THE DUI DIARY: Chapter Thirteen

Maybe it was a bad idea to go into court with a hangover. Last night’s drinking kind of got away from me, and when I woke up this morning, the room was lopsided. I threw some aspirin, Tang, and Red Bull down my throat, but it wasn’t enough. By the time I got to court, my head seemed to be rocking back and forth, but I know I wasn’t moving at all. I couldn’t even read because the words were dancing around on the page.



As it turned out, this was the least of my worries. Today was Rage and Stupidity Day in my new courtroom, and apparently I wasn’t immune to either one.


Remember when I said about how I might get a fair shake from my new judge? Well, as it turns out, she’s not my judge. My case will be heard by a fat guy with a comb-over who resembles the Empire Carpet guy. His name is Ferguson, and he’s a cunt-faced prick. In fact, I found myself missing Guerin, this guy was so bad. He sat behind his desk with the State of Illinois slab towering behind him, kind of like the monolith in 2001, but gray instead, and he ruled with an iron fist.


One defendant who was defending herself reached over the judge’s desk to hand him some paperwork. “What does it say in BIG BOLD LETTERS right in front of you?” he asked. “Or don’t you know how to read?”


The lady read the sign, which said, “DO NOT REACH OVER THE DESK.”


There wasn’t a single defendant who came up to stand before Ferguson who was not berated in an over-the-top fashion. He was like a clean version of R. Lee Ermey in FULL METAL JACKET.


In some cases, I could understand. There was one guy on crutches who didn’t seem to know if he had a lawyer or not. Kids, if you are standing before a judge, and you don’t know the answer to this question, you deserve what you get.


There were also people who had been here before, who had been ordered to hire a lawyer, and who clearly didn’t follow this order. Threats were handed out like porno pamphlets on the Vegas strip. If they didn’t get a lawyer by next time, they would go to trial without representation.


By the time my name was called, I was full of dread. I was confident that the judge would find nothing wrong with me, nothing he could rag on, since I was dressed well and I was conducting myself with respect. However, my lawyers were nowhere to be seen. I figured I’d tell him that I was waiting for my attorney, and he’d pass on me.


Ferguson gave me the routine. What’s your name. Do you know what you’ve been charged with. Etc. And then, he asked, “Do you have representation?” I could hear the challenge in his voice. He was looking eager to tearing me a new asshole if I said no.


“Yes.”


He seemed disappointed. “Who is your representation?”


I gave him the name.


He wrote it down. “Well, let’s see if he shows up. Have a seat.”


I sat back down, forcing a smile from my face, and I settled back to start watching people.


There was a guy sitting behind me who kept muttering to himself. At first I thought he was on a cell phone (which is prohibited in court), but when he started humming to himself, I figured it out. When he was called, I got a good look at him. Ever see THE BRUTE MAN? This guy was a black, bearded Rondo Hatton. If not for the nice-looking coat and the lack of stink, I would have thought this guy was homeless.


The guy sitting next to me reminded me of a porn star I saw once. Tall, skinny, bespectacled and black, whenever I saw him, I couldn’t help but think of the time his doppelganger with a foot-long dong took on Bridget the Midget (who could only get his glans in her mouth, and nothing more). Every time someone did something stupid in court, he would shake his head or put his face in his hands, as if he couldn’t believe God made people this dumb.


Every time someone spoke louder than a whisper, the bailiff would shout, “If you want to have a conversation, you take it into the hallway! Otherwise, keep your mouth shut!”


I looked at my watch. I’d been there for two hours, and I still hadn’t seen my lawyer. I wasn’t worried, though. This was typical. One of the lawyers would show up, and then they’d get on with my case.

Wait! Is that the cop who arrested me? Yes, there he was, sitting in the jury box with other officers. Holy shit, this was really going to happen! I was going to be on trial today, and my freedom would be soon determined. Jesus!


A guy with more gold than Fort Knox around his neck was called. He wore a baseball cap and was texting on his cell phone as he approached the bench. The guy was so incredibly disrespectful that the judge was struck dumb. But not for long; the man was dealt with and thrown away. “Thank you, goodbye,” the judge said, which was how he ended each case. He said this as he tossed the envelope containing all the case information to the side.


Another guy was called, a t-shirt and jeans kind of guy. Sadly, he’d forgotten his belt; his pants were so far down his ass was hanging out. At first, I thought this was a fashion statement, but soon the guy must have sensed something was wrong, since he then pulled his pants up.


Yet another guy showed up in his best striped clubbing shirt . . . except the arms were torn off. Court is a classy joint.


