The gray-haired clerk took the first file off his pile, called out a name in a voice sharp and loud, walked the file to the judge, and Traffic Court began.
It didn’t take much crushing insight to figure out how Traffic Court worked in Philadelphia. The first names called were all of defendants represented by counsel. The judge would read the offense and shake his head with dismay. The lawyer would say a few rote words in defense. The judge would reduce the fine, order no points be given, admonish counsel to explain to the client what he had done wrong so he wouldn’t do it again. It seemed, in those first few cases, that the judge was in a fine mood at this session and lenience would hold sway. We, all of us, sitting on our benches with our summonses in our laps and our licenses on the line, we, all of us, felt the stirrings of relief. And then the first case was called without representation of a lawyer and things suddenly turned.
“What were you doing going the wrong way down Locust Street?” said the judge.
“I was on my way to the doctor,” said the defendant.
“Answer the question,” barked the clerk.
“I didn’t know-”
“Pay the fine, full points, court costs. Next.”
“But Judge-”
“Next.”
“Move along,” said the clerk before he called the next name.
“You know you can’t drive without insurance, don’t you?” said the judge to the next defendant.
“I couldn’t get it. No one would give it and I had to get to work. I got a kid-”
“But you can’t drive without insurance. Here you are running stop signs without insurance. What would have happened to the pedestrian you might have hit?”
“I didn’t hit no-”
“Answer the question.”
“I slowed down at the stop sign, I did. The cop was-”
“Give me your license, Ms. Jenkins. Give it right up. You’ll get it back in six months.”
“But Judge, I got to-”
“Take the bus. Pay the two hundred, three points, license suspended, and not to be returned without proof of insurance. Next.”
“But Judge-”
“Move along,” said the clerk.
And on it went. And on.
It was a killing field in there, all manner of defenses shot down by old Judge Geary in the rigid pursuit of fines and points and the gleeful seizure of licenses. Except for those represented by counsel. Because, for some reason, the mere fact of having counsel by your side severely ameliorated the harshness of justice, and not just any counsel, but lawyers who make their living in Traffic Court, lawyers whose practice depends on the kindness of judges, elected judges, judges who must raise money every five years as they run for reelection.
Sniff sniff. What’s that I smell? Crab fries?
Well, all right, that was the way the game was played. And no, in all my life I had never donated a cent to the campaigns of those noble public servants running for a position on Traffic Court. But still, I was wondering why the clerk hadn’t yet called my name. Before court began I had identified myself as a lawyer, and he had pulled aside my file. In every courtroom in the land where the public stands before a judge, lawyers go first. It wasn’t courtesy, it was custom, and yet here I was, still waiting.
I drew the clerk’s attention. He was an older man, with big shoes, a tight smile, and a face full of secrets. His silver hair was shiny with grease and pulled straight back like the grill of a sleek old Caddie. He wore his navy blazer with the medallion of the Philadelphia Traffic Court at his breast and a thick ring on his pinkie.
I raised a finger, looked at my watch.
He nodded and called another name not my own.
There wasn’t much more I could do. I sat slumped on the lawyers’ bench in the well, watching the ruthless enforcement of the traffic laws in case after case after case, wondering if ever I would be called, when the back doors of the courtroom swung open and two uniformed cops, with guns on their hips, stepped into the courtroom.
I sat up straight, passed my gaze over those still waiting for their hearings. Uh oh, I thought, someone is not getting off with merely a fine and points. Someone is in serious trouble. And then the clerk, in a clear, hard voice, called out, “Victor Carl.”
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.