AnnaArnett.com

On the fifteenth of January, Margaret Turley and I attended Barbara Lofgreen's funeral in East Mesa. Shortly after we left the freeway, going south on Signal Butte Road, Margaret mentioned a police radar van, and I grunted something about how it didn't affect me.

Yet, a couple of months later my mail brought a citation with a picture of me in sunglasses, my manicured hands gripping the steering wheel of my blue Honda Fit, and Margaret beside me, also wearing shades. The broad street showed no traffic except for a car going the other way. Radar claimed my speed was 57 in a 40 mph zone.

Scarlet lettering instructed me to choose one of my three options and return a form prior to February 24th or risk being served and paying an extra $50 for that special treatment. My options were to appear on the eleventh of April at the municipal court or to pay a fine of $196, or attend a traffic school, which would cost very little under that amount. I decided to go to court.

"You didn't actually send in the form, did you?" I heard this from just about everybody I told. "They can't really enforce this."

"But I believe in honoring, obeying and sustaining the law."

I had them there, though I still got dubious headshakes.

My son David went with me to the court. It's a fairly new building just west of the Mesa Temple. The front lobby is manned with security-check paraphernalia. David turned to me as we moved on. "They made me take off my belt, but at least they let me keep my shoes on. Also, they're friendly."

I showed my summons at the reception desk and followed her directions into a large waiting room, reminiscent of the DMV. We got a number, and waited nearly half an hour to get called to a window where a very attractive young lady smiled at us. David audibly cleared his throat.

"Well Mom, I was wrong. They are friendly at these windows."

Her eyes glowed and her dimples showed as she asked me whether I wanted to pay the fine now, or enroll in the driving class.

"But what if I contest the charge?"

"Oh, you want to schedule a hearing?" She seemed a trifle surprised, but readily agreed. "I can set you up with an appointment right now." She peered at her computer screen and pecked on a few keys. "Will May 12th be all right with you?"

I checked my little black appointment book. It would.

"Morning or afternoon?"

"Afternoon."

She picked again and reached for the paper issuing from a printer. "Here is your notice and instructions. Bring it along with your traffic ticket when you come. And you don't have to come back in here. Just turn down the hall to the left of security check."

David tucked my hand beneath his arm to steady me as we left the building. "Mom, I will say this. It's sure interesting, being your son. Why didn't you just pay the fine? You know you'll have to do it sooner or later."

"You may be right, son, but I'm going to let them work for it. You heard her tell me that it wouldn't cost me a single penny more if I were found guilty and had to pay the fine. And this gives me a while longer to prepare."

Did I prepare? No, but I did a lot of stewing. I knew that the judge would uphold the charge and I started saving up to pay the fine. And I prayed a lot.

About a week ago I hatched a brilliant idea. I ought to have at least one other alternative. What if I refused to pay the fine? I pored over the phrase, "speed not reasonable and prudent." There was my defense. I would ask the police officer, who the girl at the window said would be there, to explain to me how my driving had endangered anybody, or what was unreasonable or imprudent about it. And I played the scene over and over in my mind, at first chuckling, then laughing aloud.

"Your honor, I do not want to sound impudent, but I really want to know what would happen if I refused to pay the fine?" This, of course, after he'd found me guilty and ordered me to pay.

My mind replayed the "thirty dollars or thirty days" routine I heard in my childhood, and I pictured a jail in Mayberry, with Andy Taylor at his desk imposing the fine.

"Let's see," I could tell the judge, "I'm a writer and I keep getting distracted from my job. If I went to jail, I'd get fed three nutritious meals a day, and I'd have lots of time. Could I bring my computer along? No? Well, how about some three ring notebooks and pencils? Could I inspect the premises before I decide? Could I get time off for good behavior?"

It wouldn't be so bad an idea. I've never had jail experience, and might want to write about it some day. Hmmm. Besides, my kids would visit me in jail about as often as they do now. Maybe more often. Friends, too. Oh, and publicity. I wonder if it would help me sell more copies of Lolly's Yarn?

I didn't share these ideas with anybody, knowing they'd call me crazy, and that I would undoubtedly chicken out anyway.

I was going to go to court alone, but as soon as I awakened Thursday morning, I knew I had to have moral support. I called Margaret, my only eyewitness, and also David. I hated to call Margaret, knowing how super busy she was, but both agreed to go with me. David drove over, and then chauffeured me in my car. Margaret met us at the court building.

My hearing notice had named my judge as "the Honorable Richard A. Garcia." Today, in courtroom 101, Judge Huerta, a lovely woman sat behind the "bench." I heaved a sigh of relief, especially when I heard her soft-spoken, polite manner of speaking to the man ahead of me. I had one fear. Even with my hearing aids, I had great difficulty knowing what was being said by anybody. I thought my batteries may be weakening, and I'd forgotten to put new batteries in my purse. Oh, well.

We'd arrived ten or fifteen minutes early, but it was at least ten minutes past the hour before the case ahead of us finished, and the man who we'd heard presenting some dry facts about photo radar machinery and methods came over to escort me out the inner double doors and into a small room to one side. Margaret came along with me. He asked, more or less, why I was contesting the ticket, and we told him we didn't feel I had been driving recklessly. I also explained I would like to know what my options and what the judge's options were. He said he'd ask her to tell me. He did indicate that I could pay the fine in any way I chose to, lump sum, partial payments, or whatever I chose. He said nothing about not paying at all. We went back to the courtroom.

This time I sat in the "hot seat" that was anything else but hot. There was a microphone on the desk in front of me, but I didn't seem to need it.

"Can you hear me all right?"

"I can hear you fine if you speak up like you just now did."

She nodded, and the man, whose name I never did get, proceeded with his lists, of which he gave me a copy, but it meant very little to me. When he finished, the judge asked if I had any questions to ask him. I couldn't think of any.

"Do you have any questions for me?"

Judge Huerta's pleasant face reflected care and compassion. I felt confused. Me? Question the judge? I really can't recall what I stammered out.

She encouraged me, and I guessed she wanted me to tell her why I was contesting the ticket. I think I mentioned something about my age, about how I hadn't had a traffic ticket for some twenty years.

Finally, I realized I had a question. "Could you please give me the official definition of reasonable and prudent?"

The judge looked at the man. He shrugged and softly said, "We have no definition for the term reasonable and prudent" although I couldn't quite hear him. She looked back at me.

"There appears to be no definition for the term reasonable and prudent. Therefore, the case is dismissed."

I wasn't sure I'd heard her correctly. She had to repeat it for me, and added with a kindly smile, "You may go now."

I was shocked. I'd never expected this. I felt relieved and yet cheated out of a full hearing. I walked out of there, trembling enough that the man with the unknown name took my hand and escorted me through the door. David and Margaret were right behind. I still shook slightly when we reached the sidewalk.

"Mom, you're a genius. You asked exactly the right question, and they had no answer." David slapped his thigh for emphasis.

"I don't know where the inspiration came from, but I'm sure glad it came."

Margaret laughed. "I can just see the headlines. LITTLE OLD LADY WINS AGAIN."

"Will you write that article, Margaret?"

She smiled back at me but shook her head. "No. Imm too busy."

I invited them both to lunch, but Margaret had to hurry off to her visiting teaching appointment.

David and I drove to the Dairy Queen for hot fudge sundaes.