GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #115: A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE DENTIST'S

Some of you may recall that I had a bout with gingivitis a few years back, and while I've defeated it, my gums have receded a bit too much. I wound up losing a tooth to it. I got an implant, as described in my old multi-part "Tales of Dentistry." The dentist I'm about to talk about is referred to as Dentist Two in the second part of that series.


I recently went to my dentist for a cleaning, and the hygienist said that my gums on tooth 26 had receded too far, to the point where if I did nothing about it, I would lose that tooth. Dentist one referred me to dentist two again for a skin graft.


I just got back from my Vegas vacation, so I had the day off to recover. Because it sounded urgent, I decided to go in for my gum graft today and get that over with. It went very well. There were no issues. However, after, when I was setting up my appointment to get the stitches taken out, the receptionist suddenly remembered me. Dentist two remembered fairly well, but the receptionist suddenly had total recall.


She asked me if I used to come in with my grandfather. I did. She asked me if I was a writer. I was (and still am, in case all of you have forgotten). She asked me if I liked horror, and I said yes.


Then, she said something very odd to me. She said that she remembered thinking about this nice young man who used to come in with his grandfather, who needed a tooth implant. Immediately, I thought, "Oh shit." Because I was on my best behavior due to the fact I was going to see a dentist whom I didn't know. (I don't act like myself if I'm in such a situation.) Also, my grandfather was with me because I was on trial for DUI at the time. If he didn't drive me, I couldn't make it to the dentist.


But then she said that she wanted to set me up with her daughter, who really likes horror books, whose husband she hated. I wanted to tell her about the way I really am, but I knew it would just be more awkward, so I stayed silent.


And then she asked about how my writing career was going, so I talked vaguely about my first book, STRIP, from MUSA, and my second book, TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE, from StrangeHouse. Also, I told her my third book was coming out soon, although I didn't mention the title. It's pretty vulgar, and it might change by the time it comes out. But still.


The next thing I know, she's telling everyone else in the office that I'm a writer of horror and crime. All of a sudden, everyone, including Dentist Two, wants to read my books. They said they were going to look me up on Amazon.


I didn't dare tell them that my second book features a space giant fucking the sun, as provided by the awesome Jesse Wheeler.


Only one of them strikes me as someone who might enjoy my work. The others? Let's just say that my next visit to the office should be . . . interesting.

ADVENTURES IN THE SEX SHOP (REDUX)

I recently re-posted an old video of me on Facebook in which I sing Elvis Presley’s “I Want You, I Need You, I Love You” at a karaoke show while dancing with a blow-up doll, who I named Mercedes. It brought back memories, and I suddenly recalled that I’d written a blog about me purchasing Mercedes from the local sex shop. I thought it might be worth revisiting the blog, which is so old it originally appeared on MySpace. (www.myspace.com/tabardinn, if you care, but be warned, I’m almost never there.)

I edited it down a bit because there was a lot of stuff in there that wasn’t important to the main story, stuff about work that no one will give a fuck about. I first posted this thing on the morning before I went on stage with Mercedes, so I also cut out my invitation for people to come out to the bar and witness this train wreck in person. I left the rest of it alone, even though I wanted to tinker with it a little.

Without further ado, here’s “Adventures in the Sex Shop,” originally posted on April 23, 2009:

The atmosphere inside a sex shop is always a bit strange. There are all these toys and novelties and such hanging off the walls, and none of the customers can look each other in the eye. They ignore each other as much as possible. They fondle the wares in absolute silence. They furtively crouch to see items on the bottom shelves.

Some of these toys are so large you can’t possibly imagine using them on someone, unless you planned to beat that person to death with them. But clearly there are women who can accommodate these enormous objects, as a nearby magazine demonstrates.

One patron accidentally brushed up against another, and they froze like scarecrows. Neither met the other’s eyes. Everything went silent for a moment, and their mouths worked as if they wanted to say something. But they didn’t. They turned away from each other, not a word spoken, and continued perusing the shop, intent on seeking out their respective pleasures.

I found an entire bookshelf dedicated to blow-up dolls of all kinds. All of them were female except for a lonely John Holmes model. Much to my surprise, almost all were small enough to fit in a box roughly the size of a VHS tape. Could these things be really full-sized? I needed a doll that was at least five feet tall, as I intended to dance with it.

I looked all over one package, but I couldn’t find out how tall this thing was. I went from box to box, and none of them said anything more than how the doll was shaped. Many of them were made for doggie style. Some had pictures of porn stars on their faces. But no practical information, aside from which holes were available.

And then, near my feet I noticed a few packages that DID say how big the dolls were: three feet. At first I thought it was pretty funny. Who would buy something like that except for people who wanted to bone midgets? But then I thought about who else might want to buy small blow-up dolls: pedophiles. My stomach turned. Well, I thought, if they have to fuck something, why not a fake kid? That would be so much more acceptable than actually fucking real live kids. Maybe there was a social use for mini-blow-up dolls, after all.

I grabbed an Asian blow-up doll, mostly because she was advertised as not being bent over for doggie style. I needed the doll to stand up, so I could dance with her. I brought the box up to the counter and asked the cashier, “How big is this thing?”

She was very polite, as someone who works in a sex shop must be. She offered to open the box for me and show me how much material was in there. With two quick slits made by a box cutter, she pulled out the doll and showed me that they could actually fit a lot of doll into such a small box.

