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!
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Monday, December 19, 2011
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!
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!
Friday, December 16, 2011
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!
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!
Thursday, December 15, 2011
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!
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!
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
THE DUI DIARY: Chapter Fourteen (Interlude)
This is just a short update. Over the weekend, I received the appeal brief that my lawyers had written. It’s about twenty pages long, and it is extremely detailed. If I had any doubts about my ability to get out of this mess, this document dispelled it all.
I think my lawyers are going to file a motion to dismiss the field sobriety test. From what I gather, everything that happened to me that night after getting pulled into the roadblock was a violation of my Fourth Amendment rights. I was detained for an unreasonable amount of time, you see. I was in my car for “less than ten minutes . . . less than five minutes” according to the arresting officer. According to the laws, these stops are to be measured in SECONDS, not MINUTES. Such a stop cannot last longer than a half-minute unless something happens to make the officer suspect illegal activity. At this point, the officer had not even detected the “faint” odor of alcohol. This is according to his testimony, mind you.
And even if the motion doesn’t work, they still have their bases covered. The “faint” odor of alcohol is consistent with my admission of having one beer. Consumption and driving is not against the law unless the person blows over .08. If the “faint” odor of alcohol was enough to merit a breathalyzer, then the future of drinking in Illinois is doomed. Get familiar with the new .01 law . . . .
Couple this with the fact that I was pulled over at one in the morning, when most people are tired and would reasonably have “glossy” eyes. The case is not so open and shut now, is it?
Did I forget to mention in previous installments that the officer himself admitted that I never slurred my words, that I never mumbled, that I didn’t have any problems with my motor skills (outside of the field sobriety test)? That’s right, baby. My words were clear, and I never stumbled, not even when I got out of the car.
Judging from what I read in that packet, I am 90% sure that I will be found not guilty, and when the appeals court finally gets to my case, that the judge at the hearing will be overturned. Mahalo.
TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW!
I think my lawyers are going to file a motion to dismiss the field sobriety test. From what I gather, everything that happened to me that night after getting pulled into the roadblock was a violation of my Fourth Amendment rights. I was detained for an unreasonable amount of time, you see. I was in my car for “less than ten minutes . . . less than five minutes” according to the arresting officer. According to the laws, these stops are to be measured in SECONDS, not MINUTES. Such a stop cannot last longer than a half-minute unless something happens to make the officer suspect illegal activity. At this point, the officer had not even detected the “faint” odor of alcohol. This is according to his testimony, mind you.
And even if the motion doesn’t work, they still have their bases covered. The “faint” odor of alcohol is consistent with my admission of having one beer. Consumption and driving is not against the law unless the person blows over .08. If the “faint” odor of alcohol was enough to merit a breathalyzer, then the future of drinking in Illinois is doomed. Get familiar with the new .01 law . . . .
Couple this with the fact that I was pulled over at one in the morning, when most people are tired and would reasonably have “glossy” eyes. The case is not so open and shut now, is it?
Did I forget to mention in previous installments that the officer himself admitted that I never slurred my words, that I never mumbled, that I didn’t have any problems with my motor skills (outside of the field sobriety test)? That’s right, baby. My words were clear, and I never stumbled, not even when I got out of the car.
Judging from what I read in that packet, I am 90% sure that I will be found not guilty, and when the appeals court finally gets to my case, that the judge at the hearing will be overturned. Mahalo.
TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW!
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
THE DUI DIARY: Chapter Thirteen
Maybe it was a bad idea to go into court with a hangover. Last night’s drinking kind of got away from me, and when I woke up this morning, the room was lopsided. I threw some aspirin, Tang, and Red Bull down my throat, but it wasn’t enough. By the time I got to court, my head seemed to be rocking back and forth, but I know I wasn’t moving at all. I couldn’t even read because the words were dancing around on the page.
As it turned out, this was the least of my worries. Today was Rage and Stupidity Day in my new courtroom, and apparently I wasn’t immune to either one.
Remember when I said about how I might get a fair shake from my new judge? Well, as it turns out, she’s not my judge. My case will be heard by a fat guy with a comb-over who resembles the Empire Carpet guy. His name is Ferguson, and he’s a cunt-faced prick. In fact, I found myself missing Guerin, this guy was so bad. He sat behind his desk with the State of Illinois slab towering behind him, kind of like the monolith in 2001, but gray instead, and he ruled with an iron fist.
