The Great Typo Hunt

by Jeff Deck

  Neither Benjamin nor I had any pals in Flagstaff, Arizona, never mind pals of a legal persuasion, so I scrambled blindly to find a barrister who could represent us in the town’s federal court. One lawyer gave me a promising initial evaluation—and then disappeared without warning on vacation. Our appointed time in court was looming. I went back to my random Internet searches. I would have asked for assistance on the blog, but hey, the blog wasn’t there anymore. Finally, with the appointment of our ruin dawning on the horizon, I found a lawyer willing and able to represent us. She scored us a continuance, or postponement, of the court date, and was familiar with the prosecutor. I felt reasonably confident in her ability to represent us well. That is, until I received the contract in the mail that I had to sign for her services.

  The contract listed my name as “Jeffrey Deek”.

  Up to this point, I had refused to entertain the notion that Benjamin and I might not return from Flagstaff. Now my only thoughts were whether the federal pen out there had air-conditioning.

  TYPO TRIP TALLY

  Total found: 437

  Total corrected: 236

  TYPO TRIAL TALLY

  Total found: 2

  Total corrected: 0

  * We had misjudged one other thing about the sign: we’d thought “emense” was a misspelling of immense, though we didn’t correct it. Benjamin would discover that the Oxford English Dictionary considers “emense” to be an acceptable alternative rendering. A critic, Ammon Shea, who had consumed the entire OED and evidently got indigestion for his trouble, also pointed out that Renaissance printer William Caxton, as well as Lewis and Clark, used that rendering of the word. Perhaps Mary Colter habitually used archaic spelling, for yuks. So at least we’d only corrected the mistakes that were in fact mistakes. I’d never unfixed an item during the TEAL trip.

  18 | Court of Opinion

  August 10–12, 2008, and the days that followed (Dallas–Fort Worth, TX; Phoenix and Flagstaff, AZ)

  How far our Heroes have fallen. They are brought before an unsympathetic judge to answer for their Crimes against America. The punishment, like a banged gavel, will have a resounding Impact, and the future of TEAL hangs in the balance. The media join the assault and twist TEAL into a forced punchline. A year of misery begins …

  Benjamin sat at the gate among other Phoenix-bound travelers, reading a book but looking miserable. Not for the first time, I felt a touch of guilt at what I’d gotten him into. The plane tickets had not been cheap. Our lawyer had been expensive, and I had yet to understand why. In total, one typo correction would cost us ten thousand dollars. As a bonus, though, we’d receive a crash course in the justice system, a civics class with armed bailiffs.

  “And don’t call me Shirley,” I said, coming up behind him. We’d each taken a flight here to Dallas–Fort Worth and would be sharing the connecting flight to Arizona.

  He set down Kim Stanley Robinson’s Red Mars, to my surprise; I was reading Red Mars, too. When I pulled my copy out to prove it, he shook his head. “Surely you can’t be serious,” he replied. “I don’t know, man, I’m not feeling good about this.”

  Benjamin had called for a free consultation from another lawyer, who’d laughed, “You know the saying ‘Don’t make a federal case of it’? Well, the Park Service did.” The lawyer suggested that the outcome was set. The court had the blog’s admission of our deeds, so they had nothing to prove or disprove, no doubt of our guilt.

  Benjamin said, “I mean, there’s no way we can even ask for an arbitration. We can’t go in there and say, ‘Gee, we had no freaking idea this thing mattered to anyone. It didn’t look like it would’—”

  “I don’t think we want to say that to them,” I pointed out. I didn’t mention that since it was a criminal case, arbitration wasn’t an option anyway.

  “—and we’d be happy to pay for repairs. Hey, we’ll scrape off the Wite-Out ourselves. And Jeff here’s proven he can do things that blend in well. He could repaint the apostrophe in the wrong spot if you really want it there. We should be able to sit down with someone and talk about it, right? Honest communication, cooperative problem-solving … something.”

  “They’ve already decided that we are the problem.” I didn’t point out that our lack of communication—not asking permission—had led us here.

  “This whole stupid scenario is making it difficult for me to feel much remorse.”

  That scared me. Our lawyer had taken us on at a single price with the understanding that Benjamin and I would be doing everything in full agreement. We’d accept the same plea agreement—which we still hadn’t seen, despite repeated requests—and say “Guilty” in tandem. We’d be good little citizens and respectful of the court. Now I wondered what actions Benjamin was considering as he worked himself into a slow broiling rage.

  We read Red Mars in adjacent seats on the flight, rather wishing that we were headed to that rust-dusted planet instead of Phoenix. Before we landed, the people behind us started talking about the election with their seatmates. They were all set on John McCain. One of them mentioned the “very informative” book on Obama by Jerome Corsi, the same guy who’d started the Swift Boat slander against Kerry. As we touched down in Arizona, McCain’s home state, Benjamin whispered, “Enemy territory, dude. I have a bad feeling about how this is gonna go down.”