I told her I’d think about it. She sealed the box again, and I went back to browse some more. This time, I found a pregnant blow-up doll, which was really creepy. Distantly, I wondered if there was another doll inside her belly. And then I saw the alien blow-up doll, which was purple and had three tits.

Yeah . . .

And then I saw a bigger box hiding behind the John Holmes doll. Ah! This one actually stood up to full height! She had huge tits and even clothes! I knew I had my winner, but I wanted to look inside, just to make sure.

The cashier opened the box for me and showed me the flattened doll’s body. “Aw, look!” she said. “She’s got hair! You can do her hair, if you want.”

Darkly, I said, “It’s not her hair I plan to do.”

She laughed. “I think you make a great couple.” And she rang me up. While I was waiting for my receipt, I noticed a warning on the bottom of the box: PLEASE PRACTICE SAFE SEX. DO NOT SHARE YOUR LOVE DOLL WITH ANYONE ELSE.

Could an STD really survive inside a sex doll in much the same way as it does in a person? And besides that, who the fuck shares their blow-up doll with someone else? If such people do exist, would they resort to wearing a condom while swapping dolls?

I got in my car and started driving home. It was only then, as I found myself easing into traffic, that I wondered what would happen if I got into a car accident. The paramedics who would pull me from the wreck would not understand the presence of a blow-up doll at the scene. If I died, my grandparents would have to go to the morgue to collect my belongings, and they would find my blow-up doll. As they put my corpse in the ground, they would wonder what kind of pervert they had for a grandson.

I obeyed the speed limit and came to a stop behind the white line at red lights.

When I got home, I thought I’d inflate my doll to take her on a test drive. NO! Not like that. You people have a lot of growing up to do. I just wanted to make sure I could dance with her and pull a few moves while still holding a microphone.

A few things took me by surprise.

I never expected blow-up dolls to lack fingers and toes. It looked like she was wearing mittens and booties.

I never expected blow-up dolls to have a cherry. Not just one, but two. Both the vagina and the anus each had a cherry one could pop. Some of you are drooling and saying, “You bet.” The rest of us are saying, “That’s fucked up, when you think about it.”

I never expected blow-up dolls to have hair. This one’s was like a Barbie doll’s, except it was only attached to her forehead. The rest of her pate was bald. I was tempted to shave the rest of it off.

I never expected blow-up dolls to be so . . . tight. No, I didn’t test it with my dick; I used my fingers. I popped the doll’s front cherry with my fingers and then tried to push them all the way in. I could only fit the first two digits of my index and middle fingers in, and that was at a vertical angle. Horizontally, I could only do one finger. The same held true for her mouth. [EDIT: For the record, when Mercedes popped a few weeks later, her back cherry was still intact, so I never tested her back door.]

There’s no way I could have fit my dick in this thing. Only a micro-penis could get in this doll. Now clearly these things are popular. They’ve been sold for who knows how long? But can there be that many dudes with micro-penises out there? And even then, those guys would have to make their peace with the slightly sharp edges of the vagina. I don’t see that happening.

Anyway, I learned that she would most definitely do for the onstage performance I had in mind. Time to deflate her. I pulled the tab in her back, and air came hissing out, but not fast enough. I pressed her against the floor in an attempt to speed this up, and when that wasn’t as helpful as I was hoping, I pushed her face down into the carpet with all my weight and folded her legs behind her head. As her air blew into my face, I suddenly felt ashamed, as if I was assaulting a woman for real. It reminded me of a story I’d written in college about a guy with a wife-beating habit who went to a shrink for help. He was then instructed to start beating pillows instead. It worked at first, but he got tired of it. The pillows weren’t good enough anymore. He went out and bought a bunch of blow-up dolls, which he then proceeded to beat mercilessly. I never got the chance to market it, though, because shortly after, I read Hunter S. Thompson’s SCREWJACK, which features a character with a similar background.

I shook these horrible thoughts from my head as I bunched her body up into a ball and stuffed her back in her box. I hid her in my closet, where she will wait until my performance tonight.

[At this point, I invited everyone to come out and watch me serenade a blow-up doll. I should make note that, as evidenced by the video, the crowd loved it. However, it turned out that management at that bar was not pleased with me. Instead of talking to me about it, they bitched out and talked to my friend, who ran the karaoke show. I had to play nice from then on out. A few other stunts I pulled: changing Weird Al’s “My Bologna” to “My Salami” and pretending to go down on myself onstage, dressing up like Dean Stockwell in BLUE VELVET and singing “In Dreams” to a cardboard standup of Freddy Krueger, and singing Denis Leary’s “Asshole” in an attempt to win a $1,000 contest. I also did Chuck Berry’s “My Ding-a-Ling” with a pair of bells hanging from my belt. I was originally going to wear a dildo for this performance, but I heard back about the Mercedes incident, and I toned it down so my friend wouldn’t lose his gig.

It’s a good thing I did. That night, I was picked up for DUI after leaving that bar. Explaining a dildo to the arresting officer would have been next to impossible. If he’d busted me a week before that, I would have had to explain Mercedes to him, because she was sitting up in my backseat like a person, wearing a seatbelt and everything.

For those interested, you can find my DUI Diary on this very site. Start here.]

