THE DUI DIARY: Chapter Twenty-One

So much for wishful thinking. The first thing I noticed as soon as I stepped into the courtroom was the presence of the two cops. They glanced at me, and the arresting officer whispered to his partner, nodding toward me. I think they were hoping I wouldn’t show up, either.



The judge was on break. In fact, it was the first of three recesses he made, not counting lunch. The courtroom was so sparse that it shocked me. After seeing everything about rising crime rates on the news and seeing something like a nearly empty courtroom, I’m starting to really wonder about what’s really going on. Sensationalism? Even a news anchor has to eat, I guess.


I settled in and pulled out my book. Douglas Clegg’s NAOMI. It starts out kind of slow, but when it picks up, it rocks. Normally, I don’t care for his work, but this is one hell of a book. I was so drawn into it that when I looked up, I saw a full courtroom. Oddly enough, most of the people in here were old. I’m not talking 60’s here, I mean 80’s. An entire row of little old ladies had appeared out of the blue. What could they have possibly done?

The judge returned, and the clerk started calling names. Mine was the first, and I said, “Waiting on my attorney.”

“Who is representing you?” Ferguson asked. “Wait, [the name of Don’s firm] right? Stay seated.”


They called the next three names, and none of them were ready due to absent attorneys. The judge decided to try a few prisoners, and it went pretty business-as-usual.


A second glance through the courtroom revealed a lot of teenaged kids with their mothers. I felt bad for them; considering the judge’s past history, these kids were doomed.


After a few more cases and recesses, Don showed up, and my case was called. I stood next to him and waited to see how things were going to go.


“Are all the officers here?” the judge asked.


“No,” the state’s attorney said. “The roadblock supervisor is on his way. He’ll be here shortly.”


“All right. This is probably going to take an hour. Did you want to give a shot at starting this at eleven? Or should we wait until after lunch?”


“Whichever you want, your honor,” Don said. “I have a case at 10:30, and as soon as that’s done, I’ll be ready.”


“All right. We’ll meet back here at ten to eleven, see how things look.”


I sat back down, and Don left the courtroom. Another delay. But at least it looked like shit was finally going to go down. My trial would finally begin.


They called a prisoner next, and they brought out a guy who looked like none of the others I’d ever seen in an orange jumpsuit. Very few such prisoners were white, and this guy was as pallid as anyone I’d ever seen. He was rake-skinny with a fringe of gray hair around the back of his head. He wore a thin mustache and looked more than a little like an emaciated Bryan Cranston. His mouth kept twitching, and I couldn’t help but wonder, what the fuck did this guy do?


The judge went on to say that the prisoner had missed two court dates, and that he’d wanted to issue a warrant for his arrest the first time, but a lot of people pleaded with him and said that the defendant had mental problems. However, when the guy missed his second date, the judge had no choice, hence the jumpsuit. “What I want to know is what kind of problems you have?”


“I have no problems. I’m fine.”


“A lot of mentally unbalanced people feel that way,” the judge said, and the courtroom erupted in snickers. Everyone was having a blast watching the judge cut down a mental patient.

“I’m all right, judge. I can defend myself.”


“A lot of people are worried about you. In fact, there’s a whole bunch of them sitting behind you.” He pointed to the little old ladies, who started waving at the guy. The prisoner stared at them blankly. “Do you recognize them?”

The guy mumbled something none of us could hear. The judge said, “Well, they’re your family and loved ones.”


More mumbles. The judge sighed. “Look, we have a problem in regards to your defense.”


“I can defend myself. I will defend myself.”


The judge grinned. “I’m going to look out for your best interests here. You already have the public defender—“ He pointed to a young woman. “—but your family wants to hire a private lawyer.” He pointed to a middle-aged man. “Who do you want to go with?”


“I’ll defend myself.”


“No, you won’t. You have a choice to make. What’s it going to be?”


“Me.”


“No. I’m making an executive decision. The public defender is already working your case, so you will continue with her.”


“No sir.”


“Pardon?”


“Sir, I have a wife already. A wife and kids, sir. I can’t—“


The judge rolled his eyes. “She is not going to be your paramour. She’s going to be your attorney. Understand?”

More snickers. The prisoner mumbled again.


“Do you take any medication?” the judge asked.


“No sir. I feel fine.”


The judge shook his head and rephrased: “Has anyone given you medication to take?”


“Yeah.”


“Do you?”


“No. I feel fine.”


“Has anyone ever told you you’re schizophrenic?”


More mumbles.


“Why did you miss your previous court dates?”


“I couldn’t get a ride.”


The judge nodded. “Well, we’ve solved that problem. I’m going to remand you to jail. What are the chances of someone bailing you out?”


The prisoner whirled around and shouted, “My mother had better bail me out because she’s my mother and—“


“Look at me,” the judge said. “I have a huge ego, and when I feel like I’m not the most important person in the room, it hurts my feelings.”


The defendant twitched a few times, staring at one of the little old ladies. Finally, he turned back to the judge and mumbled.


“It matters because I want to make sure you stay there until you get a psych evaluation and return for your next court date. If you don’t have access to any money, then I can simply order you back to jail. But if there’s a chance of someone getting you out, then I’ll order you to stay behind bars. I just want to save some paperwork.”


One of the attorneys went over to the little old ladies and whispered with them for a while. When he returned to the bench, he said, “They won’t bail him out.”


“Good. Back to jail with you. Bye.”


They led him away, and much less interesting cases took over until about 11:15, when Don returned. By then the other officer had arrived, and we were ready to begin. That’s when the judge told me to sit at one of the tables.


