My traffic violation experience is beyond comprehensive; the 12th District Court has correctly found me guilty so many times that until this morning I actually had confidence in the justice system. I frequently hit parked cars, people, dogs, road signs and moving vehicles. I run red lights and have been known to confuse the brake pedal for the gas. My inept driving spares nothing and no one; you'd think I was a 77 year old Asian female. I blame my private driver’s training education teacher, who conducted the bookwork in his living room while 100s of taxidermy mounts watched over us. It’s impossible to pay attention while moose, deer and poached elephant heads glare at you. My parents blame my propensity to look in the mirror instead of at the road. Whichever the case, I consequently understand accident reporting procedure and the insurance claims process well. Accordingly, on November 18, 2008, I offered to call the police when a legally blind, uninsured drug addict witch turned left in front of me, thereby causing a collision. The traffic and social misfit adamantly refused my offer and suggested we “handle the issue ourselves.” Since she was clearly at-fault, her vehicle appeared stolen and I didn’t want to get ticketed for failure to report an accident, I smiled politely and dialed 911 anyway. Upsettingly, by following the law, when it comes to traffic violations, I’m at fault 99 % of the time but have been found guilty 100%.
I was alone in my vehicle, coasting along at approximately 25 mph southbound on E. Michigan Avenue in Jackson, MI when the upcoming light changed from green to yellow. I accelerated. The actual men who inspired the movie Deliverance now reside in Jackson and do not have access to a car. Accordingly, they often try to solicit rides around town from people they can easily physically overpower, especially young females sitting at red lights. For this reason I always accelerate through the yellow lights while driving through the rough part of the city. I do my best not to run RED lights. Now, I’ve accidentally blown a few reds; however, this was NOT one of those times. The light was still yellow as I entered the intersection.
My progression through the intersection came to an abrupt and violent stop when a rusty, duck taped, windowless 1986 maroon van turned right in front of me. We collided and my shiny new car catapulted the ugly redheaded stepsister of the biggest beat down hoopty you’ve ever seen flying on two wheels into a gas station parking lot. Although my vehicle looked like it just competed in and lost a demolition derby, I jumped out of my car and ran over to check on my attempted murderer.
“Are you OK?” I asked, breathless from running 20 yards. I don’t enjoy physical exertion but sprinting was my body’s natural response. I guess I just really wanted to help.
“The person who hit me ran off…” she slurred, rubbing her eyes. “Hit and run.”
I know arguing with drunk people is futile, but I couldn’t hold my tongue. “No. The person YOU hit just ran over here to check on you. The only place I ran was over to you, to make sure you were ok. You turned left in front of me.”
“Oh,” was all she could initially offer. After an awkward silence she continued. “I am sure there was a 3rd car…” THEN she put on a pair of coke bottle glasses.
“Humm… ok, sometimes after I drink a 5th I see multiples too…”
Suddenly two witnesses stepped forward, a soccer mom dressed in all pink and one of the toothless fellows who inspired Deliverance.
“Are you two all right?” the soccer mom asked.
“Do you need anything, sweet thing?” Deliverance dude winked at me then smiled a wide jack-o-lantern checkerboard of decaying teeth.
I grimaced. “No! I mean, no thanks. We’re OK. I’ll just call the police…” I vomited in my mouth just a little and turned to the boozy driver.
“What’s your name?”
“Ruth.”
“Ok, Ruth, I’m going to call the police, OK?”
“Umm… no. I think we should just handle this ourselves.”
Ha. And let her drive off and rundown a small child? Yeah right. “I’m going to call the police…” I pulled out my cell phone.
“I’ll be a witness, sugar lips!” Deliverance dude chimed in.
“That is not necessary. Just go back to the bridge you crawled out of, please,” I directed. He appeared pacified and retreated into the background.
Like the by and large law abiding citizen I am, I dialed 911, and then sat around for an hour waiting for a dispatched. Patience is a virtue I don’t possess, so I redialed 911 to re-report the accident after 60 minutes ticked by. “Hello, I reported an accident over an hour ago. I would like to report it again…”
“Is this Vanessa over at E. Michigan?”
“Yes.” Ok, I may have called more than twice.
“It is shift change. Someone will be over there when they get around to it.”
“Awesome.” I hung up and updated Ruth and Soccer Mom. “All of the officers in Jackson county are busy devouring donuts.”