THE DUI DIARY: Chapter 25

Hello. My name is John Bruni, and I have been charged with a misdemeanor DUI. But you already know that, if you’ve gotten this far in the DUI Diary. You also know that I’ve been getting bored with all the court dates, but on this day, November 22 in the Year of Our Lord 2011, I never expected this ordeal to end. I knew I’d be going to trial this time (because they scheduled me for 1:30 in the afternoon). But a conclusion to my fight for freedom? I’d just gotten so used to continuances that I figured I’d be back in court in a month or two for more crap.



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.

THE DUI DIARY: Chapter Twenty-Four

I never thought I’d say it, but court is getting really, really boring. It used to be the best people-watching I could get (aside from maybe hanging out at Wal-Mart). Now it’s business as usual. Even watching the judge bully kids is getting old. Absolutely nothing of note happened.



Until I was called, that is. When I got to the bench, Don and Ferguson were talking about something that had apparently happened in my absence. Not surprising because I missed a court date due to hospitalization. After a moment, I realized that it had also happened in my LAWYER’s absence. Had he missed my court date, too? Longtime readers will recall it has happened once before.


No, Don was there to notify the court that I was in the hospital. However, someone fucked up when it came to getting me a new court date. I was actually scheduled to show up last Friday . . . and no one thought to tell either me or Don. In fact, Don was on vacation in Vegas at the time, and when I was called on Friday, no one was there on my behalf. Luckily, Steve was there for another case, so the judge talked with him instead.


The problem: the judge decided, in my absence and Don’s, to deny the motion to suppress the officer’s testimony. Which means the trial continues as previously planned. Even the judge admitted such a decision seems kind of shady, but what’s done is done.


Here’s the thing: no one mentioned this, but we were all thinking it. The guy who fucked up the scheduling was the judge himself. He just wrote it down wrong on his fucking calendar. Nobody was going to call him on it because no one wanted to piss him off.


Fine. I’ll jump through some more hoops. I return in a couple of months to continue my trial. Hopefully by then court will get more interesting.


TO BE CONCLUDED ON FRIDAY!

THE DUI DIARY: Chapter Twenty-Three

What a boring day in court. This was probably the worst so far. Yet somehow, it was the most crowded. Weird. Also, there were a lot of super-super young women in court today. One of ‘em wore pigtails, I shit you not. She practically had a lollipop in her mouth as she danced her way up to see the judge.



Oh, the judge. Right. Last minute emergency, but the judge was called away. I wondered how that would affect my case. The worst part, though, was the fact that this new judge was TOO SOFT SPOKEN. I couldn’t hear a fucking word she said to anyone, so I don’t know what any of the cases were about.


I gave up quickly, turning to my book for solace. (It was so crowded, I felt it was safe to read without getting noticed.) Dominick Dunne’s THE LIMBO OF MANSIONS. Weird title, decent collection of articles. I’m supposedly related to the guy through my father’s mother’s side of the family (they’re all Dunnes). Not bad. It’s got some bite to it without being judgmental.


Anyway, by the time they finally called my case, it was continued for the day. There was just too much shit to go through, so the new judge didn’t want to go through the hassle. Instead, she continued it another month (after making sure that Ferguson would be back by then).


Fun, eh? I hope the DUI Diary is everything you hoped it would be. Did I mention that I’d just had my gall bladder taken out this week? It would have been nice to skip this court date, seeing as how it was pointless anyway. Did I mention that it feels like I’m recovering from a gut-shot wound? No? Well, I am. And it makes me fucking miserable.

More in a month, I’m sure . . . .


TO BE CONTINUED ON TUESDAY!

THE DUI DIARY: Chapter Twenty-Two

Today’s excursion into the legal process wasn’t very interesting, maybe because I didn’t really understand a lot of what was happening. People watching wasn’t very optimal, either, since Don had me wait outside the whole time. I got to see a few prisoners get sent back to lock-up, but that’s about it.



Once the two of us were outside, I asked him what we had planned for today. “We’re going to continue trying to impeach the arresting officer’s testimony. You’re going to see a lot of bullshit happen in this room today.”


That was less than reassuring. After a while, I went back inside, and things were so slow I started reading my book, John Shirley’s WETBONES. It’s a good book, but there are far too many typos to keep my mind in the story. The ending kind of lacks, too. But anyway, after a few cases got knocked out of the way, we started mine again.


I looked at the clock, surprised to find that it wasn’t even noon yet.


Standing beside Don, I watched him launch into an unbelievable tirade, which I understood very little of. I got the basics. We’re still going after the arresting officer, and he’s got other precedents to refer to, but the crux of his argument this time is that missing correspondence between the arresting officer and the dispatch office. Apparently, this correspondence has been destroyed, even though it was promised to Don and never delivered. The prosecutor tried breaking in several times, but the judge would have none of it. Things were starting to look up for my lawyer, and therefore myself.


But when they got down to the knock-down drag-out, nobody gave a shit about whose turn it was to talk. It was a free-for-all, and the judge didn’t bother to keep the peace. Don and the prosecutor were practically spitting in each others faces. I didn’t understand a word, but it looked fucking awesome. John Grisham could stand to learn a thing or two from these guys.


You might be wondering why I didn’t understand a lot of this argument. Well, the fault is probably with the medication I was on. My guts have been killing me for a long time, to the point of me puking blood. Not fun. The previous day I’d been in the ER, and they’d given me some kind of Super Maalox with some belly number in it. This did the fucking trick. Boy-howdy! The thing is, it made me drowsy as shit. Usually, I stand before the judge with my arms crossed in front of me, hands by my belt. This was too much trouble today. I had to balance myself on the wooden counter by the clerk. Much of my time was spent in this manner rather than paying attention.


Finally, the argument came to a close, and it struck me that Don had indeed won this bout. The judge spoke to him in deference. However, at the same time, he spoke kindly to the prosecutor, since he was giving him another chance to fuck me up. So, bad news there. But at the same time, the guy couldn’t do it the first time, so HA HA, and fuck you.


Of course, there will be a next time. From what I’ve been able to tell, this is part of a hearing, not a trial. So there might be quite some time before this thing is over. I’m sorely tempted to start printing this early, but who knows who might read this? Don’t want to contaminate anyone, now do I . . . .?


Come August, this thing goes on. Hopefully by then, I won’t have anymore problems with my guts. We shall see. Until then, RISE UP, BOOZEHEAD!


TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW!

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!

THE DUI DIARY: Chapter Twenty

Well, here’s another day I thought for sure I would go to trial, and here’s another day that I’ve been completely disappointed. Yes, the trial has been delayed again, and the only two people who were surprised were me and the judge.



I was grateful for the extra hour of sleep I’d gotten. Court was at 9:30 today, and when I arrived, I was surprised by the backed up line to go through the metal detector. Why? Someone in their infinite wisdom decided to close down one of the machines. We were packed almost all the way to the door.


As I pulled everything out of my pockets and balanced it all on my legal folder, I heard someone say my name behind me. I turned to find my cousin, Keli. She, like myself and many other members of my family, has had a few run-ins with the law in the past, and I wondered what she was in for. As it turns out, she was called for jury duty. As we made our way through the line, we quickly discussed my case. I told her about the violation of my Fourth Amendment rights, and I also told her about my feeling that the State of Illinois wanted to make an example out of me, especially since they need the money they’d get if they found me guilty. She wished me luck, and on the other side of the metal detector, we went our separate ways.


Once again, they asked me to remove my belt. I don’t know how the rest of you feel about this, but every time I unbuckle my belt in public, I feel like a pervert. Even as I buckle it back on, it makes me feel a bit slimy.


Still, the down escalators were not working. The up was, so I rode up to the top floor, to my courtroom. Once again, it was not crowded in the slightest. Maybe ten people were in there, tops.


The first thing I noticed was the judge; he was in a good mood. Jovial, in fact. As people were called, and they neglected to say HERE, he joked with them about it. This is unheard of in Ferguson’s court. Maybe this was a good sign. Maybe he would treat me fairly, after all.


I sat down and went into people-watching mode. There wasn’t a lot of weird shit to mention this time, although one woman went up to the judge with her hat on, and the bailiff did not ask her to remove it.


I did notice one thing this time. The thought had probably occurred to me before, but this was the first time it coalesced in my head. No one was ever found not guilty. Each and every defendant went away with a guilty verdict and sentence. To the best of my knowledge, no one ever plead not guilty, either.


Has anyone ever pled not guilty on a DUI? Am I the only one willing to roll the dice?


The arresting officer showed up, glanced toward me, and sat down. His foot immediately started tapping away, and I wondered if he had restless leg syndrome. Or was he nervous? For some reason, he kept looking over at me. I pretended not to notice. My entire body was still, and although I felt my guts churning nervously, I did not let any of it show. My hands remained motionless in my lap.


Center stage, the judge let a guy go with 90 days court supervision on a charge of driving without a license. He also warned the defendant that if he gets caught driving a car again, he will be sent to jail.


The bailiff brought out a guy in a jumpsuit and chains. I don’t remember the guy’s name, but he left quite the impression. You see, he’s enrolled in classes at COD, and he has every intention of becoming a psychologist. The problem? He was in for drug charges. I think it was for cannabis, but it was never specified. The judge started giving this guy the third degree until he confessed to wanting to be a psychologist.


“If you were the State of Illinois, would you hire someone with a drug conviction?” the judge asked.


I know what answer he was looking for, but the humanitarian in me thought I would definitely give such a job applicant a chance. What if the guy is trying to become a better person? What if that was the kind of thing he did in the past and no longer wanted to do? What if he just wanted to leave all of that crap behind? What if . . . .?


The defendant wasn’t smart enough to come up with these responses, and I felt bad for him. Because the judge had a definite black-and-white view of things, and shortly afterward, he sentenced the guy to more time in DuPage lock-up.


And then, the judge ran out of things to do. He took a break, and everyone scattered. I pulled out my book and started to read. Elmore Leonard’s RIDING THE RAP. If you thought FX’s show, JUSTIFIED, is awesome, you should read the books. Givens is even more interesting in paper format.


During the break, Don arrived, and he shot the shit with the other attorneys. Apparently, Don has been on Johnny B’s show several times, and he was discussing one of the cases he talked about on the radio, something about stolen Super Bowl tickets.


(By the way, the woman with the hat ran into a snag no one else had, and I thought it would be of interest to note. She tried to get a public defender, but she didn’t qualify. So the judge asked her what she wanted to do today. Meaning, did she want to hire a lawyer? I guess she didn’t want to go through the effort, so she pled guilty. I wonder what it takes to NOT be able to get a P.D. What if you can’t hire a real lawyer? I’m sure you can defend yourself, but what good is that going to do?)


The judge returned, and before long, I was called. Dutifully, I called HERE and approached the bench. Right off the bat, the prosecution told Ferguson that she and Don had discussed an issue the previous day. Apparently, since we were challenging the roadblock stop, we needed not only the arresting officer but also his superior. And guess who wasn’t in court that day? The sergeant was stuck doing some kind of training thing.


