Local Justice

I am a horrible driver. Aside from wandering this earth with no sense of direction, I am also quite heavy footed, piling up more moving violations than Britney Spears and Lindsey Lohan battling it out at the Salem Fair's bumper cars venue.

Trained in New York City where one needs only a face to gain a license, I have had a rather difficult time adjusting to southern travel. Honestly, I had never received a speeding ticket until I reached Virginia. In the Big Apple, one can run nine traffic lights in a row, and, unless you clip a pedestrian or two, most police officers barely loosen their grip on the donut they're dunking, much less chase you down from behind.

On a recent trip to Ohio I encountered my most perplexing brush with the law. Heading home I crossed into West Virginia via a bridge which links the two states. Parked at the far end of the bridge I spotted a squad car laying in wait for some unsuspecting motorist.

Glancing at my speedometer, I noted that I was traveling around sixty-one miles and hour in a marked fifty-five zone. Surely I was safe at that speed I thought. As I cruised past the squad car I spied that all-too familiar red and blue bulb combination lighting up my rear window. Could this guy be coming for me?

Immediately, I pulled my car over to the shoulder, closed my eyes and began praying for the sirens to whiz on by. No such luck. Out of the police vehicle stepped a portly fellow with a scowl on his face. Over the years I have collected enough citations to wallpaper my downstairs bathroom, yet all of the troopers I encountered were pleasant enough people, concerned more about my safety than slamming me in the cooler.

A veteran of this situation, I began fumbling around my glove compartment, searching for my vehicle registration. Apparently, the oncoming crime-stopper, thought I might be reaching for a weapon. The trooper drew is sidearm and ordered my out of the car. Hating to be shot for going five miles an hour over the speed limit, I complied.

Cuffed and searched, I was released when my captor realized that I was not a threat to the general public. Jokingly, I asked the officer if roadside execution was the current penalty of barely speeding in the state West Virginia and he promptly rewarded my smart comment with a $210.00 fine. I nearly grabbed his gun and shot myself.

Stewing the rest of the trip, I vowed to fight this injustice at all cost. The summons carried a court date scheduled for the following week and I would be there to dispute the charge. For the remainder of the week I called the phone number on the ticket to find out the location of the court house, however, there was only a scratchy recording which sounded like it was taped directly off of a Wendy's drive-through speaker.

On the day of the court hearing, I left my home heading for Henderson, West Virginia, population 549. Somehow, I would find the seat of legal activity in Henderson and I would have my day in court.

When I rolled off the highway exit I began to notice that there weren't any stationary buildings in Henderson, just a bunch of mobile homes. The more I drove the more I began the realize that this whole town could pick right up and more somewhere else if they wanted to. Suddenly, in the distance, I beheld a small brick building with an American flag flying in front. As I drew nearer I could see that it was a post office. They will know where the court house was, I thought.

I entered the building and asked the clerk where the court house was. She smiled and said there was no court house in Henderson, but I could go to the judge's house.

"I can go to his house!" I bellowed in shock. Please understand, in most places going to the judge's house will buy you a stay in the Graybar Motel, but not in Henderson. The friendly postal worker gave me directions and I was off the see the judge.

When I arrived at the judge's home I knocked on the door several times with no answer. Slightly unnerved, I was about to return to my car when I woman appeared from the house next door and informed me that the judge was food shopping and would be back in around twenty minutes. Resolved to finish this matter, I waited patiently on the judge's steps.

Moments later the judge rolled up in his town vehicle, pops the trunk and begins bringing in his shopping bags. I introduced myself and offered to help him with his packages. How often to you get the chance to soften up a government official by carrying in his milk?

While stocking his cabinets his honor (who was also the mayor, no kidding) and I spoke about my "case". He confided that the officer who apprehended me was on loan from the county and was "a nut-case" who often wrote excessive fines. The Judge/Mayor then thanked me for my help, reduced my fine to ten dollars and changed my charge to illegal equipment.

Driving home I reflected on my experience and thought that one day I might return to Henderson and visit my friend Judge/Mayor. Hopefully he will still be there unless the town decides to pick up and move across the river to Ohio.