Holy shit, was I wrong! It’s all over. Done. No need to go back to court.
Welcome to the final installment. Buckle your seat belt. Ready?
Since I was practically out of time off at work, I put in for a half day, and to make sure I made it to court on time, I asked to come in early. I was out by noon, which gave me just enough time to grab my suit and drive out to Wheaton. Parking was much easier than usual, but I figured that’s because all the people who wanted to plea guilty showed up in the mornings. Afternoons were for the few of us who wanted to fight the Man.
I made it to the courtroom only to find it bare except for the bailiff, one of the prosecutors, and a young man who sat in the back, reading files. Probably a clerk or something. No people watching for me today. That was all right. I was getting bored, anyway.
I sat down to read. (DAVE BARRY HITS BELOW THE BELTWAY, an excellent volume of political humor that I highly recommend.) Soon, Don made his appearance, as did the other prosecutor. They settled in and started talking about another case the prosecutor was working. Apparently, he was a naughty boy on that case and “got his hand caught in the till,” according to my lawyer. The prosecutor denied it, but he did not deny his horrible job on the case. He said it all smiles, even as Don ridiculed him so hard I had to wonder if the prosecutor had feelings at all. His smile didn’t even seem strained. Did he really take the results of his cases so nonchalantly?
The arresting officer showed up and took his seat where the jury would usually sit. He arrived silently and spoke to no one. As the attorneys all talked, I felt an odd kinship with the officer. Jokes were flying about our heads like birds, and neither one of us felt like it was our place to laugh. We were excluded from this little club, but we didn’t dare meet each others eyes. That would be too weird. Besides, he was the enemy.
At one point, Don said he respected the prosecutor and his 2-1 conviction rate. “I’d rather go up against anyone else but you,” Don said, and I felt my asshole pucker up in horror. I was going up against the best prosecutor in the county. Fuuuuuuuuck.
The judge made his appearance, and we got down to business. The officer was called to the stand, and Don started hammering away at him. There were a lot of objections from the prosecution, and the judge sustained them all. Not good, friends and neighbors. Not good at all.
There was one in particular that scared the shit out of me, and I don’t even understand it. The best I can say is that it was all in the way Don asked a question. The prosecution objected, and his reason puzzled Don. He’d never heard of the notion before. Wait, really? The judge then explained it, and Don said that he knew it under another name. He’d learned it at law school ages ago, but he’d never seen it used in an actual trial. I felt something dark rumbling in my guts, and my hands went cold and clammy. I suddenly had to take a piss really bad.
Don revised himself and went back to hammering mercilessly at the arresting officer. He tried every which way to catch the officer in a lie, like he had several court sessions ago. At one point, he asked the officer a question, and the officer blinked, his mouth agape. It was like he was a robot, and someone had hit his off switch. When Don asked the question again, the officer came back to himself, apologized, and went back to correct his own testimony. It was such an odd moment that when the officer had left, the prosecutor said, “When he froze like that, it freaked me out. Then, when he explained, I couldn’t help but think about how honest he was.”
“That’s probably what got us all in this situation,” Don replied.
Anyway, after the prosecution got their chance at the officer (a short line of questions, of which the answers were very disheartening; after hearing them, I thought I was fucked for sure), he was dismissed but told to wait outside and talk to no one about his testimony.
We took a break, during which Don asked me if I was ready to take the stand and tell my side of the story. I said yes. I thought back to when this all had started, and I remembered chomping at the bit for this opportunity. Yet at the same time, I felt kind of doubtful. The night had been so long ago that I wondered if maybe I’d forgotten some of the details. I couldn’t go home and read back over the DUI Diary to refresh my memory.
Luckily, Don thought of that, and he started asking me informal questions. At first it felt like a short conversation to make sure we were on the same page. After a few questions, I started suspecting that he was testing me to see my reactions. I thought I’d done an excellent job, but when we were ready to begin again, he said, “I’m not going to have you testify. I think we did a good job with the officer, and I don’t want to put that at risk.”
Wait, we did a good job with the officer? I got the distinct impression we’d gotten our asses kicked. And what did I say to make him think we shouldn’t put me on the stand? I remembered thinking that the officer got some of the details wrong (he merely misunderstood me; when I told him I’d come from a karaoke contest my friend was DJing, he assumed I’d been at a house party, and when I’d told him I’d won a beer, he thought I’d won the karaoke contest), and I thought it would only be proper to correct him.
But . . . where the fuck did I get my law degree? Exactly. When I hired Don, I decided to trust in him the whole way. Now we found ourselves nearing the end. Why bail now? Don’s in charge here. Let him do everything.
