The Levison Towers emptied early on Friday to start to celebrate Independence Day. When I finally got down to the kitchen on the 20th floor, the red white and blue birthday cake for America was half eaten. The 235 candles had burned down to nubs, and I cut a corner piece full of icing. Happy birthday America.
Unfortunately for me, I celebrated my indentured servitude on Friday. I have a client who owns a company. The company owns a little red sports car. The little red sports car (allegedly) ran a red light. I normally don’t get involved in fighting red light tickets, but this client is special. She is my wife. Like many jurisdictions, one of the municipalities in my area uses traffic cameras to catch red light violators. If a car enters an intersection against a red light, a picture is taken of the license plate and a ticket is mailed. The owner of the car is “presumed” to be the driver and charged a $100 fine. The amount of the fine is not an accident – no violator can afford to get a lawyer for much less than that and therefore the fine amount is extorted from them. Unless of course the “violator” has a lawyer in the family.
“Presumption” is a magic word in the law. When a matter is “presumed” to be true, evidence is not required by the proponent of the point. Of course, most all presumptions can be rebutted. Herein lies the rub. “How can our Corporation drive a car?” asked my lovely wife. “This is ridiculous. You should fight this ticket. It is unjust and unfair.” Of course she is right. The fact that the camera company takes a percentage of the fines underscores the point.
I was then left with the Hobson’s choice of acquiescing to extortion or enlisting as my wife’s champion. I chose the path of valor. I filed an entry of appearance with the court, put on my best armor and tie and off I went. Our court time was 8 a.m. I didn’t disturb my wife’s slumber when I got ready for court. Few dragons are slain at this time of morning but I was committed to the battle. As committed as I could be at 8 a.m. that is.
I showed up in court at the allotted hour and the bailiff showed me to my seat at the lawyer’s table. It didn’t look as if a lawyer had sat in these chairs in a while, but I was assured that the judge would hear me first if I sat up front and so I dusted off a chair and waited. The rest of the room was packed with litigants or spectators, I’m not sure which.
The municipal judge was younger and more hip than I expected. He called me to the bench and heard my arguments. I’m not certain he listened. We watched the video of the little red sports car proceeding through the intersection against the red light.
After the video ended, the judge told me that he had ruled against these same arguments every time they are made. Since this fine was not a criminal matter, he did not feel the protections which a criminal defendant would have applied to my client. He then told me about his pedigree as a lawyer, denied the motion to dismiss the ticket and fist bumped me across the bench. I can’t count how many judges I have appeared in front of over my career, but I know exactly how many have fist bumped me from the bench. One.
After politely telling me his decision, the judge directed me to the clerk’s office to either pay my fine or file a motion for new trial – in essence an appeal. I gathered my papers and what was left of my dignity and left the courtroom.
I found my way down the hall to the clerk’s office. Those waiting in the room were directed to take a number. I drew number 21. The board was on number 12. The room was empty which did not bode well for me. The only art on the wall was a sign which read, “Don’t be surprised if you are removed from the courthouse for using profanity.” It may as well have said, “abandon hope all ye who enter here.”
The clerk finally appeared behind the plexiglass window and called each number until she reached mine. She showed me the forms needed to file my appeal and wouldn’t let me take one back to my office. The filing fee was $80 and had to be paid in cash. Ironically, my wife had taken the last of my cash to pick up our dry cleaning. When I got home that night, my wife asked how court went. She’s comforted me on more than one occasion when I’ve returned from a losing day in court. She has shared my joy when I have been successful. I simply told her that justice had been done, and she beamed with congratulations. That was enough to buff the nicks out of my armor, and well worth the check I will write to pay her fine.
© 2011 under analysis llc. under analysis is a nationally syndicated column of the Levison Group. Spencer Farris is the founding partner of The S.E. Farris Law Firm in St Louis, Missouri. His St. Jude medal is untarnished, despite losing occasionally. Comments or criticisms about this column may be sent c/o this newspaper or directly to the Levison Group via email at comments@levisongroup.com.