A dispatched officer arrived 2 ½ hours after my initial call. Officer Diamond, a curt, stout woman, interviewed Ruth first, who declared there was a 3rd car involved. Without administering a single sobriety test, the officer thanked Ruth and moved on to Soccer Mom. When asked, Soccer Mom claimed she saw a 3rd car speed away but was unsure as to how it was involved. In addition, soccer mom told the officer the light was yellow and Ruth had turned left in front of me. The officer thanked her and turned to me.
“Excuse me, maaaammmeee…. I am a witness! I am a witness!” Deliverance dude popped out from behind a snow bank.
“Ok sir, what did you see?” the officer asked, yawning.
“She,” he pointed at me, “ran a red light!”
My jaw dropped. “It was yellow!” I rebutted.
“Ok, thanks sir. Let me talk to her alone,” the officer said.
I accurately canvassed the events Officer Diamond and did not even mention the fact that Ruth was clearly inebriated, was not wearing her glasses and did not want to call the police earlier. I simply explained: “The light was yellow and Ruth turned left in front of me. We collided.”
“What about the 3rd car?”
“I don’t remember a 3rd car. I have no idea how it was involved it there was one involved.”
She scribbled some stuff down and handed me a ticket.
“What’s this?” I examined it. “A ticked for running a red light?!”
“Yes. It’s unclear what exactly happened. Even you admitted that. Ruth doesn’t have insurance, so I already issued her a ticket. It wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t’ issue you both a ticket.” I SWEAR TO GOD THIS WAS HER RESPONSE.
“WHAT?! This is not the pre-school playground! Fair?! Fair?! Maybe you should teach 1st graders instead of patrol our streets for criminals!!”
“Calm down. If you disagree, go fight this in court.”
“What?! First off, the light was YELLOW. NOT red!” I screamed in yet another Emily Rose-like moment. “I called you! How can you punish me for something I didn’t do? You’re essentially saying that I just called the police on myself?!! Why the hell would I do that?!!!!”
She wordlessly retreated to her car.
I reached for my cell phone and dialed my cousin, Robert, who is also a man of the law. Let’s just say Officer Diamond was rather butch. I pled my case with Robert, who then requested to speak with Officer Diamond. I ran over to the patrol vehicle, tapped on the window and handed the officer my cell phone. She raised her bushy eyebrows.
“It’s my cousin; he’s a police officer in Oakland County.”
“Big mistake.” She shook her head but humored me by chatting with Robert for a few seconds before handing me my phone and rolling up the window.
“Robert?” I asked.
“Yeah… umm… she’s a huge bitch and has no idea what she’s doing. She just claimed that when the light turns yellow the person turning left has the right of way. Take it to court,” he advised.
And take it to court is just what I did.
My original court date was in January, during the filming of Pretty Wicked. Having heard an officer usually won’t appear if you reschedule several times, I rescheduled while filming the show and then rescheduled a second time after the show for good measure. My hearing was pushed back twice and officially scheduled for March 18th at 7 AM with magistrate Bishop.
“What are you wearing to court tomorrow? You’re going to wear a suit, right?” my mother asked the eve of my court date.
“I thought I would wear a tube top and a mini skirt! Seriously! Do you think I’m an idiot?”
“Just checking.”
“Mom, even a prostitute would know better than to wear her uniform to court. God!”
Now, I’m used to going to bed at 5 AM, not waking up at 5 AM, so the whole arriving on-time thing was rather difficult. However, I expedited my primping process and went with the very natural, professional look complete with a low ponytail, skirt suit, sensible heals and my black rimmed Prada glasses. Boring and appropriate. I arrived at 6:30 AM and took a seat in an empty hearing room.
At 6:59 AM 3 more people arrived. The first to catch my eye looked like a speared cocktail onion with paper thin hair. She teetered on a pair of 8 inch lucite platform heels and forgot to put her street clothes on over her Spanx. The second appeared to know Cocktail Onion because she smacked her on the ass as they stumbled together. Cocktail’s comrade was quite the flower; she sported cherry red acrylic nails ripe with decals and a hot pink nylon mini dress. At least her shoes were sensible considering the temperature: knee-high boots. Although, I’m pretty sure PVC material clothing of any type can only be purchased at Lover’s Lane and isn’t court appropriate. P Diddy’s busted 4th cousin removed limped in after the Skank Sisters. His massive hood was raised, so I couldn’t get a good look at his face. I think perhaps he was a sign language interpreter because he nodded when the next man who walked in started signing at the group of us at around 7:02. Although the signer appeared fluent in sign language, he wasn’t mute or deaf. He addressed one of the Skank Sisters as “Candy” and asked her how she’d been. Signer boy sported a gold-plated Mr. T starter kit, oversized white-T and an obese person’s black jeans. He sat next to me.