We went back in, and the prosecutor said a few words about why they should put the hammer down on me. Judging from everything he said, I was a dirty criminal who should get his comeuppance. He was certain I’d been trashed beyond all reason, and that I’d been operating a vehicle at the time, thereby making me guilty as sin. Holy Jesus, after all he said about me, I almost believed it. Once again, I thought I was absolutely fucked.
Then, Don got his chance to speak, and I wish to fuck I had the transcript of what he said. Patrick Henry’s got nothing on my lawyer. Don’s speech was so impassioned that it sounded like he should have been standing before an ancient Roman senate while delivering it. He breathed fire and shot death rays from his eyes. Most importantly, he brought up the 4th Amendment, and how we can’t have an exception to it. He said that I had been seized by the Lisle PD. He said that what happened to me shouldn’t happen to any citizen. My God, it was one of the most beautiful orations I’d ever heard. Better than Marc Antony’s funeral speech in JULIUS CAESAR.
And then, the judge gave the prosecutor another chance to talk. He used his time to call bullshit on Don, but he didn’t bring up anything new. There is one thing worth mentioning: he said during his first speech that since we challenged the roadblock, the burden of proof fell to the defense to prove that it had been faulty. This set Don off, about how every citizen is innocent until proven guilty, and the burden of proof always, without question, falls upon the prosecution. (One of the neat little features of our legal system. Before the U.S., all defendants were considered guilty until proven innocent, and the burden of proof was on the defense.) The prosecutor took some of his time to reiterate that the defense had to prove the roadblock was illegal.
But none of that was the issue. It was what happened to me during the roadblock. It involved the violation of my 4th Amendment rights as guaranteed by the Bill of Rights of the U.S. Constitution.
The judge had a few things to think about, so he called another break. I got up to go to the bathroom. Goddam, my hands were freezing cold. They warmed up due to their proximity to the urinal as I took a piss, but it wasn’t enough. They were cold and clammy when I got back to the courtroom.
“Wait outside,” Don said to me. Then, he smirked and said, “I’m getting ready to tell some dirty jokes.”
I laughed and went outside, wondering what they were talking about in there. Were they discussing me, as they had the officer when he was dismissed?
Soon, Don called me in, and just as I sat down, the judge called the attorneys into his chambers. I waited, twiddling my thumbs. My hands left foggy marks on the table. The bailiff looked up at the ceiling, perhaps counting all the marks up there. He didn’t seem to be too interested in talking to me. Oh well.
Don emerged from the judge’s chambers and stood on the other side of the table from me. He leaned in close and whispered to me, “How would you like to be finished with this today?”
“Um . . . I would love that.” Of course.
“The judge has heard all of the evidence. I think we’re ready to go to trial.”
Wait, go to trial? I thought this was my trial. What the fuck was all that testimony about?
“It could go either way,” Don said. “But if you want, we can get this trial done today.”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
Don took his seat next to me. “I think he’s going to say not guilty, anyway.”
Have we been watching the same court case? It seemed to me like we were getting our asses handed to us, but maybe, just maybe . . . .
While the judge was gone, Don took the opportunity to tell a joke to break up the solemnity of the situation. “There are these two eight-year-olds, Jimmy and Sally, and they’ve fallen in love. Jimmy goes to Sally’s father and says, ‘I’m in love with Sally, and I’ve come to you to ask for her hand in marriage.’ Sally’s dad thinks this is kind of cute, so he plays along with it. ‘I don’t know, Jimmy. I mean, where would you guys live?’ ‘Sally’s got a pretty big twin bed, so I guess we could stay in her bedroom.’ ‘Well, okay. But how are you going to get by? How will you earn a living?’ ‘Well, Sally gets her five dollars a week for allowance, and I get three dollars. Between us, I think we can buy our own cereal.’ Sally’s dad laughs and says, ‘Well, what happens if you have kids?’ And Jimmy says, ‘We’ve been lucky so far.’”
The judge came back, and we were all called up to the bench, me included. The judge then told us that he was ready for this to go to a bench trial. He turned to me and asked me for my name. I said, “John Bruni.” How old am I? “33.” What’s my highest level of education? “I graduated from Elmhurst College with a bachelor’s degree.” In what? “The arts. English and Philosophy.” I resisted the urge to add my go-to joke: “Two things guaranteed to get me nowhere in the world.” He then went into a whole bunch of legalese that I barely understood, but I got it enough to answer yes every time he asked me if I understood.
