in the dawg house
Having been shuffled twice through the City of Los Angeles Metropolitain Courthouse Traffic Court Division, I've never felt more intimate with my fellow man. I could have paid my bail and received a point on my driving record for the next three years but, I had a strong suspicion that a trip downtown and later, a day at traffic school would make a fascinating, blog-worthy study in human behavior.
My first trip to the slammer ended with a misunderstanding and my having to wait in two consecutive lines to have my case re-opened. As I waited in the second line for one of the three open windows (out of a possible 10) to become available, I noticed a young man pacing back and forth, also waiting to see a court clerk. He wore a baseball cap, oversized jeans, shining white running shoes and a delightful denim jacket, also oversized, with "Destruction 562" aibrushed on the back. For jewelry on that fine morning, he selected large diamond encrusted stars for both ears. With the royalties from his recording contract, he should have bribed the cop who pulled him over or retained a lawyer to handle this legal minutia or perhaps hired a stylist to select an appropriate court-going outfit. Some people pay no mind to conventions. They are hip hop, all day, every day. I wondered aloud to two women ahead of me in line "How are you going to come to court looking like that?" They agreed and we became temporary comrades. Women Against Fools.
On my second visit, I became even more intimate with (read: sandwiched between) my fellow man: on my right, a man who called strangers "dawg" and who held a fist up to his mouth when he chuckled to himself; on my left, a large, wheezing beast whose right side flopped over our common armrest, claiming it for its master. Earlier, outside the courthouse Mr. Dawg waited in line behind me and struck up a conversation with another gentleman who also felt like "this" was "bullshit." One of the most common things I found amongst people who go to traffic court is that people are pissed off. They aren't pissed off at something terrible like injustice. They are pissed off at inconvenience and probably their own stupidity. When you obtain your driver's license, the State/ County/ City prepares you for what the rules are when you drive on the roads. They give you fair warning. When these people get caught, they feel as if they have been wronged. Apparently, Mr. Dawg and his Commiserator found solace in their hatred of the law. Their conversation veered from the profitability of kitchen installation to the attractiveness of the female officers at this specific courthouse. Mr. Dawg was cited for an expired registration. The Commiserator received a noise violation. I focused on my New York Times Magazine and refused to engage. The word "dawg" was uttered at least 8 times.
I left the courtroom to visit the restroom and when I returned, I squeezed back into my assigned seat. The Wheezer seemed to be asleep or on the verge of it. Mr. Dawg eyed me with what I perceived to be interest in a conversation. I ignored him as a recording was played on the PA system. An English then Spanish voice outlined what was to be expected for the proceedings. Then the Honorable Judge Paul T. Suzuki entered and again reiterated what was expected of the defendants and what we could expect from him and his staff. He clarified that the fines he would assign for various violations would only be about one fourth of the total amount due the Court. After receiving our sentences, we were to see the cashiers in the adjacent room for the final calculation of the cost including various penalty assessment fees, deferred payment fees and one size fits all court fees. Simple. Apparently, the general population of traffic violators insists on a straightforward price tag for their infractions. Case after case, the Judge was indignantly asked for the exact amount. The people would not tolerate sticker shock. When it was Mr. Dawg's turn, he leaned with one arm on the defendant's podium and made his thought proceeses known to the judge and to everyone else in the room.
"So, just tell me, your honor, how much is that gon' be?" He was given a ballpark figure and paused to think. "Aight, let me tell you what I'm gonna do. I'm gon' go ahead and plead guilty now but, I can work it off with community service right?" The thought of Mr. Dawg reaching out to the community made me nauseous.
I paid my fine, albeit in error, prior to my appearance in court. I was there to request traffic school. The judge granted my request which meant I had to then pay for the "privilege" to attend. In the cashier office, I was queued up behind Mr. Dawg who would occasionally shake his head at only God knows what and muffle a "dayam" into his fist. I didn't see the Wheezer again so, I can only imagine his fate. As we neared the front of the line, a young man joined the back of the line wearing a bleached out t-shirt that said something about running from the police. A kindred spirit.
"Yo, dawg, where'd you get that shirt at?" inquired our friend.
"I got it down in Florida."
"It's tight, dawg." Fist to mouth. I prayed that I would never see Mr. Dawg again. 39 dollars and few hours later I was enrolled in traffic school. A very colorful imagination made the prospect appealing. I wondered what sorts of chimeric creatures I would encounter there.
My first trip to the slammer ended with a misunderstanding and my having to wait in two consecutive lines to have my case re-opened. As I waited in the second line for one of the three open windows (out of a possible 10) to become available, I noticed a young man pacing back and forth, also waiting to see a court clerk. He wore a baseball cap, oversized jeans, shining white running shoes and a delightful denim jacket, also oversized, with "Destruction 562" aibrushed on the back. For jewelry on that fine morning, he selected large diamond encrusted stars for both ears. With the royalties from his recording contract, he should have bribed the cop who pulled him over or retained a lawyer to handle this legal minutia or perhaps hired a stylist to select an appropriate court-going outfit. Some people pay no mind to conventions. They are hip hop, all day, every day. I wondered aloud to two women ahead of me in line "How are you going to come to court looking like that?" They agreed and we became temporary comrades. Women Against Fools.
On my second visit, I became even more intimate with (read: sandwiched between) my fellow man: on my right, a man who called strangers "dawg" and who held a fist up to his mouth when he chuckled to himself; on my left, a large, wheezing beast whose right side flopped over our common armrest, claiming it for its master. Earlier, outside the courthouse Mr. Dawg waited in line behind me and struck up a conversation with another gentleman who also felt like "this" was "bullshit." One of the most common things I found amongst people who go to traffic court is that people are pissed off. They aren't pissed off at something terrible like injustice. They are pissed off at inconvenience and probably their own stupidity. When you obtain your driver's license, the State/ County/ City prepares you for what the rules are when you drive on the roads. They give you fair warning. When these people get caught, they feel as if they have been wronged. Apparently, Mr. Dawg and his Commiserator found solace in their hatred of the law. Their conversation veered from the profitability of kitchen installation to the attractiveness of the female officers at this specific courthouse. Mr. Dawg was cited for an expired registration. The Commiserator received a noise violation. I focused on my New York Times Magazine and refused to engage. The word "dawg" was uttered at least 8 times.
I left the courtroom to visit the restroom and when I returned, I squeezed back into my assigned seat. The Wheezer seemed to be asleep or on the verge of it. Mr. Dawg eyed me with what I perceived to be interest in a conversation. I ignored him as a recording was played on the PA system. An English then Spanish voice outlined what was to be expected for the proceedings. Then the Honorable Judge Paul T. Suzuki entered and again reiterated what was expected of the defendants and what we could expect from him and his staff. He clarified that the fines he would assign for various violations would only be about one fourth of the total amount due the Court. After receiving our sentences, we were to see the cashiers in the adjacent room for the final calculation of the cost including various penalty assessment fees, deferred payment fees and one size fits all court fees. Simple. Apparently, the general population of traffic violators insists on a straightforward price tag for their infractions. Case after case, the Judge was indignantly asked for the exact amount. The people would not tolerate sticker shock. When it was Mr. Dawg's turn, he leaned with one arm on the defendant's podium and made his thought proceeses known to the judge and to everyone else in the room.
"So, just tell me, your honor, how much is that gon' be?" He was given a ballpark figure and paused to think. "Aight, let me tell you what I'm gonna do. I'm gon' go ahead and plead guilty now but, I can work it off with community service right?" The thought of Mr. Dawg reaching out to the community made me nauseous.
I paid my fine, albeit in error, prior to my appearance in court. I was there to request traffic school. The judge granted my request which meant I had to then pay for the "privilege" to attend. In the cashier office, I was queued up behind Mr. Dawg who would occasionally shake his head at only God knows what and muffle a "dayam" into his fist. I didn't see the Wheezer again so, I can only imagine his fate. As we neared the front of the line, a young man joined the back of the line wearing a bleached out t-shirt that said something about running from the police. A kindred spirit.
"Yo, dawg, where'd you get that shirt at?" inquired our friend.
"I got it down in Florida."
"It's tight, dawg." Fist to mouth. I prayed that I would never see Mr. Dawg again. 39 dollars and few hours later I was enrolled in traffic school. A very colorful imagination made the prospect appealing. I wondered what sorts of chimeric creatures I would encounter there.
posted by Katie at 3:31 PM
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