by Vicki Batman
“What a relief! Nundom might be over.”
Chapter Six
Like a babysitter faced with the horrible task to change a poopy diaper, I dreaded what I had to do.
I decided to take a stand and fight the citation in court. After all, the parts were obviously stolen; therefore, I technically didn’t have a taillight out. Yet, A. Wellborn’s theory involved having no taillight meant it was non-operational. Tricky, but I wanted the matter resolved...by someone with authority...and in my favor.
As a consequence of my decision, I had to request time-off from work on the following day. My job at Buy Rite was a new one, and with all new jobs, new rules applied. Opal’s guidelines didn’t cover personal matters; so I wasn’t positive how everything operated. To be safe over sorry, I had no other choice but to ask her. Oh joy.
I consulted the list of frequent fines referenced on the back of the citation. Paying it outright cost $190.00, a big chunk of change for a semi-employed girl. Considering my finances and the saving-me-moola scenario, I might as well try my fate in traffic court.
Funsister Maggie had explained sometimes the judge levied a smaller fine if I showed in person. She’d said, “You could get lucky.”
“I’m likin’ the sounds of this.”
“If the officer doesn’t make an appearance, it is my understanding, in some circumstances, the citation will be dismissed.”
This was indeed supreme info...if it was the case.
“’Course I don’t know this for a fact as I haven’t been to traffic court.”
Drawing in a deep breath, I approached Opal who sat at her desk, fingers racing over her keyboard. I tried to get a handle on her mood for the day so I could determine how to work her. I sure didn’t want to alienate her any further. “Opal?”
“Hmm?” she murmured and inputted one last number.
“I’m sorry to disturb, but I need to speak with you about a personal issue.”
Swiveling her chair in my direction, she examined me over the top of her owl-like bifocals and asked in her special prim and proper way, “What seems to be the problem, Hattie?”
“Before I came to work here, a cop wrote me a citation for a taillight out. I need to take time off tomorrow morning to fight it in court.”
“And why do you feel you need to fight the ticket as opposed to out-and-out paying the fine?”
“It’s a long story.”
Opal rocked her chair away from her desk and crossed her arms. All eyes focused on me. “Try me.”
“First of all, the taillight couldn’t have been out as it had been stolen. Secondly, I don’t have the $190.00 to pay the fine.”
While she pondered my predicament, she extracted her favorite letter opener, the one resembling a dagger, from her pen jar.
“Hattie, did you read the Employee Guidelines? You haven’t been employed long enough to take leave for personal matters,” she said, her tone conveying her annoyance. “Why can’t you reschedule for a later date?”
Obviously, she didn’t want to give me a break. Weariness clouded my words. “Yes, Opal, I read the guidelines you so thoughtfully provided. I’m aware I haven’t been with B.R.A. long enough to warrant time-off, but I don’t want to reschedule. I want this thing settled now. If you feel inclined to dock my pay—fine. If you want me to come in earlier or stay later on another day—fine. I am not paying $190.00 for something I didn’t do.”
“And why do you not have savings set aside for these situations?”
Excuse me, but when was it Opal’s business how I used my money? Exasperated with her opinion, I crossed my arms and contemplated the cracked popcorn ceiling, trying to find a tactful way to say my financial status wasn’t her concern.
Placing my hands on her desk, I leaned closer. “I’ve been unemployed for several weeks. By fighting the citation, I’ll be saving money. I understand how inconvenienced you’ll be by my being away for a few hours. I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped. I want the situation resolved right now.” My index finger rapped her desk firmly, emphasizing right now.
Opal’s letter opener beat a light staccato on her desk while she considered.
She didn’t appear too offended which looked good for me. “And it isn’t any business of yours, but I do have some savings set aside. If I don’t have to, I won’t use the money. I might have an expensive medical issue arise and need the cash in that case.”
“Which is the most sensible thing to do.”
She thought so hard, I could almost envision the cogs churning in her head.
