PrintSeptember 14, 2010
Citizen, Unleashed
On a recent sunny morning, when I should have been at my desk doing income-producing work, I was aging prematurely in the Superior Court House in Hollywood, a Notice to Appear in my hand. Even in today's wacky world of American jurisprudence, being dragged to court on such a trifle of a charge was almost Kafkaesque.
Adding insult to injury, I was not even the perpetrator of the minuscule malfeasance: allowing our beagle to run off leash at a local park.
The "criminal" was my son, who had cleverly returned to college on the East Coast before his appointed court date. Like any other dedicated Jewish mother, I was unwilling to have a warrant issued for my son's arrest, and I stood ready to take the rap for him. Not only that, I planned to tell the judge what a good son he is, and how he calls twice a week -- three times if he's low on cash.
I had arrived in court determined to keep a positive attitude, despite the ridiculousness of the situation and the colossal waste of my time. But after my belongings were x-rayed, I headed toward the court clerk and perceived that I had been drop-shipped into a Hell's Angels reunion. This made keeping a sunny disposition a lot harder. I was surrounded by a motley crew, 95 percent male, heavily tattooed and/or pierced. A few had arms in slings, and one guy had a black eye. Several wore t-shirts printed with such heartwarming mottos as "Mister Morphine" and "I Put the S&M into Scoutmaster." As I tried to digest my shock, a guy with greasy hair, missing a few teeth and with a crazed look in his eye, came joyriding down the hall in a wheelchair, clad only in a distressingly open hospital gown. He looked like a leftover cast member from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.
Talk about rough justice. In California, a first offense for talking on a cell phone while driving is punished by a hefty ticket of nearly $150.00, but at least you can just write the check and move on. You can, on occasion, get stoned, start driving, jump a median, and hit a pedestrian and nearly kill her but not even get arrested (this happened in Los Angeles a few months ago). But a first offense for an unleashed beagle? Tell it to the judge, buddy.
Naturally, I understand the usefulness of rules about dogs. There are some trails where dogs can pose dangers to other animals or vice-versa. My son doesn't remember seeing the sign, but in any case, the park ranger could have simply warned, "Hey, get that dog on a leash! Next time I'll have to cite you!" But Park Ranger Rambo, who I suspect might have a touch of testosterone poisoning, instead chose to aggressively haul my son to the side of the trail. He acted like he had swooped down on an armed robbery in progress as the lead of a SWAT team. When my husband jogged over to see what was going on, the ranger shouted, "You, stay over there!" Really, it would have been hilarious if it weren't so pathetic.
So who committed the greater crime: my son, for failing to keep our dog on a leash at the park, or the park ranger, with his bullying tactics?
Knowing I would have a long wait in court, I had brought a book to stay productively engaged. But I found the atmosphere was so oppressive, offensive, and aggravating that I couldn't concentrate on anything. I listened as court staff asked the same questions to an endless stream of other miscreants: "Why did you miss your court-mandated anger management sessions again?" "Why didn't you show up for community labor? Do you have a doctor's note stating that you're unable to do the work?" Meanwhile, my only question was, "When will I be released from this hell?"
In desperation, I sidled up to the courtroom sheriff and begged him to try to get my case called quickly. He apologized, nothing he could do, and as a matter of fact, they were still digging out the paperwork for today's cases from an office downstairs. I feared that by the time I got in front of the judge, I'd be the one sentenced to anger management classes.
"You know, this is one reason people are so fed up at government nowadays," I huffed to the sheriff.
"You're preaching to the choir here," he whispered, making me feel the teensiest bit better.
After two interminable hours, I had successfully channeled Jimmy Stewart in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington and was champing at the bit to deliver my impassioned indictment of the abuses of power. Just then, a clerk called my name and ushered me outside the courtroom. "You're free to go. No fine. Case dismissed." Relief was mixed with disappointment; I was all revved up with nowhere to rant. I scorched it out of there and back to work, relieved that some levelheadedness had prevailed in the courtroom and seen this Notice to Appear for the nonsense it was.
As for you, Ranger Rambo, I hope you realize that in the world of law enforcement, you ain't nothing but a hound dog.
Judy Gruen's latest book is The Women's Daily Irony Supplement. Read more of her work on www.judygruen.com.