Which, if you ask me, is bullshit. Imagine if I told the court that I couldn’t show up for my date because I had some kind of training thing to do with my job. Would that have been tolerated? And how hard must it be to get out of training . . . TO GO TO COURT? What kind of hard-ass must the chief of police in Lisle be to not let one of his officers go to testify in court because they had to go to training?


The judge seemed to agree with my point of view. “This thing’s been kicking around for too long,” he said. “We’re rescheduling for April 26th at 9:30 am. There will be no training on that day, and no one is taking a vacation. Is that understood?”

Everyone nodded.


Ferguson looked at the officer. “You will let your chief know, right?”


“Yes, your honor.”


“This has to be wrapped up. Your chief is in charge of when training has to be scheduled, am I right?”


“Yes, sir.”


“Make sure your supervisor is in court with you on April 26th. No excuses.”


Don then interjected, “Your honor, I just want you to be aware that since we’re challenging the roadblock, there are a lot of unusual circumstances that need to be discussed, and not all has to do with the motion to quash. It’s more complicated than it looks.”


“I’m aware of that.”


“We also appealed the summary suspension to the Illinois Supreme Court.”


“Noted. Until next time.”


Don told me to wait outside, and as I left the courtroom, I wondered about that appeal he’d just mentioned. That was news to me. I guess the appellate court didn’t go for the motion to reconsider.


Outside, Don told me that they’d just sent the appeal to the state’s supreme court, but he warned me that they might choose not to hear the case. “It’s a one-in-fifty shot,” he said. I decided not to ask what he thought the chances of them overturning the appellate court’s decision were.


He then presented me with a bill for $25. I’m not sure, but I think that’s what the filing fee was for the IL Supreme Court. If so, it’s cheaper than the appellate court by $125.


We then went our separate ways. This time, the elevators actually worked, and on my way down, I considered what had just happened. There is no possible way that I won’t go to trial next time. I know I’ve said that before, but this time, it really seems like the end of the line. The judge is getting fed up. He wants this case behind him.


I know I’ll be there next time. Will both of the officers be there, too? What if one of them isn’t? Would the judge be so annoyed with everyone involved that he’d dismiss the case? Maybe that’s wishful thinking, but these days, it seems like wishful thinking is all I have.


TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW!

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!

THE DUI DIARY: Chapter Eighteen

Today was just about the most BORING day in court I’ve ever had. It was so bad, even the judge was yawning. There just wasn’t enough crime to make things interesting. So the next time you see someone complaining about crime around here, tell them to fuck off, because there was hardly anyone in court. At one point, the judge called a recess because there was nothing for him to do. He told the cashier to let him know if anyone else came in, ready to be tried.



So, I spent a lot of time sitting and staring. I read a little, but I was just too damned tired. I could count the hours of sleep I’ve gotten over the past few days on my fingers. Most of you know why, or will soon know, but it’s not my place to put it here. This is about my DUI case, not . . . well, never mind.


When they didn’t call my name, I decided to get some water and take a look at the docket. Guess what: I wasn’t listed there. I went back to the cashier and asked about this, and she said that my file was on hand. As soon as my lawyer showed up, they’d call me.


About an hour later, Don arrived. There was another case before me that he was handling, and the judge forgot some of the materials in his chambers. As he went to retrieve it, Don started joking around with the prosecution about his Facebook page.


I took this time to look around at my fellow defendants, and no one stood out. This was a bad people-watching day in court.


Soon, I was called, and I found out that we still hadn’t heard back from the appellate court. The brief was filed in full two weeks ago, and we should have heard back from them a month ago. The judge asked if it would be good for me to come back in December to see what’s going on then.


I have ONE day of vacation time left. One. Tiny. Day. It’s all been eaten up by court and doctors and dentists. I can’t let this one go. It’s too valuable to me (especially considering one of my new problems, but that’s too much to go into here). I asked if we could put it off until January, which is when I get new days off.


Don was at first reluctant about this, but the judge took it pretty well. January 4, and goodbye.


Outside, Don apologized for the long time the appeal was taking. “I mean, if you want me to, I’ll call up an appellate judge and tell him to get his ass in gear, but I don’t think it will help your cause much.”


I told him that was all right. If I’m found guilty in January, I’ll have a much better chance of dealing with it than I would now. I’ve just got too much on my mind and too much debt hanging around my neck. By January, I’ll just have car payments left, and maybe some credit card bills. I’ll have my new tooth, and my education debt will be gone. Hell, I might even have built my emergency fund back up to where it was when this started by then.


2009 sucked. 2010 has been monumentally worse (and that was absolutely shocking). 2011? I don’t know. I think I’ll be in a better position. But what can I say?


TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW!

THE DUI DIARY: Chapter Seventeen

Today, court went exactly as I’d expected; it just carried on a bit longer than I thought it would. This sucked, because I was scheduled for a CT scan at noon. I was actually scheduled for it yesterday, but someone forgot to call me to reschedule because all the physicians were off. After twelve today, no one would be there to help me, so I had to get out of court by eleven.



I got out by ten-thirty, which worked out nicely. The courtroom was fuckin’ packed, and not just with DUI cases. In fact, very few of them involved booze at all. I don’t know what was going on with everyone, but we were getting domestic battery cases and animal cruelty stuff, and just crazy shit. It was so crowded that the judge paused a few times to check with other courtrooms to see if they could help out and lighten his load.