Finally, she said, “Fine. I’ll inform Lester of your plans. I’m sure if a problem arises, he’ll take it up with you.”
“Great. Thanks for your indulgence. I will make it up to you.”
“Humpf.” She polished the opener with her shirt tail. “Yes, you will.”
****
The next morning, I drove downtown to the municipal courthouse for traffic court held in the old police station. I was especially familiar with that part of town from my days at Tuckers and knew where to park, which I did easily. I berthed the fun car and made my way to the four-story building with fancy columns which framed the doorways. The building would have been considered impressive when constructed in the twenties and could be now—if the city had renovated it.
What I wasn’t knowledgeable about was exactly how to fight traffic citations and how the whole court system worked. Since I’d begun driving, I received only two other citations for exceeding the speed limit. I’d paid those fines instead of going to court because like George Washington, I couldn’t tell a lie. I’d been speeding.
Dad had instilled in his daughters an insurance fear which nearly paralyzed us. He’d shaken his finger in our faces and said, “Too many citations make your insurance rates increase.” Translated, this meant spending hard-earned money unnecessarily. Dad was about saving money, saying, “All a houseful of women does is spend my money.”
Memory of his preaching invaded my head. “You need money for this or that...” Yadayadayada. At this point, we’d tuned him out while he tiraded a money-saving lecture. Afterwards, he’d reluctantly, but almost always, would hand over some cash.
When I’d received the other citations, I paid the amount listed on the slip, saving me time and aggravation in the long run. And with full-time employment, I had more cash in the bank to do so. But not now.
Since I wasn’t sure about the exact procedure, I’d consulted everyone I knew. Unfortunately, they’d offered limited advice. None of them had fought a ticket and admitted to taking the easy road—paying online or by check.
The Funsisters had suggested I show up well prepared. Using my camera phone, I photographed my Jeep from several angles which showed the absence of taillights and the bumper and printed the pictures. I obtained a copy of my driving record and the insurance company’s estimate of damage. I’d assembled this information in a manila file folder which I carried with me to court.
Multiple times, I’d reviewed my thoughts and facts regarding the day. Rehearsing should help make me feel comfortable in telling my story. Not much, but what I had was better than nothing.
For a brief, itty-bitty nanosecond, I’d considered calling A. Wellborn and asking about the process. Without a doubt, he’d attended traffic court as a patrol cop. Truthfully, I wasn’t comfortable with phoning him, much less asking his advice. Just knowing A. Wellborn would be in the court room, possibly laughing at me, was embarrassing enough. Since some kind of ethics thingy had to be involved in asking the policeman who wrote the citation for inside information, I’d passed on the thought and decided to wing it on my own.
I pushed open one of the twin art deco bronze and glass doors to the courthouse and took the elevator to the second level. Following the directional plaques posted along the hallway halfway lined with banded marble, I heard the tapping of my black flats on the terrazzo speckled floor as I wound my way to the courtroom.
I detoured to a nearby restroom to inspect
my appearance in the mirror in case I’d forgotten something, or I needed to go, or my skirt’s hem was tucked in my undies—all things I checked when facing an unusual predicament. I wore a black tee-top and a coordinating, pinstripe skirt in a chiffon fabric. My pertinent papers were stored in a black leather tote along with my latest romance read. With no stains on the clothing and no toilet paper trailing my shoe heel, I passed GO and exited.
At the courtroom doors, the roly-poly bailiff requested my citation and informed me I would be the third person called before the judge. He pointed to the wooden benches inside where he informed me in a routine, but kind voice, “Take a seat and wait for your name to be called.”
“Thanks.” After I settled on the bench, I studied my surroundings. On my left, sitting behind a heavily carved, wooden table was a business-like city attorney who scribbled away on a yellow-ruled pad. The presiding judge sat behind a raised desk, a name plate inscribed with Judge Thomas H. Miller in front of him. An open-work banister with a gate defined the area between us. Hand-crafted paneling lined the walls. Two-thirds of the way up, molding crowned the paneling. A western mural from the WPA era decorated the space above.
