Breakin' the Law (And Other Disappointments)

Take it from me: crime doesn’t pay.

And another thing about crime -- it’s not very interesting.

These observations come from my Tuesday morning in the Smith County courthouse. Smith County contains Carthage, TN, where Officer Brinkley stopped my mother on the last gasp of our return from Honesdale. She was speeding...and I couldn’t really say “She went thataway,” because, well, I was sitting right next to her.

In addition to the speeding, we got booked (or busted, slammed, cop slapped) for driving with expired tags. My fault, Officer. I should’ve renewed the tags in March, but I figured I’d wait until my homecoming. If “ignorance of the law” is no excuse, I guess “laziness” won’t work either.

We could’ve gone on the lam, but after 13+ hours of driving, I think we were too tired. Nothing to do but face the sun-spotted arm of the law. Yesterday I accompanied The Accused and my father to the locale of the crime, ready to hear the penalty and pay up.

Man, I was excited.

Who wouldn’t be, right? Courtroom drama makes great television: “Law and Order,” “The Practice,” “Ally McBeal,” “Night Court.” When I lived in Hughes, I watched a lot of “Judge Judy.” Something about the way Judge Judy made 300-pound truck drivers sit down and shut up boosted my faith in classroom management. I felt fairly certain that the Smith County judge wouldn’t swivel his head and say, “Don’t kvetch to me!” But you never know.

My anticipation rose when we reached Carthage. We arrived 40 minutes early, and The Accused (as I would continue to refer to Mom until it no longer seemed amusing) inquired what time traffic court started. “What’s traffic court?” I heard a nearby boy whisper to his mother. I looked at the kid, and he edged away from us. The theme from “Cops” played in my head. That’s right, sucka. Whatcha gonna do?

Next question from The Accused (oh alright...Mom): “Do you know where we can get some coffee?” Try the cafe, the courthouse receptionist said. Which cafe? The only cafe in town.

As we caffeinated beneath a large portrait of Scarlett O’Hara, I concluded that the Carthage judge would not resemble Judge Judy. He’d look more like the judge from “My Cousin Vinny.” He would have to be at least 80, droopy-jawed, with a few flies buzzing around his head (or “hay-ed,” as he’d say in his Huckleberry Hound accent). “I wish these here flies would stop buzzin’ ‘round my hay-ed. It’s long ‘bout time they be kilt.”

This elderly, “no nawn-sense” judge would sleepily stare down a room of hardened criminals. Or hardened traffic violators.

The 30 or so people crammed into the courtroom looked hardened to me. I assumed that a day in court called for “dressy casual,” so I wore a Gap khaki sundress, sleeveless but collared, with a belt tie. To me, the khaki dress says “stylish, not guilty.” On the other hand, a Dennis Rodman basketball jersey and low-cut gym shorts says “handcuff me now, mofo.” The Dennis Rodman devotee sat a couple rows ahead of me, and his attire -- not mine -- was the norm. Hardened, these Carthage traffic lawbreakers. Just another Tuesday morning in front of the ol’ judge! Gonna go shoot some hoops after!

My first disappointment came when the judge entered the courtroom. Middle-aged, glasses, moustache (standard, not handlebar), suit-and-tie, and no robe. No robe! Was this a hearing or a city council meeting?

After everyone sat, the judge made a few opening remarks, to which the hardened criminals glanced at each other and shrugged. We shrugged, too. Nobody could hear the judge. He didn’t have a microphone. Second disappointment, and counting.

Without a sound system, it was almost impossible to discern the details of our fellow convicts’ illegal acts. I leaned forward and strained my ears, hoping for the words “high-speed chase” or “unprecedented drug possession” or even “suspicious tractor emissions.” No luck. The best (worst) I got was a guy who went 93 m.p.h. In a 55 m.p.h. zone. High speed, but no high-speed chase. Disappointment all around.

Mom got her turn after about 15 minutes. When the judge’s assistant (who is that? the bailiff?) called her name, Dad and I smiled and softly clapped, “Hooray! That’s us!” If we’d managed to blend with the hardened criminals before this moment, our silent cheering forever killed any air of notoriety we’d achieved. In a room full of Eminems and Bobby Browns, we were Petula Clarks. Clearly, our version of “downtown” didn’t fit in this room.

And, as promised, the rest is....not interesting. The judge listened to Mom’s plea, asked a few questions (which I couldn’t hear) and fined us $360. With a little more help from outlaw families like mine, Smith County may be able to buy a couple extra squad cars.

Actually, the fine should’ve been $100 less. Though I couldn’t make out most of the judge’s introductory speech, I know he said he’d knock $100 off speeding penalties for those of us who hadn’t been ticketed in the past three years. Mom says she hasn’t gotten a speeding ticket since she was my age. But the judge never asked my mother if she had a record. I guess he looked at our “dressy casual” and figured we could afford a steeper fine.

So let me modify: crime doesn’t pay....but it pays more if you’re in a jersey.