  The drive north to Flagstaff had a different temper from our original westward approach. Storm clouds closed in on both sides, as if preparing to slam together and make our compact car more so. Especially in the east the darkness neared, exhaling twisting winds that sent the dust up in swirls, suggesting tornadoes would burst forth at any moment. Still, I couldn’t help but be fascinated by the dark majesty of the whole landscape, and a rainbow wedged itself between gray cloud and barren hills. We checked into a shabby hotel upon arrival. At least this time in Flagstaff, Benjamin wouldn’t have to sleep on the floor. We unpacked our suits, then collapsed. Even with the time change and the exhausting trip, sleep eluded me. Were they seriously going to brand me a criminal tomorrow? Was this all TEAL would be remembered by?

  In the morning we had breakfast at the diner where we’d corrected a set of typos. They had asked us if we charged for our services. We were glad to see the sign still in the window, all its spellings correct. Benjamin left a 30-percent tip. Whatever happened next, I was proud of what the League had done in that window. We returned to the hotel room, got into our suits, and went to court, where our lawyer had asked us to meet her an hour before the proceedings. We waited for half an hour in the lobby before she appeared. I’d thought we would go over the details of the plea agreement, but she informed us that the prosecuting attorney would be bringing the copies. In the meantime, she told us what a great job she had done on our behalf. For one thing, she’d persuaded them not to seek jail time as part of the punishment. Yes, a federal misdemeanor can earn someone up to six months in the clink. Our lawyer had also ensured we’d be charged “only” restitution. Benjamin shot me a glance. The prosecutor hadn’t mentioned either jail time or fines beyond restitution when we’d first spoken with her on the phone.

  The prosecutor arrived and handed over the finalized plea agreement. I restrained myself from pointing out the typos—“resitution” for restitution and “vandlaizing” for vandalizing—not out of discretion but because the document offered plenty more to upset us. Its aim was to ensure that we not vandalize National Park property, but they’d used broad strokes. In effect, it asked us to refrain from correcting typos, writing descriptions of correcting typos, or even encouraging others to correct typos. The contest I’d run to inspire others to take up the cause had gained the ire of our prosecutor, and she specifically referenced typo contests as a no-no. “This is way worse than we thought,” I whispered to Benjamin as we sat on a back bench in the diminutive courtroom.

  Our lawyer limped over. When we pointed out the offending passages, those barring us from typo correction and running the website, she took a better look, as if she
hadn’t quite known what was in our plea agreement. The two of us conferenced without her. “There’s nothing we can do at this point,” Benjamin said angrily. “I mean we could reject this, but then they’ll run us through completely. It’s too late to try to get it changed. We’re trapped; we have to accept this.”

  To demonstrate how well justice was served in this courtroom, the real-live criminals, who’d have to return immediately to jail, went first. They were wearing correctional outfits and shackles. We watched a lawyer argue passionately for a one-month postponement on the judge’s preferred trial date. It was the most valiant and energetic lawyering we saw all day, in defense of the attorney’s own vacation plans.

  Now the judge summoned us forward. Everything that follows is taken directly from the trial transcript. Immediately after we’d been sworn in, the judge’s first question was, “All right. Who’s Mr. Herson?” Against alphabetical logic, he would ask Benjamin to answer first every single time. This was helpful in one regard: it gave me a chance to temper my friend’s replies. While I can’t claim I wore my happy face, Benjamin had cast off his congenial nature, and I worried that his ability to show respect for the court wasn’t far behind.

  First, the judge reviewed the plea agreement we’d signed and asked us if we understood it. Benjamin said yes, and then I did the same, saying “Yes, Your Honor,” rather than dropping a curt yes-bomb like my colleague. In case we didn’t have as firm a handle on the plea agreement as we thought (and we didn’t), the judge went over it anyway. He surprised me when he clarified what being forbidden from correcting “public signs” meant: “I interpret that to be not limited to national park signs, but any governmental sign anywhere. Am I correct on that?” Both the prosecuting attorney and our lawyer confirmed that he was. To me public signs had meant any signs out in public. While he’d made sure to check that it extended to all government signs, to me he’d kindly limited its scope.

  “You would also be required to remove from any of your websites any information urging others to engage in such behavior. And that you’re not to participate in public forums advocating this type of behavior.” He paused, deliberately. “Now, let me ask the parties, obviously this is, from the Statement of Probable Cause appendix to the Complaint, aimed at their what could be deemed to be First Amendment rights.” We had to agree to forfeit our freedom of speech, but for how long? Forever? At that point the judge began to utter what might have been the most important clarifying question for the future of the League: “Is there any objection on a First Amendment grounds to—”

  The judge possibly wouldn’t have concluded with “this condition of the year’s probation” or any other explanation of how far this agreement would reach, yet his whole intent here was clarification. As adversarial as he came off, the man was careful, cautious, and precise about the details. He knew his stuff. How I wish I’d heard the end of that sentence. I wish I’d thought to speak up, but it was our lawyer’s responsibility to speak for us, and speak she did. She cut the judge off, practically leaping forward to fling aside any concerns about the forfeiture of our rights. “No, Your Honor.”

  “All right,” the judge replied.

  No, not all right! But they’d moved on.

  When the court asked how quickly we could post a required notice on our website warning our readers of the dangers of vandalism and disrespecting the public parks, the prosecuting attorney stood up. She happily volunteered some kind words about us, saying how articulate and creative we were, and how therefore we could easily be expected to write said notice within thirty days.

  The judge checked again that we understood everything. I considered clarifying the First Amendment thing, but Benjamin hurled another live “yes” at the judge, and I echoed it. The judge let us know that we didn’t have to do this, of course. “You have an absolute right to go to trial on the charges in the Complaint.” Sure, we did. Maybe if I had a trust fund. This whole thing was pre-decided. We were guilty by our own blogged admission. What we had done was wrong. We couldn’t justify our actions or claim innocence, but these proceedings seemed disproportionate to our action. We’d have received the same treatment for an intentional decision to ruin the artwork on the tower walls, and they offered no way for us to even suggest that someone consider the differences and act accordingly. We corked our bitter laughter before it could leave our mouths and deface the court record.

  After the court had made sure we weren’t under the influence of any drugs and hadn’t been coerced into our pleas by any outside parties, we were given the opportunity to officially answer that yes, we agreed to the terms of the plea agreement. From there, we moved to a confession, of sorts, by going over the events enumerated by the complaint. “Now, Mr. Herson, tell me what your participation was.”

  Benjamin answered, his voice calm and professional, but chilly. “We were driving across the border from New Mexico into Arizona. We were on a cross-country road trip to correct typos and educate people about typo awareness. And we also decided we would like to visit the Grand Canyon while we were coming through.” I wondered if the judge had caught on to the fact that he’d explicitly separated the two intentions. The phrase “And we’d also decided” pulled the typo correction and the Grand Canyon visits apart. Even as Benjamin obliged them with a confession, he was disputing the fine point that we’d gone to the Grand Canyon to commit vandalism. “Though initially we had thought we would take a day off of correcting typos, which is remarked in the blog, we happened upon this sign, saw that it was missing one comma and had an apostrophe that we would like to move, and decided to go ahead and make those corrections.”

  “Who actually made the corrections?”

  “I believe it was a combination of both of us,” Benjamin replied. “I believe I used the marker to mark out the apostrophe that was in the incorrect place. Jeff used the Wite-Out to add the comma and the apostrophe.”

  “All right. Mr. Deck, tell me what you did.”

  While I appreciated what Benjamin had done on our behalf, I worried that he was aggravating the judge. He’d stated our actions in a detached manner: Mr. Spock saying, “I am attempting to correct a typo, Captain; it is only logical.” There had been no hint of remorse in his statement.

  “Well, I think,” I said, decided think wasn’t strong enough, and started over. “I mean, I agree with everything that Benjamin has stated. We thought—we thought that we were doing something positive by fixing typos around the country. I mean, I realize now that we were misguided, particularly in this instance, by correcting the sign without getting anyone’s permission.” I paused to take a breath; I didn’t like how the words were spilling out of my mouth so fast. “We saw this particular sign and saw that there were two punctuation issues, and we corrected them.”

  “Sometimes historic artifacts have an importance all of their own,” the judge intoned.

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  But Benjamin wouldn’t shut up. In his most respectful tone yet, and yet still with coldness, he added another little detail to the court record: “I’m afraid we hadn’t realized the significance of the sign.”

  “Yeah,” I added, trying to massage the tone, “we had no idea. I mean, that’s no excuse, but we had no idea that it was historic.”

  “All right.” Translation: enough of that. “Mr. Herson, how do you plead to the charge in Count 1, the conspiracy charge, guilty or not guilty?”

  Benjamin paused long enough to set everyone on edge before replying, “Guilty.”

  “And Mr. Deck, how do you plead, guilty or not guilty?”

  “Guilty.”

  The judge accepted our plea, and at last our lawyer acted on our behalf, restating ground that we’d already covered. “My clients, as they’ve indicated, did not have any idea it was a historic sign, and they thought they were doing good by what they were trying to accomplish. And they are very remorseful for their actions.”

  We were given three months, at Benjamin’s request, to pay off restitution.
Benjamin even said, “Thank you,” while I went with a “Thank you very much, Your Honor.”

  The prosecutor rose again to say her piece. “Your Honor, this was an—I believe it’s set out in the Affidavit. But this was—this all took place at the Desert Lodge Tower, which as the Court is aware was designed by Mary Colter, who is a unique and special individual to those of us who live in the Southwest.

  “This sign was a 1932 hand-painted Mary Colter sign. Although the $3,000 will attempt to repair it, according to sources at the Park Service, the sign will never be back in the condition obviously that it was in. So they have inflicted damage on something that will ultimately never be fully repaired.

  “I should also note the Park Service has a very small number of such signs that were obviously the caliber of somebody like Mary Colter. And so they are feeling this damage I guess in a very powerful way. So they’re pleased to hear that the defendants were accepting responsibility and pleading guilty, and certainly hope that the defendants can understand the distinction between education and vandalism.