The courtroom was starting to get empty. A couple walked in and sat in the same row as me. This was unfortunate, because the woman kept moving around. The seats are so poorly put together that if one person shifts slightly, everyone in the row feels it. My hangover did not thank this fidgety person.


I was called again, and the judge asked me where my lawyer was. I told him I didn’t know, and he asked if I had talked to him today. “No, I didn’t.”


“Well, aren’t you a smart one,” he said. “You know, if I were in your shoes, I’d be scared to death and nervous about my lawyer. I would have called him. Then again, you’re not all that bright, or you wouldn’t be here, would you?”


If he wasn’t a judge, I would have reached across that desk and bashed his fucking skull in. I’ve never been so thoroughly disrespected by someone whose salary my taxes paid. In fact, I’ve NEVER been disrespected by an official until now. The cop who arrested me was polite, the prosecutor might have been a dick, but he still treated me fairly, and even Guerin, who thought things over more than Hamlet did, treated me with respect.


I don’t have a lot of pride, and I’ll take a lot of things from people, provided that those things are true. What I won’t take is disrespectful cunt-faces impugning my intelligence. The urge to throw ten-dollar words at him to make him feel just as degraded was overwhelming. I’ve never found my pride harder to swallow.

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll give him a few more minutes. Have a seat.” He then told the court clerk to email everyone at Don’s law firm to see if they could get someone down here.


I immediately went out of the courtroom and called my attorney. I talked with the secretary and explained the situation, and I was told that Don would be there as soon as possible. Wait, what? You mean, he’s not here? But she was gone.


Shortly after I walked back into the courtroom, I was called again. “Okay, he’s not here,” the judge said. “Please note that the defendant was in the courtroom while the attorney was not.”


“Sir, I just talked to my lawyer,” I said, mustering my politest tone. I was using my gay phone voice that I usually utilized at work. “He said he was going to be here in a minute.”


“Oh, so genius here called his lawyer, huh?”


I bit my tongue.


“A prudent man would have made that call as soon as I’d called you the first time. Okay, we’ll wait for Lord Tardy. Have a seat.”


I followed orders and watched as someone else tried her luck. I wasn’t listening, though; I was too busy fuming, thinking about what I’d do to the judge if I’d run into him at a bar. So I don’t know what happened between the judge and the defendant. All I know is that the judge started yelling at her. Apparently, her lawyer wasn’t there, either, and this lawyer had done something to incur the wrath of Ferguson. He went on and on about how unprofessional this lawyer was, and how she shouldn’t even be in practice. The defendant said that it was easy for him to say these things when she wasn’t there. The judge snarled back that he’d say the same things to her face if she was here, and that she was welcome to take this message to her lawyer.


By the time he’d said, “Thank you, goodbye,” Don had showed up, and I was called up next. Don led off by apologizing to the judge profusely. Apparently, what had happened was that one of his clerks had misfiled my paperwork, so they didn’t get their usual alert that they had to be in court for today.


“I have more of an objection with your client,” the judge said. “A smart man would have called you sooner. This genius here waited and waited and waited until the last minute. It was pretty stupid, don’t you think?”


“Your honor, my client is under a lot of stress because of this case.”


The judge rolled his eyes. “Right. Of course. Let’s ask the officer how disrespected he feels? He’s been waiting here all day, and for nothing.”


I’m sure he was all broken up about it. He got a pretty good nap while he was waiting, a nap he probably wouldn’t have gotten if he was on duty.


“If your bright boy client hadn’t waited, these proceedings would have been over with,” the judge continued. “Now he’s got to come back again.”


“What’s a good date for you, John?” Don asked.


“No,” the judge said. “The officer will decide when you come back. When’s good for you?”


After some haggling, we decided on Dec. 29 at 9:30. Great. So, the way things are looking, maybe I’ll celebrate New Year’s behind bars.


On the way out, Don apologized to me. “But if it’s any solace, we are doing thousands of dollars worth of appeals work for you for free, so there’s that.”


I nodded, dumbly. “Have you heard anything about the appeal?” I asked.


“No. You’re not going to hear anything about the appeal for quite some time.”


I couldn’t help but think about everyone driving me around all the time, and I felt like punching the wall out of frustration. It was beginning to dawn on me that even if I win this case, the whole thing just wasn’t worth the trouble. “So, I’m stuck with my suspension?”


“Believe me, by the time this appeal goes through, you’ll be driving again.”


Then, what was the point? But I just didn’t have the energy to ask this question.


TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW!