William Lashner - Past Due

I stood, moved to the bench, glanced behind me at the cops, standing like sentries in the aisle.

The clerk handed the file to the judge, whispered something in his ear, the judge’s eyes snapped up to take in the suddenly more interesting sight of me. The clerk slinked back from the bench and took his place beside me as the judge made a quick examination of my file.

“It appears you were in quite a hurry, Mr. Carl?”

“Your Honor, I am sorry to say that the police officer was entirely overzealous that morning and I don’t understand how he could have thought to-”

“You weren’t on Second Street?”

“I was, Your Honor, and there is a stop sign there, true, but-”

“You mean to tell me you came to a full and complete stop as per the traffic laws of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania?”

“Your Honor, it was early and the street was empty and-”

“Answer the question,” barked the clerk, and there was something in the tenor of his voice that tolled familiar. I turned and stared at the scowl on his face.

“I assume that means no, Mr. Carl,” said the judge. “And this other ticket, this red light you ran on Washington?”

“I was committed to the intersection, Your Honor.”

“Commitment. I love to see commitment in young people today. Some are committed to helping their fellow man, some are committed to saving the whales. You, I suppose, are committed to the intersection. What does that entail, exactly? Do you freshen up the paint, scrub the lights, pick up trash? And we haven’t even gotten to the speeding charge yet.”

“It was a short stretch of road and I have an expert who is familiar with police radar technology and is prepared to testify that there was not enough time for the officer to get a fair and accurate reading. Your Honor, I am prepared to contest all these charges, to appeal and force the various police officers to defend their own outrageous conduct. I am prepared to expend the police department’s and this court’s valuable time to exonerate myself and protect my record. But I am willing, sir, to give up that right, for a reasonable reduction in the fine and no points, which I think is only fair.”

“We aim to be fair here at Traffic Court, Counselor.”

“I know you do, sir.”

“Well then, this is how we see fair,” said the judge. “Full fine plus two hundred dollars. Full points. Court costs. If you mean to take this to a higher court, Mr. Carl, I mean to give you something to take with you.”

I was stunned. I had been on the wrong side of a judge more times than I could count, but this was different, this fusillade from Judge Geary. This seemed personal. I stared at him, he glared back. This seemed personal, for a reason I couldn’t fathom. I had never seen the guy before this morning, never even knew of his existence, and here he was slamming me like I was some sort of serial sniper.

I stared for a moment longer and then calmed myself. There must be an explanation. He didn’t like my manner, he didn’t like my tie. It happens. Even I didn’t like my tie. Let it go, I told myself, don’t say something you’ll regret. I pursed my lips, bit my cheek until it bled, and then said, simply, in a voice studiously devoid of sarcasm, “Thank you, Your Honor.”

I glanced at the clerk, glanced down at the ring, glanced up again at the name tag. Geoffrey O’Brien. I’d have to look into him. I started to turn around to leave when the judge said, “Not so fast, Mr. Carl.”

I turned again to face the judge.

“Mr. Carl, have you ever been to Lackawanna County?”

“Excuse me?”

“Lackawanna County.”

“Sir?”

“It’s a simple query. Have you ever been to Lackawanna County?”

“What does that have to do with my driving?”

“Answer the question,” barked Clerk O’Brien.

“Do I know you?” I said to the clerk. “You seem awfully damn familiar.”

“Watch your language, boy,” said the judge. “I’m talking the towns of Jessup, Olyphant, Dickson City, Scranton. Lackawanna County. Have you ever been?”

“I suppose so,” I said. “Scranton’s right up the northeast extension of the Turnpike.”

“Yes it is,” said the judge. “How about Chinchilla?”

“The rodent?”

“The town.”

“What’s going on?”

“I have here in your file a bench warrant issued against you by the District Court of Chinchilla, Pennsylvania, located in the Forty-fifth Judicial District, Lackawanna County, that requires me to immediately place you into custody.”

“Are you serious?”

“As a swollen prostate.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Step back, Mr. Carl,” said the judge.

“Step back,” ordered Clerk O’Brien.

Before I could even try to follow their directives, I felt two clamps fasten themselves, one to each of my arms. I instinctively pulled away, to no avail. I spun my head as far as it would go. The two cops. With their jaws jutting out. The two cops. They had come into the courtroom for me. Of course they had.

“This is all a mistake,” I said.

“That may be,” said the judge, “but we’ll have to sort it all out later.”

“Arms behind your back, please,” said one of the cops.

“Are you kidding me?”

“Do I look like a kidder,” said the cop, his face as solid and blank as a brick wall.

The judge stared at me with hard eyes as I was cuffed, as if I had broken into his house and raped his daughter. Somehow this had become personal between him and me and I didn’t know how, I didn’t understand how. And then I realized it wasn’t personal, at least not between him and me. It wasn’t old Judge Geary who had turned on me like a snarling raccoon. It was something far more dangerous. The law itself, for some reason, had turned against me. First I had been dragged into the District Attorney’s office like a common miscreant and then the sheriff had refused to aid my collections and now a bench warrant had been issued against my person and I was going directly to jail.

“This is outrageous,” I said. “This is patently unconstitutional.”

“File your writs, Mr. Carl,” said judge.

“Oh, I will, you can bet on it.”

“And we’ll get to them in due course,” said the judge, writing something brusquely on my file as the cuffs bit into my wrists and the police officers led me away to a door at the side of the well.

The judge slammed the file shut, handed it to the clerk, and, just as I was being pushed through the door, said, “Next case.”

Another hesitant defendant came forward, head bowed, license held precariously in his trembling hand.

“You’ve been a naughty boy, Mr. Dayanim,” said the judge.

The door closed behind me.

Traffic Court.

I SAT INthe dinky little lockup at Traffic Court, leaning forward on the metal bench, my elbows on my knees, my head in my hands, contemplating the sorriness of my sorry life, when I looked up and was blinded by a great flash of light. Satori? No. Slocum.

“I hope you don’t mind,” said ADA Slocum, indicating the instant camera in his hand. “I just wanted to remember this moment, to savor it on those long cold nights when true justice seems elusive.”

I stood quickly, grabbed hold of my beltless pants to keep them up. “Are you here to spring me?”

“Your partner called,” he said. “I was in the middle of lunch with McDeiss. It’s not a pretty sight.”

“I’ve seen the lions being fed at the zoo, I get the idea. Are you here to spring me?”

“It pains me to say this, Carl, but yes. I am here to facilitate your release.”

“Good. I’ve got someplace I need to be.”

“Something pleasant, I hope.”