My
son has been out on the streets — driving, that is — for over a year now. There’s a good
chance you’ve met (as you exchanged insurance information). A better chance is
that you cursed him, his radio blasting, as he hurried blithely along on his
busy teenage way.
You may be pleased to know he has not escaped notice of the proper
authorities. In the course of 16 months, the boy has accumulated an impressive,
romantic array of traffic citations: from indignantly explaining to an officer
the finer points of the Texas Rolling Stop (which he strongly feels is
needlessly illegal), to elucidating to a sheriff’s deputy exactly how it was
the big boulder leapt off the road and ran into my truck.
In this brief period, he’s acquired a disconcerting familiarity with the
minutiae of our Municipal Court system. For example, last week we had to appear
at a 6pm hearing of juvenile traffic court. He’s supposed to pick me up at
5:30pm. It seems important — to me anyway — to be early. He pulls up at
5:55pm. “Chill, dad,” he says, calm as a Cayman breeze. “The judge is always
late.” Municipal Court is located in police headquarters; I’m concerned with
parking. “Don’t worry, dad,” the juvenile offender shouts over the din of the
tape player. “I know where I’m going.” And indeed, he does. He pulls into a lot
beneath I-35, strolls nonchalantly through police headquarters, moves smartly
to the elevator, and punches the proper floor, all as if he were a 20-year
veteran of the force.
In the elevator is a man and his son, a fellow reprobate. The father is a
large, well-dressed fellow, sporting a red, vein-lined, bulbous nose. Someone
tried to make the son look respectable. This was accomplished with typical
teenage impudence. Heavily starched jeans, a gaudy plaid shirt, love beads, and
combat boots. His filthy blond hair is slicked back with axle grease. He’s
wearing ditty-bop shades. Dangling insolently from his mouth, a toothpick.
Before we reach the second floor, the father has, without comment, ripped the
shades from his son’s face (revealing disturbingly vacuous eyes) and the
toothpick from his sullen mouth.
We spill out into a seedy hallway. On the wall is a bulletin board covered
with multiple 8×10 computerized lists of something obviously important since
all traffic stops here. Everyone mills around these lists. I’m confused. It
will take some time to orient myself. No matter — before I could get my
glasses out, I notice my son knowingly moving his finger down one of the many
lists. “Cool, dad,” he says. “We’re right here. Courtroom #2.”
The courtroom was not constructed in the Greco-Roman style I associate with
judicial chambers. If any architectural influence is at work, it’s neo-classic,
South Austin Dollar Movie style. There are eight double rows of run-down
theatre seats. Every third or fourth seat has a handwritten note taped to the
back warning all visitors “Danger. Seat broken.” Sure enough, the judge is
late. The bailiff, a dead ringer for Charles Barkley gone to seed, is in place
in front of the packed courtroom. Adam goes on and on about some imagined
grievance concerning the bailiff, but it’s difficult to concentrate on his
story, so fascinated am I by the fantastically democratic mixture of
juvy-traffic flotsam. It’s like a WWII John Wayne movie. Each and every
minority and body type is carefully represented. Black-white-brown-yellow. Fat
kids, tall kids, frat kids, small kids, underage kids, ugly kids, dumb kids,
smart-ass kids (guess who?), and kids too stoned to talk at all. Sullen kids,
shy kids, boys, girls… traffic desperados one and all.
The bailiff says, “All rise.” The judge (surprisingly sexy in her black robe)
informs us we’re here to answer for Class C misdemeanors: the lowest criminal
offense in Texas. She carefully explains everyone’s rights. One by one, we’re
called to stand before the bar. The courtroom has excellent acoustics, so it’s
impossible not to listen in to each conversation before the judge. One mother
is outraged — she wants a trial — because her son, who apparently was driving
someone else’s automobile, without a license or insurance, had
permission of the owner. Mom feels it’s the owner’s fault. The cute judge
disagrees. She suggests this personal matter might best be addressed in church.
Next case.
Justice is dispensed with quiet efficiency. A $50 dollar fine here, a short,
judicious lecture there. Finally, case #3628132 — that’s us — is called. A
two-pronged strategy was planned. First, logic, the very cornerstone of the
judicial process. Second, is to fall — quickly and submissively — upon the
mercy of the court. As it turns out, neither is necessary. The judge is
confused (as am I, lost in a complex fantasy concerning the zipper on her black
robe) by the paperwork. Adam’s last name and middle initial, R. Colton, I
recall, are incorrect. License numbers are unclear. In a Solomonesque decision,
assuming he’d done something wrong, though it wasn’t clear exactly what, he’s
fined $10 dollars and told to pay down the hallway. We can’t miss the spot, the
judge says, it’s right next to — I’m not kidding — the ATM machine in the
hallway.
Soon, we’re back on the street. His Honda out of gas but his traffic slate,
for the time being anyway, is wiped clean.
This article appears in February 7 • 1997 and February 7 • 1997 (Cover).