When he got to me, it was very quick. It was so swift and easy to remember that here is the conversation between him and Earl verbatim.


JUDGE: I see we’re waiting on the status of the appeal. Have you heard anything?


EARL: No, I haven’t, your honor.


JUDGE: Do you know when you’re going to hear from them?


EARL: I have no idea, sir.


JUDGE: Okay. Come back in August. Is the 13th good? Or would you rather have the 20th?


EARL: The 20th would be good.


JUDGE: Okay. 9:30 in the morning.


EARL: Thank you, your honor.


It was that fast and that easy. Nothing remarkable about it at all. However, the true star of the day was my fellow defendants. Get a load of these examples.


A Russian guy, probably late twenties, was in for animal cruelty. The judge asked him if he wanted to hire a lawyer before his trial, and the guy said no. The judge then warned him about the possible consequences, including jail time. He asked the prosecutor if she wanted this guy to go to jail, and she said yes. The judge then asked if the defendant was sure he didn’t want representation. The guy asked how he could go about it. The judge then had to describe the obvious process of how one could go about getting representation. The guy still wasn’t sure. The judge gave him his trial date.


An Indian guy, also up for animal cruelty, was asked if he was going to hire a lawyer. He said yes. The judge gave him his trial date. The guy then asked, “Can I ask you a question?” The judge nodded, and the guy said, “Is it possible to not hire a lawyer.” The judge sighed and explained that he didn’t NEED to hire a lawyer, that he has the right to defend himself, but it would be ADVISABLE to get representation. The guy decided not to.


A young guy who kept looking at the floor was called up for possession of cannabis. Apparently, he was in school to become a teacher. The judge asked him if he would hire a teacher with a history of drug use. The entire courtroom laughed at this one . . . except me. Maybe if the guy was gobbling PCP, I’d find an objection, but he was smoking weed.


A young woman, maybe about twenty, a bit too skinny, was in for retail theft. She sat one row and five seats over from me, and she was carrying a bag on her shoulder. More of a man-purse than an actual purse. When the judge called her up, she stood quickly. As a result, her jeans slid down her body, and her ass popped out. She only wore a lacy g-string under her jeans, and the guy sitting behind her started licking his lips. This is apparently a usual occurrence for her, since she casually pulled her pants back up and pulled her sweater down over her ass. She didn’t seem to be very concerned about this.


Believe it or not, she was not the only person to moon me today. During the whole ordeal, there were three party girls who were sitting directly in front of me. One was in for underage drinking, and she seemed to be the responsible one. The other two looked like they’d just dragged themselves out of bed, hungover from the night before. The one who sat in the seat in front of me—the real winner in court today—was the worst off, though. She had the shakes, for one. Her friend had them, too, but not as badly as the one in front of me. Every once in a while, she groaned and dropped her head back, bathing my lap and the book I was reading with her blonde hair. She didn’t seem to notice. This was before the judge showed up. When he arrived, we all stood. She got up first, and when she did, her jogging pants slipped down, advertising the fact that she was wearing nothing underneath. The seats are so close together that her ass was about five inches from my face. If she’d farted, I would have felt the breeze. She didn’t seem to notice at first, but when the guy sitting next to her started staring at her ass—very obviously—she figured out what had happened, and she yanked her pants up. It was a very loose fit, and I figured that they wouldn’t stay up on their own. Later, she tried putting her head on her friend’s shoulder to get some rest, but her friend shrugged away and said, “Don’t.” At that point, she slid down in her chair and tried to rest her head on the back. The back was too short, so instead, she accidentally dropped her head into my lap, her eyes closed. This was the first good look I’d gotten at her face (by then, I had a definite working knowledge of her ass), and I was kind of surprised. She was maybe—MAYBE!—eighteen years old. This is a specimen of the party girl during her early years. The drinking and promiscuity had not yet taken its toll on her face. She could still turn back, if she wanted to.


“Um,” I said.


Her eyes opened. They were unfocused. She muttered something that might have been an apology (if apologies usually involve the word “fuck”), and she sat up, swaying back and forth. I noticed that every male eye in the courtroom was on her, and whenever a new guy arrived, he always sat in the empty seat next to her, despite the fact that it was the hardest seat to get to. At one point, the guy who sat next to me very obviously looked over her shoulder to get a glimpse down the front of her shirt. Somehow, she didn’t notice. One of the many men who sat next to her put his arm around her at one point. She had an objection to this, especially since the guy looked like a fat, balding child molester. She pushed his arm away so hard that the bailiff looked over. I’m shocked that he didn’t notice something was wrong with her.


I’m not joking when I say that no less than three different guys hit on this woman. IN A FUCKING COURTROOM. This doesn’t include the guy who put his arm around her. She didn’t entertain a single one of these men, even in the fucked up state she was in.


I think that’s about it. Anyway, after I was dismissed, I went out into the hallway to wait for Earl. When he came by, he reminded me of the next court date. I then had a question for him. According to one of the letters from Jesse White I’d received about a year ago, I had to make a payment of $250 to reinstate my license. I could pay over the phone or with a personal check sent to Springfield. He advised me to do this. It would take a week with a credit card, but it might take 45 days with a check.


I have about 45 days until my year is up.