Just like in the movies! Finally, something I recognized. Nothing in court had seemed remotely like anything in, say, MY COUSIN VINNY. Now Don and I sat at one table while the two state’s attorneys sat at the other. The arresting officer got into the witness box and was sworn in. (The other two cops were sent outside the courtroom so they couldn’t hear this guy’s testimony. Why? Who knows? But it was Don’s idea, so it sounded like a good idea.)


Don began questioning him. Pretty standard stuff. Things I’ve already talked about in previous chapters. Much to my glee, the officer seemed just as awkward as he had before. My attorney was kicking his ass. And then came the curveball. Don asked him why he’d stopped me for so long, and the officer said, “Because I was still waiting to hear back from dispatch about the status of his driver’s license.”


Which had never been mentioned before. Even Don was shocked by this development. He asked, “At the suspension hearing, did you have a fair chance to relate all of your reasons for this?” The officer said yes. “Then why haven’t you mentioned this before?”


“Your honor,” the state’s attorney said. “Could I get a page number in the testimony for reference?”


“You can’t,” Don said. “Because it’s not there. It doesn’t exist. I can’t give you a reference for something that doesn’t exist.”


Then both attorneys and the judge started arguing back and forth, throwing jargon and numbers at each other. I never saw such a polite, yet heated, argument in my life. Though I understood very little of it, it seemed to me that Don was a lot more reasonable than the other combatants.

Yet the judge took the side of the state. After a while, it seemed very clear to me that Don was quoting legal precedent in order to impeach the arresting officer’s testimony, which included all evidence gathered because of him. This meant that the field sobriety test he administered would be thrown out. The state would have nothing on me, and the judge would have no choice but to dismiss the case.


Don started quoting a legal text, but the judge seemed to have a different recollection of it. He actually had a copy of the book in question, but he couldn’t find the passage Don was referring to. Don said he probably had a newer edition, but it was, indeed, in the book.


Then, another argument began as a result of the first knock-down drag-out. Don asked the arresting officer if the correspondence between himself and dispatch was on a recorded channel, and the officer said yes. Don then asked, “Well, where’s the tape, then?”


“I don’t know.”


“I put in a request for all recorded materials in regards to Mr. Bruni’s case, so why wasn’t this supplied to me?”


“I’m sure it was given to him,” the state’s attorney said.


“I never received it.” And they started throwing barbs back and forth again. Soon, I realized that Don wanted the case dismissed because of the state’s oversight of this recording.


“Did you bring everything regarding this case?” the judge asked.


“I didn’t bring the box, no,” Don said. “I didn’t expect I’d need it. The officer’s testimony has frankly surprised me.”


“We’ll break for lunch. At 1:30, I want everyone back here. Look for the audio recording, Don. And get that book for me.”


On the way out of the courtroom, Don met me, shaking his head. “I can’t believe this. Before, I thought I had a good grip on the arresting officer. Now he’s up on the stand making things up.”


We split up, and I hit up Taco Bell. Their Cheese Roll-Ups are fucking amazing, and the Cheesy Double Decker is a work of genius. If a taco ever needed anything extra, it’s more cheese. [NOTE: Since I wrote this, Taco Bell has discontinued the Cheesy Double Decker. They can go fuck themselves, Triple Steak Stacker or not.]


Anyway, when I got back, we started everything over again. Don made photocopies from the book which contained what he’d originally referenced, but the judge still shit all over it. Don also said that there was no trace of the recording. He also had a shitload of legal precedent in regards to faulty testimony and missing recordings and impeachment of witnesses.


All of it sounded awesome. Don, in my opinion, was knocking it out of the park. And he also had just the right amount of moral outrage in his voice when he made these arguments.


But guess what happened? Yeah. I have to give it to the state’s attorney. He’s very, very well spoken, and he always had a ready answer. He never uttered a single “um” or “ah.” And of course, the judge took his side.


Which I should have expected. Justice isn’t for people like me, especially not in a state that’s teetering on bankruptcy and is desperate for any money they can get from someone like me.


The crux of the prosecutor’s argument? “According to this precedent, the witness’s testimony was impeached. It was the arresting officer, and everything he had to contribute to the case, like the field sobriety test, had to be ignored. The state had no chance of proving their case after this.”


Really? BOO FUCKING HOO, YOU SCUMBAG! Them’s the rules, and if you can’t hack it, then fuck you.


But of course the judge thought he made a very good point. After some heated argument, it came down to this: more paperwork needed to be filed. To be continued, etc.


Really? This could have all been settled with one question from the judge to the state: “Where’s that recording?” At which point the state’s attorney would have to say they didn’t have it. At which point, according to legal precedent (which is beloved and embraced by the LEGAL SYSTEM OF THIS COUNTRY), the judge would have to dismiss the case.


FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK. You think that would ever happen? There’s money to be made, folks, and that judge tenaciously wants some of mine to go into the state’s coffers. That’s all this is, and all it’s ever been. Maybe the submissive swine have a good idea: plead guilty and get it over with. The rape hurts a lot less that way.


No, fuck that. If they want me, they’re going to have to take me. There will be a fight. I will give them a run for their money. They’re going to have to earn EVERY FUCKING PENNY THEY GET OUT OF ME.


I gave Don the $25 from last time, and we went our separate ways. Behind me, I heard Don and the state’s attorney talking. “Why can’t we ever get a simple one, Don?”


“They never come simple,” Don said.


I guess not.


TO BE CONTINUED ON WEDNESDAY!