No justice, no shit

"ATTICA!"

"ATTICA!"

"ATTICA!"

That was the defiant tone I had hoped to bring to a Santa Monica courthouse last week as I was determined to do battle with our twisted justice system that dishes out $500 tickets to hard-working (OK, not so much anymore) taxpayers for one minor lapse of attention while sailing by a Reich-installed red light camera.

The same selective system that ignores a physical attack by a homeless dude on one of the respected members of the citizenry (me). Or lets a degenerate faux politician incite a riot in a deplorable attempt to bring down America.

In other words, I was loaded for bear.

But that's not exactly how things went down. When I arrived at the courthouse, 15 minutes early -- because that's how I roll and the righteous adrenalin had got the best of me -- I was greeted by a bailiff. He was even older than me. And far from fired up, he was quite weary. Probably from all his years in law enforcement. 

"You're not gonna beat this ticket. No one does. And there are so many red light camera tickets now. The docket is full. Meaning the judge has no interest in hearing your case or seeing your best F. Lee Bailey impersonation. So go in there, plead guilty, agree to traffic school, and the judge will cut the fine in half. 

Or, plead Not Guilty, which from your tweed jacket with the elbow patches and the faux leather briefcase bought from a local Goodwill Store, you clearly want to do, and the judge will set a court date, around Christmas time. And you'll end up paying the full boat. Guaran-fucking-teed."

So much for Plan A.

But this is where it gets interesting. 

After 10 minutes of bureaucratic legal procedures, the judge who was once mayor of Los Angeles, said, "when I call your name, approach the bench, make your plea, answer the questions, you'll get your paperwork and we'll have you out of here in 20 minutes."

That was sounding good. Even better, there were only 6-7 violaters, so this would end mercifully quick. Even if my name were called last, which I fully expected.

"Siegel, Richard...," the judge said unexpectedly.

Damn, it was my lucky day. sort of. But being the first left me a little confused as to where to go. There was a table for Defendants/Plaintiffs. There was a high desk cordoned off for the Court Clerk. And then there was the box the judge sat in. 

His perch was literally 7 feet above plebe level. 

As of late, I find the whole judges-are-like-gods thing quite infuriating. Alito, Thomas, Cannon are completely unfit for that damn once sacred robe. OK, I'm digressing, this is best saved for another blog. 

So I step out from the gallery and head towards the clerk.

"STOP! STOP RIGHT NOW!" I hear, a bolt from above.

The judge, literally stands up and is shouting at me!

"Do not take another step forward. Don't you ever step foot inside The Well," the judge scolded again. 

(Me, fighting the urge to laugh)

"Haven't you ever seen a TV show about being in court?What is wrong with you man?"

(Me, fighting the urge to laugh and to tell the judge I was Jury foreman. Twice.)

"Stand over there," he said shaking his head and rolling his eyes. "How do you plead?"

Knowing this schmuck, who clearly hates his job adjudicating traffic and parking tickets in the not-so-golden years of his life, could summarily toss me in the cement cell for showing the slightest sign of disrespect, I grit my me teeth and fight the urge to laugh. Save it for the blog I tell myself. Save it for the blog.

"Sir, how do you plead?"

"Guilty. Thank you your honor."

Attica will have to wait for another day.