Elyse Goes to Traffic Court

I'd like to take a moment to make sure I place blame on the REAL cause of my traffic incident; namely the song "You Don't Know You're Beautiful" by OneDirection. It was playing really, really loudly on the perfect Spring day when I was driving home from work and found myself accidentally going several miles over the "maximum suggested speed."

I saw the flashing lights. My body sort of went into shock, and I did what any other reasonable romantic-comedy-watching female would do: I cried. Oh man, I cried. By the time I had moved on to the side of the road, I already looked like an extra during the funeral scene in "My Girl." Mascara down the face, wetness everywhere, stuffy nose. Though I could have impressed any Lifetime TV producer, this was not for dramatic effect; I was legitimately upset. But remembering tales of my fellow women who had managed to get out of speeding tickets using their delicateness and feminine wiles, I soldiered on with the roadside catharsis. The officer who stopped me looked young (!) and not ugly (!!) so for a split-second I thought "Oh, I've GOT this." But no such luck.

"Ma'am, are you aware that you are listening to OneDirection and you're 26?"

Because at this point I was COMPLETELY inconsolable at the injustice of it all, I was thankful that the questions he asked me were very easy: Did I realize how fast I was going? Nope. Did I realize that the posted speed was 55 mph? No. Am I aware that "x" amount of miles over the speed limit is considered reckless driving? Yep. Can I give him my license and registration? Yes, let me wipe the mascara off of that for you...

He walked back to his motorcycle (yes) and took about 15 minutes to do I-don't-know-what. The guy didn't even have a glove compartment! "Are you filling out my loan application back there, or what?!" I wanted to say. But I remembered some anecdote about people getting reduced fines for "being polite" or something so I held back.

"Ma'am this is a speeding tick- ma'am? Stop crying so you can hear me."
"Oh-oh-oooohkay" (still crying)
"This shows a court date of May 3, 9:30. Sign here."
**blows nose into Quiznos napkin**
"I'll be more careful from now on"
"You're getting snot all over the steering wheel. Drive safe."

So there went my demeanor for the rest of the weekend. Actually, for only about 15 minutes because that's my average rebound rate. M tried to ameliorate the situation by explaining to me the ins and outs of traffic court (while employing a heavy-handed dose of "why-were-you-driving-so-fast-you-silly-leadfooted-woman") and I started to feel a little better. Much like Scarlet O'Hara, I penciled my court date into my planner and resolved to ONLY start worrying about it at 5:00 p.m. on the night before my court date.






This morning, I woke up with the sun. I showered AND washed my hair. I picked out a killer outfit. I put on earrings, pearls, and high-heels. Urban Decay doesn't make an "Innocent Eyes" eyeshadow palate but I tried my best to draw out the "innocence" in them with a little eyeliner and double mascara. Waterproof. Just in case. Unlike my boyfriend who's day-to-day involves dressing up and hanging out at the court house, the thought of what was about to transpire made me extremely nervous. In my head, I thought: Fines. Jail time. Death penalty. Prison food. Taking away the keys to my precious PEEPERZ Jeep. Child support. Orange jumpsuit. For the first time since my bout of Fifth's Disease, I declined any morning coffee. My stomach had turned into the filming site for "Project X." I drove to the court house, contemplating the pro's and con's of vomiting into my cup holders. I actually dry-heaved into my hands at a red light, looked over to see a woman in a Suburban looking at me, horrified. "Oh I'm not pregnant...it's just traffic court!" I gave her a thumbs-up.

I arrived at court extra-early, to give myself enough time to marvel at the great justice center which I support with my tax dollars. To be honest though, I arrived early on accident because I thought I had to be there at 9. After walking through the metal-detectors, I was dismayed to find out that there was no giant sign with flashing lights that said "TRAFFIC COURT OVER HERE. PAGING ELYSE GRANGER" so instead I stood there bewildered like a naked mole rat seeing the sun for the first time, hoping someone would look at the yellow ticket in my outstretched hand, put their hands on my shoulders and steer me toward the right room. "Are you lost, sweetheart?" FINALLY a bailiff noticed me standing there confused and scared like a man in a Sephora store and pointed me in the right direction. Pacing the hallway with Henrico County's assortment of murderers, rapists, parking offenders, and serial killers (not really though, I think they put them somewhere different), I waited for my fate. They cattle-called us in, and I walked in behind a mother who was literally breastfeeding a baby in one arm, and pushing a baby in a stroller with the other. "NO FAIR, I didn't know we could bring props to this thing!" 

I mentally ran Michael's advice through my head, and reminded myself sternly to say "your Honor" instead of ma'am. No big deal, I thought, just pretend you're at Formal Chapter and you're addressing the sorority president with her special title. I activated "innocent-face" and chose a seat next to a man with platform Chuck Taylors and a ponytail. The next 15 minutes went by very fast, like a courtroom montage on SVU. I didn't have to say "OBJECTION!" or submit evidence in the form of a OneDirection CD or anything like that. I got off with a lesser charge, owing to being "extremely polite and cooperative during the stop." Snot notwithstanding. Thank you, Officer Motorcycle!

I emerged from the building triumphant, happy to have experienced the justice process in action. I rewarded myself with some coffee, feeling smug.

I didn't even have to use my prepared statement detailing my traumatic childhood of being forced to wear horrible outfits and walk my younger sister to every public bathroom.

Sometimes I love the law.

- Elyse