A day in the life

The day began in the wrong line at the courthouse. How could I tell which clerk handled which cases? Not for the signage, certainly.

Ahead of me a young fellow with apprehensive eyes was hoping for a payment plan to spread out the cost of a speeding ticket. Nabbed for going 14 miles over the limit, his fine amounted to $270. The officer who cited him probably did him a favor. It is unlikely that he was driving precisely 79 miles per hour and not 80. But at 80 the game changes significantly, and not to the benefit of the motorist.

He did not know that.

Had he accompanied me to the Department 7 courtroom he would have learned that payment plans are not free. He would have learned it in Spanish first as the 13-minute video that details constitutional - no less – rights does it en español before another 13-minute round in English.

Its information is outdated because fines and the opaque penalty assessments that accompany them go up with a frequency that creates havoc in the editing room. At most, he would get three months to pay up: $135 today, $100 next month and another $70 to close the matter. The arithmetically inclined will note that a $35 interest for a quarter comes out to an annual interest rate of almost 52 percent. Not a bad gig if you can swing it. But not everyone’s in a position to assess fines and usury rates.

Is it not the business model of the Mafia?

Constitutional rights do not extend to fair dealings. The proceedings look professional and reasonable, with a touch of decorum, but defendants - especially poor defendants, are at a distinct disadvantage.

But he did not know that.

He might not have know that by virtue of seeking a payment plan he lost out on the possibility of traffic school, the sole option to keep tickets off of one’s driving record and thus out of the hands of insurance companies. When it is time to renew his auto policy, he will have some unpleasant surprises. Moving violations are gifts that keep on giving: the insurance surcharge will last three years.

Had he elected to attend of one the 18 remedial schools in Santa Barbara County (the statewide list stretches to 13 pages on the D.M.V.’s website) his fine would have increased by $31 for the privilege. Add another $40 for the class (which may or may not cover the cost of the completion certificate) itself and our hapless driver is now ponying up $341 to spend eight hours learning - presumably - to be a better driver.

Only a fool believes that attendance teaches safer driving styles. Attendance is motivated by fear of insurance rate hikes, a fear that generates a constant stream of captive business to the private sector compliments of the state. (While it appears that there is a lot of competition among the hundreds of approved traffic schools, many rely on cute front names to funnel business to a single company.)

All the actors in this process have a stake in the issuance of citations. The officer gets a job, the court and the state get revenue, the traffic schools get clients. You might make a case that if drivers did not violate the rules they would not be subjected to this odious circus. You might make a stronger case that governments craft policies that cannot be upheld in the real world. The sarcastic citizen might reason that the primary intent of these policies might well be to create violators and thus revenue.

While I lived in New Mexico the freeway speed limit was raised three times, from 55 mph to 65 mph and then to 75 mph. Was yesterday’s 75 mph-driver unsafe whereas he/she is now doing right by all?

The myriad of rules makes it impossible to keep track of what’s acceptable. In court a woman pleaded for fairness because she had been ticketed for stopping too far behind a stop sign. A man fought to understand why he was charged for urinating in public when he peed on a bush near the driveway at this friend’s house.

I shudder to think what would happen to our depleted budgets should citizens decide to obey all rules, the few appropriate imperatives and the many idiotic mandates. Several years ago the City of Los Angeles neared a milestone when the total dollar amount for parking violations reached $96 million in a single fiscal year. Can the municipal coffers survive if everyone feeds the meters on time?

If anything, budget woes suggest stepped up enforcement.

I was in court for a dismissal of a faulty break light fix-it ticket I received two blocks from my mechanic where I had dropped $365.75 to replace an alternator. Because the officer said he was “giving me the benefit of the doubt,” I had assumed that all I needed to do was to change the defective light bulb and get another officer to sign off on my ticket.

There, too, is room for revenue generation. Not much, mind you, but I figured $25 was an unjust burden.

Before my case was heard I watched a parade of flotsam and jetsam, 70 or so defendants told to arrive at 8 a.m. for their day in court. Nearly half were minors (under 21 in the U.S.) for the usual collection of underage drinking, open container, minor in possession, fake identification, public disturbance, noise violations. All but a couple pleaded guilty and signed up for the youthful offender program of classes and Alcoholic Anonymous meeting for $406. Only in America. Certainly not in Western Europe.

The commissioner tried to dissuade defendants from signing up for community service, the program of last recourse for those with limited resources. She didn’t have to work hard at it because instead of offering a fair labor opportunity to advance restitution the court augments the burden on those who can least shoulder it.
Fines are worked off at a rate of $7.50 per hour, an amount that falls below the state’s minimum hourly wage of $8.00. The program also requires a participation fee of $50 plus $2 for each hour worked. A $270 speeding ticket thus requires 36 hours (four days!) of work and a $122 fee.

Pretty innovative, uh? Of course, community service also means no traffic school and therefore points on your driving record.

It took but a minute for the commissioner to hear my case and dismiss it.

The day ended on Olive Street where I was questioned by a (most) pleasant Santa Barbara Police Officer for a rolling stop. I fervently protested (but ever so politely, Sir). I pictured myself in an orange jumpsuit in court, for the third time this year alone, to face the onslaught of constitutional possibilities. All right, maybe with different clothes but I was already making plans for a trial when the officer came back to my car after checking my bona fides.

He asked if I had been drinking.
He said he’d only give me a warning.

I almost kissed his ring.