Wise beyond years was the phrase which came to mind while studying Judge Miller. Probably in his early fifties like Mom and Dad, he was heavy in the shoulders. Thick strands of black hair crossed the top of his balding head. He wore a black robe and gold, wire-framed glasses.
The bailiff called the first person, a middle-aged woman who sat two rows ahead of me.
Judge Miller asked her to step forward. After they conferred on her complaint, he directed her to speak with the city attorney.
Her leaving meant one person down and one more preceding me.
An elderly man, sitting off to my right, did the same thing as the woman in front of him. After his consultation with the city attorney, he left.
Anticipating my name being called next, I squeezed my tote’s handles and readied myself.
“Ms. Harriette Cooks.” The bailiff stared at me.
I rose, and when Judge Miller motioned me forward, I pushed my way through the gate in the banister to stand in front of him.
Judge Miller eyed me over his bifocals. “Good morning, Ms. Cooks.”
“Good morning, s-sir.” I sputtered my words nervously.
“Ms. Cooks, I understand you have a citation for a taillight out on your Jeep.”
“Yes, sir.” Politeness was a helpful piece of advice given by the Funsisters who said being respectful impressed judicial officials.
“Was your taillight out?”
“Sorta, sir. The taillights weren’t out, but rather stolen, as well as my bumper. Therefore, I had no taillight to be a taillight out.”
Judge Miller bent his head to his chest, a sign of having heard similar stories. “I suppose you wish to present your case?”
I bobbed my head. “Yes, sir.”
“You understand procedure dictates you’ll have to come back after the court clerk schedules a date with the officer who wrote the ticket, who would be...” he consulted his paper, “Officer Wellborn?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you want a jury trial?”
“No, sir, it isn’t necessary.”
“The court clerk will phone you with the date of your next appearance. Then I’ll hear both sides of the story.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Judge Miller nodded his head in dismissal.
With dullness in my chest and relief flooding my limbs, I walked back through the gate and to the door leading into the hallway.
Once outside the courtroom doors, I released a deep whoosh of tension which had ratcheted inside my body. I inhaled another lungful. I did have good news—Mom would be pleased she didn’t have to visit her daughter in the clinker. When I ascertained I could function normally again, I walked from the building to the parking garage to go to work.
I returned to the office where Opal commented on my story by saying, “humpf.” Later in the day, on my way back from visiting the ladies’ room, I took the message she passed me which noted the court clerk’s call. My next appearance had been scheduled for the following week. Detective Wellborn was expected also.
Oh, goody. My eyebrows arched at this thought as my mouth curved into a smile. I would love to see him. Of course, our meeting could be embarrassing. Yet, I should be used to being self-conscious with him around. Embarrassment appeared to be our common link.
After handling another business call, the notion smacked me about having to ask Opal for more time off. Great.
With my chin resting on my propped arm, I determined the best way to inform Ms. Plump-and-Proper of my revised plans. I didn’t want to have another semi-unpleasant confrontation. Standing, I squared my shoulders and zigzagged around the furniture to her desk. No little squatty-bodied woman would intimidate me. If I had to, I could take her out.
“Excuse me, Opal.”
Without moving her head, she raised her eyes a fraction.
“I hate to interrupt.”
“What’s your problem now, Hattie?”
“Regarding my personal matter… As you might have guessed from the message you gave me, I have to go back to court next week, which unfortunately means I’ll need additional time off.”
“And why is that?” Tilting back in her desk chair, she fixed on me a glare.
A tinge of sarcasm hovered in her words. She’d sounded so superior. Not so surprising. “I decided to let the judge hear my case. Hopefully, I won’t have to pay the $190.00 dollar fine.”
“Of course, you did.”
Opal’s holier-than-thou attitude was maddening. Why should I feel terrible about doing something which seemed good for me? Life—my life—wasn’t all about her or Buy Rite.
“So…What you’re saying is you need more time off from work next week to go back to traffic court.”
Mom would say being pleasant was a good virtue. I put into practice her Be Nice and Polite little talk, hoping to win over Opal with my dazzling smile and courtesy. “You understand exactly what I mean. On the bright side, I was gone for only ninety minutes today. I expect to be gone about the same amount of time and can easily make it up.”
“I still don’t understand why you won’t pay the fine.”
Thunk, the sound of my politeness chucked out the window. “As I told you earlier, I don’t have the money. And frankly, it isn’t your business how I handle my business.” In response to her disapproving look, I added, “I apologize if I offended you.”
“Humpf.” She stood, jerking down her hot pink polyester Mumu top to cover her round belly. “I’ll discuss your situation with Lester, although you’ve already committed yourself to your cause and will have to be let off.” Her flabby thighs swished-swished to Lester’s office where she closed the door while she consulted him.
Yeah. Round Two and I won.
I think.
Chapter Seven
What in the wild world of animals were drivers doing out there? No rain, no sleet, no snow, and yet, claims for Buy Rite continued to pile up—which meant they had to be entered into the computer, which meant more copying and more filing, which meant the tips of my fingers nearly had blisters from typing.
Summer must be the busiest month for stolen parts or stolen cars. Even Cousin Patti’s sedan had been swiped and subsequently, used in a gas station hold-up, afterwards recovered all dirty and violated. When the police tracked down Cousin Patti’s car, they’d left fingerprint dust all over the interior and exterior. She wouldn’t touch her baby until professionals had detailed it to perfection.
I didn’t like the violated part.
I entered these claims:
#500012: Caroline Smith, date, address, phone number, red 1999 Jeep Cherokee, door believed to be stolen when parked at Body Style Athletic Club.
#500013: Mike Dattar, date, address, phone number, black 2002 Ford Frontier pickup, front bumper crunched in a car crash at Boston and South Briery Road.<
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I felt sensitized to the “Parts Missing” section of the program as my own taillights and bumper had still not been located through A. Wellborn’s friend-of-a-friend association. Wouldn’t a bumper with an Amazing Adventureland sticker plastered on it be an easy find? Maybe it had been stripped off.
Since so much time had passed, my car parts were, without a doubt, a lost cause. Or maybe A. Wellborn didn’t want to be involved in an “illegal”—my word, not his—activity again which was understandable. Fortunately, I hadn’t been pulled over for another taillight-out citation since. I continued to wait for the insurance check covering the replacement parts, which considering the amount of time passed, now seemed to be lost in the mail.
From the data entry, I noted lots of cars, but mainly Jeeps, in Sommerville had problems similar to mine. Intrigued, I knocked on Lester’s door frame and interrupted Opal and him, presumably conferring over the monthly office supply list, to inquire about the rash of stolen parts. A gray smoke cloud wafted toward me. “Hey, Opal. Hey, Lester. Can I ask a question?”
“Sure. Have a seat.” Lester set aside a file I’d placed in his “IN” basket earlier. “What can I do for you, Hattie?”
“I’m doing data entry and a lot of the claims belong to Jeeps. Is it normal for one particular brand of car to be singled out?”
Lester rotated in his chair, his body twisting like he was exercising his waistline via the reducing machine from the infomercial. “Thefts of cars and car parts can go in cycles. Typically, in the summer, young delinquents are the culprits, but the pros work year round. A lot of cars are stolen, sold, and shipped to other countries, never to be found again.”
I always thought if my car had been stolen, I would never, ever want it found. The interior would be dirty with stinky trash tossed in it, not to mention, the smells and stains which came from God-knows-where and I didn’t want to know the where. A destroyed car took the novelty out of owning a new vehicle. I would sell.
Lester flicked ash in his Buy Rite commemorative tray. “Car alarms are only somewhat effective. Alarms notify people when the car is broken into. When stolen parts are lifted from the body of the car, not the interior, the alarm may, or may not, be triggered. These guys are pros. They live and breathe alarm systems, sometimes acquiring the blueprints even before a new model hits the street. Very little deters them.”