One defendant who was defending herself reached over the judge’s desk to hand him some paperwork. “What does it say in BIG BOLD LETTERS right in front of you?” he asked. “Or don’t you know how to read?”
The lady read the sign, which said, “DO NOT REACH OVER THE DESK.”
There wasn’t a single defendant who came up to stand before Ferguson who was not berated in an over-the-top fashion. He was like a clean version of R. Lee Ermey in FULL METAL JACKET.
In some cases, I could understand. There was one guy on crutches who didn’t seem to know if he had a lawyer or not. Kids, if you are standing before a judge, and you don’t know the answer to this question, you deserve what you get.
There were also people who had been here before, who had been ordered to hire a lawyer, and who clearly didn’t follow this order. Threats were handed out like porno pamphlets on the Vegas strip. If they didn’t get a lawyer by next time, they would go to trial without representation.
By the time my name was called, I was full of dread. I was confident that the judge would find nothing wrong with me, nothing he could rag on, since I was dressed well and I was conducting myself with respect. However, my lawyers were nowhere to be seen. I figured I’d tell him that I was waiting for my attorney, and he’d pass on me.
Ferguson gave me the routine. What’s your name. Do you know what you’ve been charged with. Etc. And then, he asked, “Do you have representation?” I could hear the challenge in his voice. He was looking eager to tearing me a new asshole if I said no.
“Yes.”
He seemed disappointed. “Who is your representation?”
I gave him the name.
He wrote it down. “Well, let’s see if he shows up. Have a seat.”
I sat back down, forcing a smile from my face, and I settled back to start watching people.
There was a guy sitting behind me who kept muttering to himself. At first I thought he was on a cell phone (which is prohibited in court), but when he started humming to himself, I figured it out. When he was called, I got a good look at him. Ever see THE BRUTE MAN? This guy was a black, bearded Rondo Hatton. If not for the nice-looking coat and the lack of stink, I would have thought this guy was homeless.
The guy sitting next to me reminded me of a porn star I saw once. Tall, skinny, bespectacled and black, whenever I saw him, I couldn’t help but think of the time his doppelganger with a foot-long dong took on Bridget the Midget (who could only get his glans in her mouth, and nothing more). Every time someone did something stupid in court, he would shake his head or put his face in his hands, as if he couldn’t believe God made people this dumb.
Every time someone spoke louder than a whisper, the bailiff would shout, “If you want to have a conversation, you take it into the hallway! Otherwise, keep your mouth shut!”
I looked at my watch. I’d been there for two hours, and I still hadn’t seen my lawyer. I wasn’t worried, though. This was typical. One of the lawyers would show up, and then they’d get on with my case.
Wait! Is that the cop who arrested me? Yes, there he was, sitting in the jury box with other officers. Holy shit, this was really going to happen! I was going to be on trial today, and my freedom would be soon determined. Jesus!
A guy with more gold than Fort Knox around his neck was called. He wore a baseball cap and was texting on his cell phone as he approached the bench. The guy was so incredibly disrespectful that the judge was struck dumb. But not for long; the man was dealt with and thrown away. “Thank you, goodbye,” the judge said, which was how he ended each case. He said this as he tossed the envelope containing all the case information to the side.
Another guy was called, a t-shirt and jeans kind of guy. Sadly, he’d forgotten his belt; his pants were so far down his ass was hanging out. At first, I thought this was a fashion statement, but soon the guy must have sensed something was wrong, since he then pulled his pants up.
Yet another guy showed up in his best striped clubbing shirt . . . except the arms were torn off. Court is a classy joint.
The courtroom was starting to get empty. A couple walked in and sat in the same row as me. This was unfortunate, because the woman kept moving around. The seats are so poorly put together that if one person shifts slightly, everyone in the row feels it. My hangover did not thank this fidgety person.
I was called again, and the judge asked me where my lawyer was. I told him I didn’t know, and he asked if I had talked to him today. “No, I didn’t.”
“Well, aren’t you a smart one,” he said. “You know, if I were in your shoes, I’d be scared to death and nervous about my lawyer. I would have called him. Then again, you’re not all that bright, or you wouldn’t be here, would you?”
If he wasn’t a judge, I would have reached across that desk and bashed his fucking skull in. I’ve never been so thoroughly disrespected by someone whose salary my taxes paid. In fact, I’ve NEVER been disrespected by an official until now. The cop who arrested me was polite, the prosecutor might have been a dick, but he still treated me fairly, and even Guerin, who thought things over more than Hamlet did, treated me with respect.
I don’t have a lot of pride, and I’ll take a lot of things from people, provided that those things are true. What I won’t take is disrespectful cunt-faces impugning my intelligence. The urge to throw ten-dollar words at him to make him feel just as degraded was overwhelming. I’ve never found my pride harder to swallow.
“Okay,” he said. “We’ll give him a few more minutes. Have a seat.” He then told the court clerk to email everyone at Don’s law firm to see if they could get someone down here.
I immediately went out of the courtroom and called my attorney. I talked with the secretary and explained the situation, and I was told that Don would be there as soon as possible. Wait, what? You mean, he’s not here? But she was gone.
Shortly after I walked back into the courtroom, I was called again. “Okay, he’s not here,” the judge said. “Please note that the defendant was in the courtroom while the attorney was not.”
“Sir, I just talked to my lawyer,” I said, mustering my politest tone. I was using my gay phone voice that I usually utilized at work. “He said he was going to be here in a minute.”
“Oh, so genius here called his lawyer, huh?”
I bit my tongue.
“A prudent man would have made that call as soon as I’d called you the first time. Okay, we’ll wait for Lord Tardy. Have a seat.”
I followed orders and watched as someone else tried her luck. I wasn’t listening, though; I was too busy fuming, thinking about what I’d do to the judge if I’d run into him at a bar. So I don’t know what happened between the judge and the defendant. All I know is that the judge started yelling at her. Apparently, her lawyer wasn’t there, either, and this lawyer had done something to incur the wrath of Ferguson. He went on and on about how unprofessional this lawyer was, and how she shouldn’t even be in practice. The defendant said that it was easy for him to say these things when she wasn’t there. The judge snarled back that he’d say the same things to her face if she was here, and that she was welcome to take this message to her lawyer.
By the time he’d said, “Thank you, goodbye,” Don had showed up, and I was called up next. Don led off by apologizing to the judge profusely. Apparently, what had happened was that one of his clerks had misfiled my paperwork, so they didn’t get their usual alert that they had to be in court for today.
“I have more of an objection with your client,” the judge said. “A smart man would have called you sooner. This genius here waited and waited and waited until the last minute. It was pretty stupid, don’t you think?”
“Your honor, my client is under a lot of stress because of this case.”
The judge rolled his eyes. “Right. Of course. Let’s ask the officer how disrespected he feels? He’s been waiting here all day, and for nothing.”
I’m sure he was all broken up about it. He got a pretty good nap while he was waiting, a nap he probably wouldn’t have gotten if he was on duty.
“If your bright boy client hadn’t waited, these proceedings would have been over with,” the judge continued. “Now he’s got to come back again.”
“What’s a good date for you, John?” Don asked.
“No,” the judge said. “The officer will decide when you come back. When’s good for you?”
After some haggling, we decided on Dec. 29 at 9:30. Great. So, the way things are looking, maybe I’ll celebrate New Year’s behind bars.
On the way out, Don apologized to me. “But if it’s any solace, we are doing thousands of dollars worth of appeals work for you for free, so there’s that.”
I nodded, dumbly. “Have you heard anything about the appeal?” I asked.
“No. You’re not going to hear anything about the appeal for quite some time.”
I couldn’t help but think about everyone driving me around all the time, and I felt like punching the wall out of frustration. It was beginning to dawn on me that even if I win this case, the whole thing just wasn’t worth the trouble. “So, I’m stuck with my suspension?”
“Believe me, by the time this appeal goes through, you’ll be driving again.”
Then, what was the point? But I just didn’t have the energy to ask this question.
TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW!
As it turned out, this was the least of my worries. Today was Rage and Stupidity Day in my new courtroom, and apparently I wasn’t immune to either one.
Remember when I said about how I might get a fair shake from my new judge? Well, as it turns out, she’s not my judge. My case will be heard by a fat guy with a comb-over who resembles the Empire Carpet guy. His name is Ferguson, and he’s a cunt-faced prick. In fact, I found myself missing Guerin, this guy was so bad. He sat behind his desk with the State of Illinois slab towering behind him, kind of like the monolith in 2001, but gray instead, and he ruled with an iron fist.
One defendant who was defending herself reached over the judge’s desk to hand him some paperwork. “What does it say in BIG BOLD LETTERS right in front of you?” he asked. “Or don’t you know how to read?”
The lady read the sign, which said, “DO NOT REACH OVER THE DESK.”
There wasn’t a single defendant who came up to stand before Ferguson who was not berated in an over-the-top fashion. He was like a clean version of R. Lee Ermey in FULL METAL JACKET.
In some cases, I could understand. There was one guy on crutches who didn’t seem to know if he had a lawyer or not. Kids, if you are standing before a judge, and you don’t know the answer to this question, you deserve what you get.
There were also people who had been here before, who had been ordered to hire a lawyer, and who clearly didn’t follow this order. Threats were handed out like porno pamphlets on the Vegas strip. If they didn’t get a lawyer by next time, they would go to trial without representation.
By the time my name was called, I was full of dread. I was confident that the judge would find nothing wrong with me, nothing he could rag on, since I was dressed well and I was conducting myself with respect. However, my lawyers were nowhere to be seen. I figured I’d tell him that I was waiting for my attorney, and he’d pass on me.
Ferguson gave me the routine. What’s your name. Do you know what you’ve been charged with. Etc. And then, he asked, “Do you have representation?” I could hear the challenge in his voice. He was looking eager to tearing me a new asshole if I said no.
“Yes.”
He seemed disappointed. “Who is your representation?”
I gave him the name.
He wrote it down. “Well, let’s see if he shows up. Have a seat.”
I sat back down, forcing a smile from my face, and I settled back to start watching people.
There was a guy sitting behind me who kept muttering to himself. At first I thought he was on a cell phone (which is prohibited in court), but when he started humming to himself, I figured it out. When he was called, I got a good look at him. Ever see THE BRUTE MAN? This guy was a black, bearded Rondo Hatton. If not for the nice-looking coat and the lack of stink, I would have thought this guy was homeless.
The guy sitting next to me reminded me of a porn star I saw once. Tall, skinny, bespectacled and black, whenever I saw him, I couldn’t help but think of the time his doppelganger with a foot-long dong took on Bridget the Midget (who could only get his glans in her mouth, and nothing more). Every time someone did something stupid in court, he would shake his head or put his face in his hands, as if he couldn’t believe God made people this dumb.
Every time someone spoke louder than a whisper, the bailiff would shout, “If you want to have a conversation, you take it into the hallway! Otherwise, keep your mouth shut!”
I looked at my watch. I’d been there for two hours, and I still hadn’t seen my lawyer. I wasn’t worried, though. This was typical. One of the lawyers would show up, and then they’d get on with my case.
Wait! Is that the cop who arrested me? Yes, there he was, sitting in the jury box with other officers. Holy shit, this was really going to happen! I was going to be on trial today, and my freedom would be soon determined. Jesus!
A guy with more gold than Fort Knox around his neck was called. He wore a baseball cap and was texting on his cell phone as he approached the bench. The guy was so incredibly disrespectful that the judge was struck dumb. But not for long; the man was dealt with and thrown away. “Thank you, goodbye,” the judge said, which was how he ended each case. He said this as he tossed the envelope containing all the case information to the side.
Another guy was called, a t-shirt and jeans kind of guy. Sadly, he’d forgotten his belt; his pants were so far down his ass was hanging out. At first, I thought this was a fashion statement, but soon the guy must have sensed something was wrong, since he then pulled his pants up.
Yet another guy showed up in his best striped clubbing shirt . . . except the arms were torn off. Court is a classy joint.
The courtroom was starting to get empty. A couple walked in and sat in the same row as me. This was unfortunate, because the woman kept moving around. The seats are so poorly put together that if one person shifts slightly, everyone in the row feels it. My hangover did not thank this fidgety person.
I was called again, and the judge asked me where my lawyer was. I told him I didn’t know, and he asked if I had talked to him today. “No, I didn’t.”
“Well, aren’t you a smart one,” he said. “You know, if I were in your shoes, I’d be scared to death and nervous about my lawyer. I would have called him. Then again, you’re not all that bright, or you wouldn’t be here, would you?”
If he wasn’t a judge, I would have reached across that desk and bashed his fucking skull in. I’ve never been so thoroughly disrespected by someone whose salary my taxes paid. In fact, I’ve NEVER been disrespected by an official until now. The cop who arrested me was polite, the prosecutor might have been a dick, but he still treated me fairly, and even Guerin, who thought things over more than Hamlet did, treated me with respect.
I don’t have a lot of pride, and I’ll take a lot of things from people, provided that those things are true. What I won’t take is disrespectful cunt-faces impugning my intelligence. The urge to throw ten-dollar words at him to make him feel just as degraded was overwhelming. I’ve never found my pride harder to swallow.
“Okay,” he said. “We’ll give him a few more minutes. Have a seat.” He then told the court clerk to email everyone at Don’s law firm to see if they could get someone down here.
I immediately went out of the courtroom and called my attorney. I talked with the secretary and explained the situation, and I was told that Don would be there as soon as possible. Wait, what? You mean, he’s not here? But she was gone.
Shortly after I walked back into the courtroom, I was called again. “Okay, he’s not here,” the judge said. “Please note that the defendant was in the courtroom while the attorney was not.”
“Sir, I just talked to my lawyer,” I said, mustering my politest tone. I was using my gay phone voice that I usually utilized at work. “He said he was going to be here in a minute.”
“Oh, so genius here called his lawyer, huh?”
I bit my tongue.
“A prudent man would have made that call as soon as I’d called you the first time. Okay, we’ll wait for Lord Tardy. Have a seat.”
I followed orders and watched as someone else tried her luck. I wasn’t listening, though; I was too busy fuming, thinking about what I’d do to the judge if I’d run into him at a bar. So I don’t know what happened between the judge and the defendant. All I know is that the judge started yelling at her. Apparently, her lawyer wasn’t there, either, and this lawyer had done something to incur the wrath of Ferguson. He went on and on about how unprofessional this lawyer was, and how she shouldn’t even be in practice. The defendant said that it was easy for him to say these things when she wasn’t there. The judge snarled back that he’d say the same things to her face if she was here, and that she was welcome to take this message to her lawyer.
By the time he’d said, “Thank you, goodbye,” Don had showed up, and I was called up next. Don led off by apologizing to the judge profusely. Apparently, what had happened was that one of his clerks had misfiled my paperwork, so they didn’t get their usual alert that they had to be in court for today.
“I have more of an objection with your client,” the judge said. “A smart man would have called you sooner. This genius here waited and waited and waited until the last minute. It was pretty stupid, don’t you think?”
“Your honor, my client is under a lot of stress because of this case.”
The judge rolled his eyes. “Right. Of course. Let’s ask the officer how disrespected he feels? He’s been waiting here all day, and for nothing.”
I’m sure he was all broken up about it. He got a pretty good nap while he was waiting, a nap he probably wouldn’t have gotten if he was on duty.
“If your bright boy client hadn’t waited, these proceedings would have been over with,” the judge continued. “Now he’s got to come back again.”
“What’s a good date for you, John?” Don asked.
“No,” the judge said. “The officer will decide when you come back. When’s good for you?”
After some haggling, we decided on Dec. 29 at 9:30. Great. So, the way things are looking, maybe I’ll celebrate New Year’s behind bars.
On the way out, Don apologized to me. “But if it’s any solace, we are doing thousands of dollars worth of appeals work for you for free, so there’s that.”
I nodded, dumbly. “Have you heard anything about the appeal?” I asked.
“No. You’re not going to hear anything about the appeal for quite some time.”
I couldn’t help but think about everyone driving me around all the time, and I felt like punching the wall out of frustration. It was beginning to dawn on me that even if I win this case, the whole thing just wasn’t worth the trouble. “So, I’m stuck with my suspension?”
“Believe me, by the time this appeal goes through, you’ll be driving again.”
Then, what was the point? But I just didn’t have the energy to ask this question.
TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW!
Monday, December 12, 2011
THE DUI DIARY: Chapter Twelve
I don’t know what to say about today’s court appearance. There were positive things and negative things. Mostly, this was the SLOWEST day in court EVER. Practically nothing got done. None of the attorneys had their cases ready, and those without representation were quickly dispensed with. My file was apparently lost, so the judge had to put off my appearance. Deep down in my heart, I hoped that losing my file might mean getting my case dropped. It wasn’t likely, but it was nice to think about.
I have never seen so many cops in court than I did today. They sat where the jury usually sits in any other courtroom. There were maybe twenty of ‘em, but one of them caught my attention more than the rest. Maybe his superiors thought it would be okay for him because he’s not in a uniform (presumably, he’s a detective), but this guy has to eventually face the public as an officer of the law.
I understand that in the ‘Thirties, what would shortly be known as the Hitler mustache was all the craze, but Hitler kinda’ ruined that for everyone. WHY IS THERE A COP IN THIS COURTROOM WITH A HITLER MUSTACHE? I appreciate the symbolism (and I used it once in a short story), but still. How is it this guy has a job, being paid with taxpayer dollars?
But there was one thing that annoyed me more than this. At about nine-thirty, it was announced that a case was going to be put off for another day, and that any officers there to testify for this case are dismissed. All but two officers got up and left, and I couldn’t help but wonder at how interesting that case would have been to watch. Who the fuck needed 18 cops to arrest him? What’s the story behind this? Fuck, I’m never going to know!
Of the two remaining cops, one of them was the Hitler guy. Aside from the ‘stache, he was short, pudgy, and bald, and he had beady brown eyes poking out from behind thick glasses.
A couple of times, Earl and Don came around to update me about my missing file. It might take a while. In the meantime, I got to watch next to NOTHING happening in court. It got so boring that the judge threw down his pen and retreated to what I presumed were his chambers.
I whipped out a book and attempted to keep boredom at bay. Finally, at ten-thirty, my file arrived, and we could proceed. The judge had come out long enough to get rid of a handful more defendants without representation before he decided to sink his teeth into my case again.
My name was called, and I stood next to Earl as Guerin went over my file. He asked a couple of questions I didn’t understand, and then Earl said that Guerin’s decision at my hearing was working its way through the appellate court. The judge then asked about the status of my appeal, and Earl said he hadn’t heard anything yet.
“Court 4005,” Guerin said, and Earl wrote it down. He told me to wait there for him.
I had no idea what this meant, but when I walked into the new courtroom, I had a sneaking suspicion that my trial was about to begin. So much for the delays.
The atmosphere of this courtroom was vastly different from the other one. Whereas the first was a chaotic mess of attorneys and prosecutors talking with each other while cases are heard, this one was dead silent except for the judge and the case before her. The lighting was muted and cold, and the wall behind the judge was slate gray. The first courtroom was designed to be carefree and friendly; this one was built like a jail cell.
The first defendant I saw was dressed in an orange jumpsuit and was manacled, wrists and ankles. Holy shit, I thought. Welcome to the big leagues. This wasn’t going to be some game of pattycake, not like with Guerin. Was I a fool? Was I doomed?
Get a grip. There are others around me who are dressed in their regular clothes, although God knows, none of them were dressed in suits like me. Maybe this fact would help me when it was my turn.
The judge was asking the defendant where he lived, and the translator was asking him in Spanish. I noticed that the translator was leaning on a cane, but he was a fairly young man. My writer’s imagination started running away with itself. Perhaps a defendant sought revenge for being fucked over in court and had put this poor guy in traction. More likely, it was some kind of skiing accident.
Regardless, the defendant didn’t seem to know where he lived, but he was pretty sure it was either in Addison or Melrose Park. Granted, both are shitholes, but one is considerably closer to the city than the other. It wasn’t a mere topographical error on the defendant’s part; he was stalling, for whatever reason. The judge was at the end of her rope; she was practically yelling at this guy before he admitted to living in Addison.
It was a short-lived victory. She wanted to know if the guy lived under his own name, and he said no. Who did he live with? A friend. What is this friend’s name? No se. Not much of a friend, then, is he?
Good God, it seemed to go on forever. It was funny at first, but after a while it became painful. I’d already been bored to death in the first courtroom, now I had to die a second death by the same method?
Earl showed up, and I was called shortly thereafter. This judge also asked about the appeal, and she seemed very understanding about my situation. Could it be I would get a fairer shake out of her than I did out of Guerin? Instead of scheduling me for a month from now, she said to come back in two months.
Two months? Plenty of time to hope for that appeal to work out. Earl was very happy with this, and he also told me that this new judge was a pretty good one, that we’re lucky to have her.
One way or the other, we’re stuck into going to trial now. However, if the appeal works out within two months, it will be very, very helpful to the outcome of my trial. One way or the other, the criminal side of my case begins on the 16th of November . . . .
TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW!
I have never seen so many cops in court than I did today. They sat where the jury usually sits in any other courtroom. There were maybe twenty of ‘em, but one of them caught my attention more than the rest. Maybe his superiors thought it would be okay for him because he’s not in a uniform (presumably, he’s a detective), but this guy has to eventually face the public as an officer of the law.
I understand that in the ‘Thirties, what would shortly be known as the Hitler mustache was all the craze, but Hitler kinda’ ruined that for everyone. WHY IS THERE A COP IN THIS COURTROOM WITH A HITLER MUSTACHE? I appreciate the symbolism (and I used it once in a short story), but still. How is it this guy has a job, being paid with taxpayer dollars?
But there was one thing that annoyed me more than this. At about nine-thirty, it was announced that a case was going to be put off for another day, and that any officers there to testify for this case are dismissed. All but two officers got up and left, and I couldn’t help but wonder at how interesting that case would have been to watch. Who the fuck needed 18 cops to arrest him? What’s the story behind this? Fuck, I’m never going to know!
Of the two remaining cops, one of them was the Hitler guy. Aside from the ‘stache, he was short, pudgy, and bald, and he had beady brown eyes poking out from behind thick glasses.
A couple of times, Earl and Don came around to update me about my missing file. It might take a while. In the meantime, I got to watch next to NOTHING happening in court. It got so boring that the judge threw down his pen and retreated to what I presumed were his chambers.
I whipped out a book and attempted to keep boredom at bay. Finally, at ten-thirty, my file arrived, and we could proceed. The judge had come out long enough to get rid of a handful more defendants without representation before he decided to sink his teeth into my case again.
My name was called, and I stood next to Earl as Guerin went over my file. He asked a couple of questions I didn’t understand, and then Earl said that Guerin’s decision at my hearing was working its way through the appellate court. The judge then asked about the status of my appeal, and Earl said he hadn’t heard anything yet.
“Court 4005,” Guerin said, and Earl wrote it down. He told me to wait there for him.
I had no idea what this meant, but when I walked into the new courtroom, I had a sneaking suspicion that my trial was about to begin. So much for the delays.
The atmosphere of this courtroom was vastly different from the other one. Whereas the first was a chaotic mess of attorneys and prosecutors talking with each other while cases are heard, this one was dead silent except for the judge and the case before her. The lighting was muted and cold, and the wall behind the judge was slate gray. The first courtroom was designed to be carefree and friendly; this one was built like a jail cell.
The first defendant I saw was dressed in an orange jumpsuit and was manacled, wrists and ankles. Holy shit, I thought. Welcome to the big leagues. This wasn’t going to be some game of pattycake, not like with Guerin. Was I a fool? Was I doomed?
Get a grip. There are others around me who are dressed in their regular clothes, although God knows, none of them were dressed in suits like me. Maybe this fact would help me when it was my turn.
The judge was asking the defendant where he lived, and the translator was asking him in Spanish. I noticed that the translator was leaning on a cane, but he was a fairly young man. My writer’s imagination started running away with itself. Perhaps a defendant sought revenge for being fucked over in court and had put this poor guy in traction. More likely, it was some kind of skiing accident.
Regardless, the defendant didn’t seem to know where he lived, but he was pretty sure it was either in Addison or Melrose Park. Granted, both are shitholes, but one is considerably closer to the city than the other. It wasn’t a mere topographical error on the defendant’s part; he was stalling, for whatever reason. The judge was at the end of her rope; she was practically yelling at this guy before he admitted to living in Addison.
It was a short-lived victory. She wanted to know if the guy lived under his own name, and he said no. Who did he live with? A friend. What is this friend’s name? No se. Not much of a friend, then, is he?
Good God, it seemed to go on forever. It was funny at first, but after a while it became painful. I’d already been bored to death in the first courtroom, now I had to die a second death by the same method?
Earl showed up, and I was called shortly thereafter. This judge also asked about the appeal, and she seemed very understanding about my situation. Could it be I would get a fairer shake out of her than I did out of Guerin? Instead of scheduling me for a month from now, she said to come back in two months.
Two months? Plenty of time to hope for that appeal to work out. Earl was very happy with this, and he also told me that this new judge was a pretty good one, that we’re lucky to have her.
One way or the other, we’re stuck into going to trial now. However, if the appeal works out within two months, it will be very, very helpful to the outcome of my trial. One way or the other, the criminal side of my case begins on the 16th of November . . . .
TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW!
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