I asked about the appeal, and he said that the way it went, they sent the appeal brief to the appellate court, and they would make up their mind. This decision was actually due on Monday. Then, Don and the others would have to send their response/rebuttal, and when it was registered, the process was over. One way or the other, I’d be driving again on the 17th of June (provided the reinstatement went out on time).


I get the feeling that my next time in court will be my actual trial. The appeal can’t go on for much longer.


When I got home, I wanted to call up the Secretary of State to see if they accepted debit cards. I have no credit cards, as I view them being no better than the Mafia, except if you don’t pay them, they send financial thugs after you instead of actual thugs. Credit cards exist solely to keep you in debt, and if you don’t believe me, look at your interest rates. Are you paying only the minimum payment each month? Why is that? [NOTE: Since I wrote this, I have three credit cards. They were absolute necessities. Guess who’s in debt up to his fucking eyebrows with no sign of things letting up. Oh yeah.]


Anyway, when I looked at the form, I noticed that they only accepted credit cards. No debit cards would be accepted. Angrily, I wrote out the check and hoped that they’d get to it soon.


I don’t know how much longer I can stand being driven around. I know I have a month and a half left, but still . . . it’s getting to me. I dream about driving. If I ever struck it rich, I would never hire a limo to drive me around. I can’t bear to be out from behind the steering wheel. It’s probably a control issue, since I’m definitely a backseat driver, at least when it comes to other people driving my car.


Well . . . here’s a little secret, if you promise not to tell anyone. Back when this first started, when my grandfather was driving me around, he had bad cataracts. He could barely see. So . . . I steered for him from the passenger seat. Does that count as a violation?


TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW!

THE DUI DIARY: Chapter Sixteen

I’m surprised I made it through court today. The pain in my tooth has returned, and it has been hammering away at my head for hours. I will probably need another root canal, and who knows? If this tooth is fucked, too, I might lose that one, as well. If so, they can take the wisdom tooth, too. No implants. Fuck it. I’m getting tired of the bullshit.



But that’s neither here nor there. Today’s court date was not very interesting. No weird characters to tell you about. Nothing strange going on. The only aberration I noticed was that a defendant had signed a document that he had not read, so the judge had to read it for him to confirm that the guy understood what was about to happen to him.


Everyone showed up today. Even my lawyer was there early. All ducks were lined up, ready to be knocked down. As soon as Don showed up, he started talking with other lawyers, and it seems like he just won a case before the Supreme Court. I didn’t hear if it was the Illinois Supreme Court or the U.S. Supreme Court, and I couldn’t hear the details of the case, aside from the fact that it was DUI related. This cheered me up; maybe he still had some of the magic on him. Maybe it would help him with my case. (One way or the other, it’s cool. Both are pretty high praise.)


We waited for a while, and during a recess, the state attorney went into the judge’s chambers with my lawyer, and they spent quite some time back there. I grinned, wondering what kind of back-door dealing might be going on back there. Were they bargaining for my freedom? I remember thinking that this was waaaaay better than anything that happened in MY COUSIN VINNY.


They were in there so long that I had to go to the bathroom. I crossed my legs, hoping to be able to hold it until my case was over, but it quickly became clear that this wasn’t going to happen. Yet, if I went and they came back from the judge’s quarters, I knew I would be the first one to be called. What if I didn’t make it back in time?


Fuck it. I went. I zipped through it as quickly as I could, and much to my relief, recess was still on when I got back.


As it turned out, I was not next to be called. The judge went through a few jumpsuit cases (the guys in the orange jumpsuits from county lockup) before coming to me. I noticed that he was in a jovial mood. I knew he’d just come back from vacation, and maybe during that time he got laid, because he was joking around and giving NO ONE a hard time, not even the guy who signed the paper he had only skimmed. At one point, he even laughed and said, “This looks like one of those DUI courtrooms.” Even I found this to be kind of funny. The only non-DUI case I heard that day was the battery guy, and he’d been drunk at the time. (He was ordered to abstain from booze for one entire year. I hope that’s not on the table for me.)


While the judge was hearing another case, Don came back to whisper to me for a few minutes. He wanted to know if I had received the appeal brief, to which I said yes. He also asked if I liked it, to which I said HELL FUCKING YES. It was very well written, and I was confident that it would work.


He then explained that he had gone back to speak with the judge to convince him to hold off on the trial until the appeal went through. At first the judge said no, but when Don mentioned that it would save time, the judge heard him out. One way or the other, the appeal would establish certain things, things that would make it unnecessary for the police officers to show up in court again, and it would also save the judge time from listening to arguments from the hearing. This appealed to the judge, so he agreed to let this happen.


This is good because if the appeal works out in my favor, then it will make the trial a breeze. If it does not, nothing changes. Not bad, huh?


My case was called, and we all went up to the bench. For the record, Don had to describe what he and the judge had talked about behind the scenes, and then they were able to discuss things further. The cops, of which there were THREE (holy shit, right?), seemed to see the wisdom in this, considering how they probably think courtroom duty is the worst of the things they have to do every day. The judge suggested May 7th at 8:30 in the morning for our next date. By then, it is possible that the appeal will not have gone through, but it was a good, arbitrary time for us all to meet again, to reevaluate everything at that point.


I was then told to wait outside. My grandfather and I retreated to the hallway and waited for Don to finish the other case he had in there. As we waited, Earl and Steve wandered by. We greeted each other, and Earl asked if we were going ahead with the case today. I explained what had happened, and he seemed surprised.


