The Drug User Is a Person in My Neighborhood

Last week a young couple was arrested in my driveway. My wife and I interrupted our card game to watch it happen. What happened was this:

A red SUV was driving slowly back and forth along our street. This struck us as curious. Not long afterward a red SUV pulled into my driveway and between my house and my neighbor's house, effectively blocking us both from leaving. A woman neither of us knew hopped out of the red SUV and walked briskly up to our front door. I got up to answer the door as a police officer pulled into our driveway, effectively blocking the red SUV. The officer struck up a conversation with the woman and the man who had been driving the red SUV.

I will stop there for a moment because I find my reaction to this chain of events embarrassingly funny, in a sad sort of way. I live on a lightly trafficked, suburban residential street with lots of little kids from what my friend respectfully calls "lower middle class" families. We're a working-class suburban community in which the local paper's police blotter is generally a report of illegal parking and red-light running. Despite this atmosphere of utter normalcy, the sight of an unknown young woman pulling into my driveway and approaching my door filled me and my wife with a surprising burst of dread. What could she possibly want? What's going on? What kind of person so brazenly approaches the door of someone she doesn't even know?

I'm reminded of Bowling for Columbine, the documentary film that confronts the gun culture in America and suggests that it arises out of a vague but persistent fear of the Other. I liked the film because I don't like guns. But there I was, fighting bravely my vague but persistent fear of the Other. I would have answered the door, had the office not intervened, but my guard was way up.

Back to the story. The police officer chatted very calmly with the young couple for some time, occasionally reporting something into his two-way radio. Soon enough a second and then a third police car arrived on the scene. The couple was split up for separate interviews, the young man with the male officer, the young woman with the female officer, while the third officer pulled out what turned out to be an evidence kit. Not long afterward, first the young man and then the young women were searched and found to be in possession of heroin. They were placed in handcuffs and tucked into the backs of separate police cars, and a search of their red SUV yielded more heroin.

At one point one of the officers came to our door to advise us of what was happening, confirming that we didn't know the young couple and assuring us that the red SUV would be towed off our property very soon. We speculated that their red SUV was the same red SUV that had been driving slowly back and forth through our neighborhood, although after the police left one of my neighbors said it was definitely not the same red SUV.

Once the police had left the men of the neighborhood had an impromptu meeting in front of my house. There was no beer involved. I learned more about the history of the block in that fifteen minutes than I'd learned in seven years, including the tale of Jimmy Williams (not his real name), who had sold drugs for years two doors down from me in the house now owned by the Stoners (their real name, I swear). All the men laughed about the evening's events, and the two men who work from home reassured us (and, I think, warned us) that they were keeping an eye on the neighborhood and were wise to anything fishy that went on. Then we all went home.

With time I started to think about another young couple I met this summer, these two on the far side of their arrest for drug possession. I met them the morning after their first night ever at a homeless shelter. They were obviously scared, bewildered, unschooled in the ways and means of the homeless. Their family had rejected them and they didn't know what to do with themselves. I thought about that couple and I wondered whether I would see this evening's couple at the shelter next, and how I would welcome them there after being so afraid to welcome them at my home, and what kind of mercy I would offer them there after witnessing them receiving justice at home. I wondered what she would have said as I opened the door of my home to her, and what she'll say when I hand her the day's breakfast before she hits the streets.

I don't know really how to end a post like this. I find myself praying for those two couples, who are too young to anticipate the outcome of their decisions. I find myself praying for police officers whose very ordinary, suburban patrols are occasionally interrupted by incidents that require great courage and even greater wisdom. I find myself praying, which I suppose is good.

Unsafe at Any Speed

Well, it happened again. For the third time in seven months I've been cited for a moving violation. You may recall from my earlier post that (a) none of my tickets has been for speeding or driving under the influence or shooting at other drivers, and (b) I disputed and defeated the charge the most recent charge. Ever since then I've been hypervigilant as I drive, dropping well beneath the speed limit and virtually shifting into park at every stop sign or stop light. But the man keeps trying to bring me down. I found out this week that my passenger-side headlight is out; that little insight from a Village of Roselle police officer is costing me thirty-five bucks.