“Whud you here for? Lookin’ too sexy?” he asked.
“No, thanks though.” I smiled but couldn’t make eye contact because I was so preoccupied with his oversized pants.
“Whud you lookin’ at, girl?” He wasn’t offended, just curious.
“Did you just finish the Master Cleanse? I tried that but ate an entire cake on the 3rd day.”
“You a whack job. I don’t know shit about no Master Cleanse.”
Magistrate Bishop walked out, grumbled something and seated himself behind the mini balcony before I could respond. “Ok, Samantha Jones, please come on up.”
“Call me Candy!” she chirped. No police officer showed up to sit next to her at what looked like my middle school lunch table.
“Go Candy!” her comrade cheered.
The hearing room door creaked open, interrupting Candy’s hearing and in walked my bull legged police officer. So much for rescheduling….
Candy claimed she wasn’t really trying to out run the police officer; she was racing Cocktail Onion. Cocktail Onion concurred. I found this unlikely since Cocktail was only cited for an open 5th of vodka (2 points). The magistrate reduced Candy’s “fleeing and eluding” to “drag racing,” 4 points on her record. Cocktail Onion didn’t test positive for booze, so he let her off with a warning. Things were looking good.
At 7:20 two more women who looked like the Skank Sisters’ work associates rolled in. More lucite and PVC. A semi-normal looking man connected to a mobile oxygen machine struggled through the door at 7:30. Then at 7:35 Deliverance sauntered in. He instantly spotted me and ran his thumb across his throat.
P. Diddy refused to take a chemical test (6 points), and received a reduced citation for operating while visibly impaired (4 points). I can’t remember what everyone else received because my 5 senses crashed and I nearly passed out in response to Deliverance’s appearance.
He sat directly in front of me, thereby placing his louse infested mullet in my direct line of blurred vision.
“Why are you here?” I spat.
He turned around. “Joy riding. And you’re here for running that red, ain’t cha? Now you’ll have a witness.”
“Hemmm… can I help you two?” the magistrate interjected. Before I could respond he called me to the lunch table.
The officer read a citation summary based on Deliverance’s inaccurate vantage point. She finished by clarifying: “However, I was not present and there were conflicting stories. Only one witness on the scene was the able to offer what he claimed to be an accurate of what happened. He alleges she ran a red light and no 3rd car was involved…”
“Clear as day! She ran that red!” Deliverance stood up.
“What is going on? Witnesses must be approved 14 days prior to the hearing.” Magistrate Bishop looked annoyed. “Ok, Vanessa, do you have anything to say?”
“Yes sir,” I spoke confidently, “I do. I admit that I accelerated through a yellow light. Emphasis on yellow; the light was not red. In addition, the other car involved turned left in front of me, so I had the right away. I do not deserve to receive 3 points on my record for something I’m not guilty of.”
He considered my defense for .0005 seconds then spoke: “It’s clear you ran the red light. You even admit to going through a yellow. I find you guilty. You can pay your fine at the window where you walked into the building. Thank you. Richard Simpson?”
When I tried to argue Magistrate Bishop interrupted me. “My decision is final. You appear able to pay the citation, so I advise you to go pay it. NOW.”
I’ve retired my former “accelerate though yellow lights” policy, and decided to adopt a lead foot. I think with a little more momentum and luck Ruth’s van would have hit a gas pump and ignited. She might have even hit Deliverance. With an enormous fire to serve as a distraction, no one would have noticed me speeding away. In the improbable instance that the authorities were able to track me down and cite me for a hit and run, today I would have only 1 more point on my driving record. 4 instead of 3. In fact, Ruth might have been on to something by suggesting we not involve the police. “Failure to report an accident” is only 2 points. Sometimes doing the right thing is wrong, wrong, WRONG. I would be at least $50 richer and a slightly better driver according to the DMV had I not burned through 20 cell phone minutes with 911 dispatch, over 2 hours waiting around the scene while Officer Diamond munched on donuts and approximately 6 hours of time normally allotted for beauty sleep on court related activities. When it comes to traffic violations, rescheduling your hearing is futile, where you’re probably better off dressing like a street walker than a librarian, and involving the police is probably more reckless than the violation itself.
