” the guy said.


“Then why didn’t you say here when I called your name? Didn’t you hear those instructions?”


The guy apologized, and was then swatted like a fly by the System.


Then entered this woman who wore pants so tight I could see the distinct shape of her pussy . . . and she was wearing jeans. She was pretty, and judging from the rest of her clothes, I figured she was in for retail theft. It turned out I was right. I’m getting good at this shit.


There was another good-looking woman in court, and the judge was very, very upset with her. Apparently, she’d been found guilty of DUI, and she’d attended the victims panel, but hadn’t started taking the DUI classes. “Don’t you realize the seriousness of this? I can still throw you in jail for up to a year. Would you like me to do that?”


She played it cool. “My lawyer’s not here yet.”


“Who is your lawyer?”


The same as mine.


“Oh. I see. One of Don’s clients.” He looked at the court reporter and rolled his eyes. “All right. Have a seat. We’ll get to you later.”


At around a quarter to ten, Earl made his entrance. He held two folders. One of them was fucking stuffed, so I knew it was mine, and the other was much thinner. I supposed it was the other woman’s. He checked in, and just as he was about to walk out, the judge said, “Council. Don’t go anywhere.”


Earl got this pained look on his face, but he turned it into a smile just before he faced the judge. “Sure thing, your honor.”

The judge finished up the case before him, sending an 18-year-old drinker back to DuPage County Jail for 150 days. He then summoned Earl to stand before him. The woman joined them, and they argued heatedly for a while. The judge was hungry for flesh, and he seemed intent on taking it from Earl. They finally came to a decision to come back to court in a month in regards to this woman. She then escaped with Earl, and I hoped he would come back quickly. If he checked me in, then I was undoubtedly going to be called soon.


Earl didn’t come back, but Don arrived. As soon as he was there, my name was called. The judge went over the details of why we were here today, and Don agreed. Apparently, no one notifies the judge of when an appeal decision comes in. The sole purpose of my presence in court was so that Don could notify the judge that the appeal did not work out for us. He also mentioned that he was going to file a motion to reconsider.


The judge seemed to find this reasonable. He then said that I would need to come back on March 1 so we could finally get down to business.


Outside the courtroom, Don said, “OK, so I assume you read the appeal decision.”


I did.


“Good. We’ve got a few points we want to argue with the appellate court, and if it doesn’t work out, we’re prepared to take it to the next level.”


“Excellent.”


“So next time, we’re going to proceed with the second part of the charges against you. The officer is going to come back, and we’re going to go through pretty much the same thing we went through at the previous hearing. You need to make no preparations, just show up, okay?”


“Sure thing.”


“Happy New Year.”


And he was gone.


I go back in March. Two months after that will be the second anniversary of my arrest. This has taken so long the fight has almost been bored out of me. I remember how angry I was when I was notified that the judge frowned upon reading in the courtroom, but considering how much people-watching I got in since then, it’s been interesting. That’s the only interesting part about any of this now. Have you noticed that very few of the things I talk about in these entries are about me and my case? I’m always talking about other people.


This is what it’s like to be in a court battle, folks. First they suck the money out of you. Then they suck your interest away. Then, if you’re unlucky and lose, they suck more money out of you.


Is it all worth it? I hope so. I guess I’ll find out on March 1.


As I left the courtroom, I noticed that the down escalators were being worked on. I went to the elevator and pressed the down button. A faint glow lit it up, and I waited five minutes before deciding that nothing was going to happen. I took the stairs instead.


I didn’t realize that for every storey in the building, there were four flights of stairs. By the time I got to the bottom, my cold medicine-addled brain was twisted and dizzy. I felt like I’d just been on a carnival ride.


I hate going to court. I hate being sick. I hate being sick while going to court. FUCK!


TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW!