Some time ago, I was driving a new, four-door car in a tiny section of Arizona. I was in the tip of the north-west corner of the state. A small stretch of freeway in Arizona lasting about ten minutes, one must drive through it to get from Las Vegas to Utah. I'm driving along enjoying new car smell and some loud music. The next thing I know, there's a police officer with his lights blazing. Nearing the end of day, his lights were bright and I wondered what on earth I was getting pulled over for as I knew I wasn't speeding.
The gentleman in the stiff uniform and mustache walked up to my window. "Hey there," he said as if establishing some sort of a friendship. "I pulled you over today because it looks like your front driver and passenger window are tinted a little bit too dark."
I was completely floored. He pulled me over for that? There are elderly people in rest homes getting abused, children getting abducted and murderers running lose. Yet I get a ticket for my window tint? I decided that since my car was completely new with its temporary plates, I may have a chance at going to court and playing the "dumb blonde" card.
On a hot July day, I drove out to the Arizona Indian Reservation to plead my case. I pulled up to the Moccasin Court. I looked down at the ticket with the address on it. I looked at the Moccasin Court. I looked at the ticket with the address on it. I looked at the Moccasin Court. Confused, I carefully parked my car on the gravel and slowly walked up to the double-wide trailer door. I used the toe of my shoe to politely nudge the chickens out of the way. Should I knock? Feeling cautious that I was intruding on someone at the wrong address, I slowly opened the door. Upon entering, I noticed a type of help desk window, if you will. The window was in the area where I would suspect the entrance to a kitchen would go; complete with laminated formica of a burnt-orange color.
"Can I help you?" a polite woman asked. I showed her my ticket as if showing a wound or injured body part to a doctor; with hesitation. She quickly ripped it out of my hand and said, "Oh yes, we've been expecting you. Have a seat in the court room." "Where's that?" I asked, eyebrows raised. She firmly pointed behind me. I turned around to see a set of flimsy accordion doors.
I slid the doors open to a room with about 10 folding chairs. "Aaahhh....The living room," I thought. At the front of the folding chairs, sat a judge's bench. Surrounding the bench were all of the necessary seats for a formal court proceeding. I walked towards the front of the living room and sat down in front of the bench. I was the only person around. It was quiet and I started wondering if I was on some television show. Perhaps a show in which a camera was taking all of the images from my face and people were laughing at me. I'd sit in this living room of folding chairs for a long time and then someone would eventually come out. We'd all laugh about how funny it'd be if this was really a court house. They'd slap me on my back for being such a good sport and pay my ridiculous ticket for window tint just for being on their show. Then I'd be on my way.
Wishful thinking came to an abrupt end when I saw the officer that pulled me over come into the courtroom to join me. I could not believe that this officer had the time in his schedule to actually come to the double-wide trailer, kick the chickens out of the way and sit here to make sure I paid for having dark windows during my ten minute visit to Arizona. We sat in silence on opposite sides of the living room. Me by the front window, him closer to the master bedroom.
We weren't tortured with the awkward silence before too long when a bailiff type individual entered from where the laundry room would be; behind the judge's bench. He looked directly through me and said in the most official tone I have ever heard, "All rise." The officer and I both rose and I looked around to see who else was there. No one. So ALL two of us rose. In walked a very official judge complete with black robe. The stern look on his face told me right away that he takes his job very seriously. I glanced at the officer and his stern look told me that he wanted me to pay for my crime. I was mystified that nobody in this situation broke out in laughter. How could they keep such straight faces when it looks like a couple of kids playing court?
Despite my efforts, I had to pay the maximum. It only makes sense for me to pay the full amount so that they can afford to build a coop for the chickens to be safe.