“Do you have anything to add?” Ferguson asked the prosecution. Nope. “Have you?” he asked Don. Nope. Then, without thinking about it again, the judge continued to say that he believed that my 4th Amendment rights had been violated, and that there is a big reasonable doubt as to my guilt as a drunk driver. “I find not guilty,” he said in an indifferent tone of voice. “Case closed.” And he handed my file over to the clerk.
Not guilty? NOT GUILTY? HOLY FUCKING SHIT! AFTER ALL THIS TIME, AFTER ALL THIS EFFORT, AFTER ALL THIS MONEY, IT ALL WORKED OUT?
I couldn’t believe it. In the beginning, before I had any experience in the legal process, I thought I’d walk a road of bones. I’d stomp the terra. I’d beat the system like a goddam gong. Then, as things got deeper, I couldn’t help but feel doomed. And now, after all the trials and tribulations, I’d come out the other end intact and free.
My immediate impulse was to turn to the prosecutor and tell him to suck it, punctuated by a middle finger. Then, I remembered where I was and reined myself in. Besides, it didn’t look like the prosecutor cared whether or not he’d won this case. He was still as nonchalant as ever. He walked out of the courtroom with the other prosecutor laughing and joking, as if he hadn’t just lost.
I walked out with Don, who was all smiles and congratulations. I shook his hand and thanked him profusely. Hell, I couldn’t thank him enough. If I’d been found guilty, I’d be up to my ass in debt (as it is now, I’m at least knee-deep), as I would have to pay a $2,500 fine as well as court costs, in addition to having to pay thousands of dollars for DUI classes, not to mention the victims panel and the possibility of community service and up to 1 year in prison. Man, I’ve got two jobs, and I still can’t afford to pay that much money or lose that much time.
(Although a part of me was kind of sad that I didn’t have to go through all that stuff. Imagine what the DUI Diary would be like if I could report on the victims panel and the DUI classes. I’m not sorry about missing jail, though. You’ll just have to watch OZ again. Or the first half of the third season of MY NAME IS EARL, although I suspect OZ is closer to the truth.)
And now, I’m free. I don’t have to pay a dime (aside from everything I’ve paid to Don), and I never have to go back to court.
On the way out, Don shook my hand one last time and advised me to not drink and drive. And he was gone . . . .
So here we are at the end of the Diary, and I’m sure you want to know what I’ve learned from this experience. Well, there are a few things, as listed below.
--First and foremost, I could never be a lawyer. These guys are so sharp, it’s incredible. They have to multitask in their heads, and if they fuck up, there’s someone’s freedom at stake. I’ve watched Don read from reports and listen to the prosecution at the same time, and he was always on top of things. He never had to think about what he was going to say. When the judge turned to him for something, he was ready at the drop of a hat with a rapid-fire, staccato answer, loaded down with legalese and precedence. I don’t have the mental fortitude for that stuff.
--Never EVER get caught drunk driving again. Though I was found not guilty, my penalty would still be pretty high next time around. (Five year suspension of driving privileges, in case you were wondering. One year of depending on other people for rides was bad enough.)
--Anybody who thinks they can defend themselves in court is a fool. They’ve watched too many movies, where everything is simplified to the common denominator. You have to have an incredible memory for legal precedence. You have to be quick on the draw. You can’t afford to hum and haw when you’re supposed to be talking. Don’t defend yourself and don’t go with a PD. Always, always, always hire your own lawyer. Trust me, he knows better than you do, and he will be worth every fucking penny.
--Last and not least, ALWAYS ROLL THE DICE. What the fuck did I have to lose? I had everything to gain. There is always a chance that everything will work out. If you never roll the dice, you’ll never win. It’s a lesson I’ve taken from my personal hero, Hunter S. Thompson. Don’t just give in. Fight the Man. Fight the Man at all times, in every way you can.
I’ve been saving this bottle of the Glenlivet (the 15 year stuff) for a long time. To give you an idea of how long, my mother stole shots from this bottle, and she’s been dead for almost a year and a half. I saved this bottle for just this occasion. It would either help me celebrate my victory or help me wallow in my defeat. I’m glad it’s the former. Scotch has never tasted so glorious. As I type this sentence with one hand, I down the remainder of my final glass.
Ahhhhhh.
You know the song, “I Fought the Law?” The Dead Kennedys once did a cover of it, except in their version, they say, “I fought the law, and I won,” rather than “I fought the law, and the law won.” I hummed this song coming out of the courthouse. But here’s the thing. In the DK version, the narrator won because at the end of the song, he revealed himself to be a police officer. “I am the law, so I won.”
Well, I fought the law, and I won. And I’m not a cop, either. I’m an American citizen, just like you. Joe Average can win, I tell you.
Remember: roll the dice.
The Fourth Amendment: The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.