The officer had one hand on his holster and one hand on the extra-bright flashlight as he approached my car. I told him good evening and handed him my license and insurance card; he asked me if there was anything he should know about my license. I still don't know what he meant by that (feel free to speculate), because based on my reply and his reaction he wasn't asking if I'm still at the same address or if I've recently gained some weight. My best guess is that, in the minds of the village leadership in Roselle, there's some terrorist message encoded when someone willfully acts to, in the words of the Wallflowers, "drive it home with one headlight."

I really am getting tired of getting pulled over, and as I mentioned in my earlier post, my attempt to defend my driving honor and voice my prophetic diatribe against traffic justice in the United States was interrupted by a forgetful bureaucracy, so once again this time I sat in my car waiting for my ticket and grumbling internally about the unfairness of my situation. I made myself a bet that a third to a half of all the cars that passed by as the Roselle officer wrote my ticket would have at least one headlight out of service, then I started counting. To my shock, only one driver along this busy thoroughfare was a scofflaw like me; apparently Roselle's zero-tolerance policy has effectively rooted out pediddle-driving banditry from its village limits.

After a while, the officer returned to me my license, proof of insurance and ticket. He told me that the ticket won't go on my driving record--that it's a village ordinance I've violated, not a rule of the road. This was free money for Roselle; I know that much for certain, as much because I have such a sophsticated sense of logic and such open eyes about the injustice of the traffic-law system as because of the address to which I was to send my ticket:

Village of Roselle
Finance Department

Rage Against a Forgetful Machine

I fought the law, and I won. Yesterday was my court date for my alleged moving violation, in which I allegedly disobeyed a stop sign. I opted to appeal to the court about the ticket because (a) I was already driving on a ticket and didn't want another one on my record and (b) I wanted to defend my reputation as a driver to my friends and family. So, filled with righteous indignation, I sped from my house to the county courthouse for my 8:30 am court appointment.

I got there at 8:20 to discover that my 8:30 appointment was shared with about two hundred alleged traffic code violators. We herded ourselves into a white room with no ventilation and lots of fluorescent lighting, where we sat in silence under the stern watch of one security guard and one translator. On each wall (in English only) were the rules of the room: NO check in, gum chewing, reading materials, electronics, talking or hats. I didn't even say hello to the people who sat next to me, out of fear that the security guard or the translator would hold me in contempt of court.

As you might imagine, a room filled with about two hundred alleged traffic code violators gets a bit gamey. The woman who couldn't come up with childcare during her 8:30 scheduled court appearance ultimately had to ask for a continuance so her infant wouldn't suffer heat exhaustion. The rest of us took our chances.

At 8:30 we all rose to welcome the judge, and the bailiff started calling our names. We were mocked and derided as a group whenever someone didn't verbally respond to the bailiff, as though an alleged traffic code violation is the clearest evidence of gross stupidity. The judge worked with remarkable efficiency moving people through the line, so that once I was called to stand in line, I quickly made my way to the bench.

"Good morning, Mr. Zimmerman."
"Good morning, your honor."
"Mr. Zimmerman, you're charged with disobeying a stop sign. How do you plead?"
"Not guilty, your honor."
"Have a seat."

I sat back down to wait another forty-five minutes for the processing of all the guilty folks. Somewhere along the way my ticketing officer showed up, which gave me some worry: police officers are not accusers in such cases; they're witnesses. I had come to dispute my accuser, but he had come to offer his eyewitness account. The police were in full uniform, which made me sad for them, since the room was unbearably hot. But they were also sitting right next to the only fan in the place, so I think they were all going to be OK.

While the hundreds of other accused were streaming through the bureaucracy, I once again heard my name being called, this time by an assistant state's attorney, who offered me a deal: court supervision (keeping my ticket off my record) in return for a morning of driving school, a slightly increased fine and a second court date. Tempting, especially since the big mean police officer had driven all the way across the county to sit in a stiflingly hot and gamey room in full uniform just to nail my butt to the wall. But I--I was convinced of the righteousness of my cause. I had not only been misjudged, I had been wronged. The state of Illinois had been wronged. Justice had been misserved. So I declined the deal and took my stinky seat.

Barely a minute had passed before the assistant state's attorney called my name again. As it turns out, the ticketing officer didn't remember me, and memory is a key element in an eyewitness testimony. I was mildly offended, since he's ticketed me twice for the same offense--I thought we were becoming friends, in a cat-and-mouse sort of way--although in the officer's defense, I've recently grown a beard and so no longer resemble the picture on my driver's license or the mental image he might have of me whimpering bald-faced in my driver's seat. All this to say, the state was dropping its case.

I was mildly disappointed, as this meant I wouldn't get my chance to rage against the machine, to point out the inherent hypocricy and systemic flaws I observed in my ticketing experience. But at least my insurance wouldn't go up. I was advised to get back in line, so that the judge could officially close my case and I could get my license back.

By this point the room was still hot, sticky and stinky, but the line had slowed down considerably. The judge had dispensed with all the quick decisions and had now taken the throne of Solomon, mustering up as much wisdom as he could while sitting in a heavy robe in a hot, sticky and stinky room and adjudicating the complaints and pleas for mercy and terms of punishment for the no-longer-alleged traffic code violaters ahead of me. I occasionally stole a glance at my accuser, trying to determine if he would have a last-moment resurgence of memory before I made it to the front of the line, or whether he would follow me out into the parking lot to trail me back to the scene of my alleged crime. But finally the judge called my name, closed my case and directed me to the bailiff, who handed me my license and told me to have a nice day. Which I did.

That night I went to our church's elder session meeting, which involved a similar amount of bureaucracy but considerably less gameyness. And while I am mildly disappointed that I didn't get to voice my rage at the system that had stolen my reputation for a month, I am appreciative that I live in a country governed by the rule of law and guided by the presumption of innocence, and I am thankful that I live in a culture that sees encounter and dialogue as an effective means of settling disputes, and that strives to settle those disputes decently and in order.

I'm also thankful for my friends hovering around Loud Time, who gave me advice and encouragement about how to proceed when I wanted to dispute this traffic code violation. I owe my exoneration in no small part to you.

I'll Get Sprung with a Little Help from My Friends

I got a traffic violation today, and I'd like to contest it. Here's the scenario; please advise!

The scene: a residential neighborhood, a school bus route, freshly fallen snow on the ground
The cast:

• a handsome, young-at-heart editor, regularly cited as an exemplary driver by the state and his insurance company, eager to get to work but mindful of local traffic laws and, more important, the safety of young children waiting for their bus
• a malicious, power-hungry police officer desperate to fill a traffic violation quota

OK. That was petty. I admire the police, and the police I know are good people charged with a good task. I quote Joe Friday from Dragnet: Just the facts.

I'm accused of rolling through a stop sign. The same officer accused me of the same violation in the recent past, only one block away from the current crime scene. I don't think I rolled through the stop sign, nor did I think I rolled through the other one. But I paid that ticket to avoid the hassle of a court appearance. If I pay this one, I'm afraid, my insurance will go up. To paraphrase Peter MacNichol from 24, this situation has gone from being an irritant to being an obstacle.

It seems to me that what constitutes a full stop is largely a judgment call, and in my judgment I did come to a complete stop both times; in the judgment of the officer, I did not. It struck me as acidly funny that while he was running my plates and writing my ticket, nearly ten cars rolled through the stop sign right in front of us.

I've never contested a ticket, and I'm a little scared to, because I'm not a terribly compelling person. But I don't want my insurance to go up. I think I have a case, but I don't know for sure, and I need help articulating the case. Any takers?