“Really?” As soon as I confirmed this, he pointed at me and said, “I love that!” I got the impression that he didn’t believe that the judge would wait for the appeal. He then added that he’d overheard the state’s attorney speaking with the officers. The former had asked the latter how long they usually stop drivers for roadblock safety checks, and the cops said they couldn’t hold us longer than a couple of minutes. Earl then interjected, “Not in the Bruni case!” I have high hopes.


Since Don’s other case was taking so long, I paid Earl. He made note and said he would send my receipt in the mail. In the meantime, he would see me in court in May. He made mention of my tie clip, which was surprising. No one ever cares about the tie clip. I received it as part of my inheritance from Grandpa Lon, who sent me matching cuff links, as well. When I was a kid, I thought it was all useless, but as I grow older, I realized what a treasure trove he’d left me.


Then, when Don came out of the courtroom, he commented on my grandfather’s fedora, and I wondered if maybe this was a company policy. Whatever. I didn’t care. I thought it was cool. Don said that he also wore a hat on a regular basis, and his younger associates didn’t understand. Earl said that he had a hat, he just grew it on his head (to which I would have agreed, despite my appreciation for fedoras). We said our goodbyes, and agreed to meet back in court on May 7th.


I wait with bated breath. By the way, it feels really fucking good to be totally paid up with my lawyers. If only I could find myself in that position with my dentists.


TO BE CONTINUED ON MONDAY!

THE DUI DIARY: Chapter Fifteen

Okay, today was a waste of time. There isn’t much to talk about here, but I’ll mention a few things.



When I got to court, I was surprised to find how few people were hanging around. Then, I realized that we were between Christmas and New Years. Of course there weren’t a lot of people in court. I’m surprised the place was open. Even the courtroom itself, which was usually crowded, only had a handful of people in it. It was so slow that the judge took a break at 9:30, which for him was an hour after he started.


But then, when he returned, I was the first one to be called, and my lawyers were not there yet. I approached the bench, restraining a smile because I now had a beard, and the judge would probably not remember me from last time.


“What is your name?” he asked, looking over my file.


Ah, good. His memory is short. The beard ruse has worked. “John Bruni, sir.”


“And your representation?”


I gave the name.


He read more from the file. “Oh, right. This was continued from last time because your attorney was late.” He eyed me from over the folder.


Shit. Well, at least he didn’t seem as angry as he had been last time. In fact, he had not raised his voice once in all the time I had been in the courtroom this morning.


“Call your attorney,” he said. “Then, have a seat, and we’ll get to you.”


He seemed more tired than angry, which I took as a decent sign. As I retreated out of the courtroom, I heard another attorney say, “Don’t worry. I saw Don earlier today. He’s in the building.”


Just to be sure, I went outside and called the office. The gentleman on the other line told me that he would notify one of the attorneys, and they would be with me shortly. Sure enough, about a half an hour later, Earl walked in, ready to do battle.


As soon as he’d entered, and the judge had seen him, my case was called to the bench. Earl said, “We’re here to file a motion to suppress, your honor.”


“Testimony or evidence?” Ferguson asked.


“Evidence regarding the roadblock stop,” Earl said.


“The roadblock coordinator isn’t here today,” the prosecutor said. I didn’t understand the significance of this until it was explained later. Since we were challenging the stop, we needed the coordinator there. It wasn’t enough that the arresting officer was in attendance.


“Okay, then,” the judge said. “I guess we need a new date, then. Are your papers in order?”


“Yes,” Earl said.


“Pardon?” the prosecutor asked.


“Your papers. Is your case ready?”


“Yes, your honor. Let me just find out from the officer when a good date is.”


Ferguson shook his head. “Bring him over here so we can all hear.”


The arresting officer approached, and he was asked where the coordinator was. “He’s on vacation, your honor.”


“When will he be back?”


“I’m not sure.”

“Then, when would be a good date for you?”


“Anytime except for January 19-22. I’ll be on vacation myself.”


The judge looked at his calendar. “And I’ll be on vacation the week after. How does February 19 sound?”


“That’s good for me,” the officer said.


Earl looked at me, and I nodded. We were then sent on our way.


I am slowly starting to realize that going to court is usually a matter of delaying things to another date. If things get delayed again, I will probably be able to drive myself to court again.


Outside, Earl said, “Okay, what just happened in there is good and bad. Well, two goods and one bad. It’s bad because you have to come back for another court date, which sucks. However, it’s good because we just faced this judge with a roadblock case two weeks ago, so it’s fresh in his mind and might affect his decision here. We want that far away and forgotten by the time we come back, just in case. It’s also good because I really, really want that appeal to come through first. It’s unlikely, but on the off chance that this actually happens, and we win it, it will have a small effect here. If we lose, it will have no effect, so don’t worry about that. But if we win on the appeal, while it won’t make this go away, it will have some small effect on the decision.”

“Okay,” I said. This gave me some hope, and a month and a half sounded like a good amount of time for an appellate court to catch up to me, especially this time of year, when the caseload is a bit lighter.


I paid up (so I now owe them the mere sum of $313), and we went on our way. As we drove home, my grandfather said to me, “I think I like this judge.”


“I don’t,” I said, remembering my last encounter with him.


“I noticed his cheeks were a little on the rosy side,” Gramps said. “That means he’s a drinker.”


QUICK NOTE: I found my first judge, Daniel Guerin, on Facebook. The temptation to friend him for nefarious purposes is nearly overwhelming.


TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW!