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!
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
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!
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!
Friday, December 23, 2011
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 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!
Thursday, December 22, 2011
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!
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!
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
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!
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!
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
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!
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!
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!
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