The Cost of a Bad Day, 20 Years Ago and Today

Sometimes, things go wrong. One small bad thing leads to another, larger bad thing, and before you know it, you’re in the hospital or feeling the squeeze of the law’s icy embrace. More often than not, these run-ins with bad luck cost money. Much has been written about how life’s minor setbacks — a car accident, a bank error, a bout of forgivable forgetfulness in paying a bill or filling out a form — can prove calamitous, especially for the poor. I am not poor, but I am ordinary — mostly good-hearted, sometimes forgetful, bad about paperwork, and prone to speeding in my car and running red lights on my bicycle. So I offer you these true stories of the ordinary bad days of an ordinary man, both because they are object lessons in how easily well-meaning, regular people can get into legal trouble that only goes away if they have enough money on hand, and because they are amusing (schadenfreude is real, people).

1996:

I am in college, in New York, in what is probably an ill-considered long-term relationship with a wonderful woman with whom I am not a good match. Also, long-term relationships at 19, you know? Anyway, we are having a bumpy patch and agree we should take a week without seeing each other at all, just to have some space. I go out Friday night with the crew and have a fine time — nothing wild, but a nice night out: drinks, flirting, shooting pool. I crash at a friend’s house in Manhattan, and then get up early because, week off notwithstanding, my girlfriend has an appointment at Planned Parenthood Saturday morning to get birth control, and we are splitting the cost.

Riding my bicycle down Broadway at 9:00 am on a Saturday, hungover but with the morning sun on my face, life seems pretty good. I come to a T-style intersection, with a street branching off to my left. There are no cars or pedestrians anywhere. The light is red and I cruise through. Suddenly, five of New York’s finest materialize from behind a couple of parked vans and spread out across the street, waving me down. #ThanksGiuliani. (There were no hashtags in 1996, but whatever.) I stop, produce ID, and wait patiently while I get my ticket. As I’m standing there on the corner of Astor and Broadway, a friend wanders up, plainly stoned, and offers me a spare ticket to go see a concert on Roosevelt Island that day, which I must decline, owing to my Planned Parenthood obligation in Brooklyn. Eventually, $175 ticket in my pocket, I proceed south. Heading onto the Brooklyn Bridge, a car hits me and bruises my knee. When I reach my girlfriend’s house, she informs me solemnly that she cheated on me the night before. I start drinking at 11:00, plead with a friend to get me out of town, and somehow end the day passed out at a party full of strangers in Troy, New York.

Postscript: I will end up getting back together with the girlfriend, because 19 years old. New York City will send me notices threatening to suspend my license if I don’t pay the ticket. I will laugh, because I don’t have a license. Then they’ll say they’ve suspended my license, and I’ll laugh some more. Then they’ll send me a summons and a threat to garnish my wages, and I’ll pay $175, plus a $75 surcharge, which the city will inexplicably refund.

Costs:
Ticket: $175
Round-trip bus ticket to Albany: $25
Booze: $30
Items lost: notional driver’s license; opportunity to see A Tribe Called Quest; pride.

2016:

I am driving around Hartford, where I live, in the short school bus I usually use to transport members of my brass band to gigs (that’s the side job), collecting donated furniture for a woman I represent (that’s the day job) who has recently gotten housing for her and her children after leaving a violent relationship. I clip the sideview mirror of another short bus that is idling at a stop (no passengers, just the driver waiting for something), so I pull over to give him my information and say it was my fault. Because he’s on the job, he has all kinds of accident-related reporting duties, including a police report, so I call the non-emergency number so I can tell the cops directly that it was my fault. So we wait an hour for a cop. When the cop runs my information, he says, “Any reason why your license would be suspended?” Through the sinking feeling of a person with two children who lives in a car-centric part of the country, I calmly say, “What?! I had no idea! Does it say why?” It does not say why, only that the suspension just happened a week earlier. The cop lets me go without a summons (#whiteprivilege #FTW) and tells me to go sort it out with the DMV.

After a very long wait on the phone, I learn that I have an unpaid ticket of some kind from Princetown, New York (near Troy!). Did I get a ticket in central New York? Probably. My aunt died of cancer in March, and for many months, I was making the five-hour drive to Ithaca just about every weekend to visit her in hospice and clean up her house. In those circumstances, “80 in a 65” is pretty much my middle name. Usually I accept the odd speeding ticket as the cost of doing business and pay promptly, but this time, traveling with a car full of family heirlooms and a heavy heart, I must have let it slip.

At least, that’s what I assume has happened. All I know for sure is the place it happened and the ticket number. I call the marvelously named Princetown Justice Court, which I learn is open only Mondays and Wednesdays, and get a message telling me they are busy and I should call back later. Online, I learn that court is open for the adjudication of traffic and other charges only on Wednesdays at 5:00 pm. It is Wednesday at 1:00 pm, Princetown is two hours away, and I have a suspended license.

Luckily, I have a very good and loyal friends who can leave work and drive me to upstate New York to contend with Johnny Law. I head home to get out of my work clothes, figuring no one in a rural town court will give me any points for being a lawyer, and drive lawlessly through Hartford to pick up my friend, who has a license but no car.

On the road, I finally get through to the Justice Court:

Me: My license got suspended from an overdue ticket, and I’d like to come pay it. Also, can you tell me what, exactly the ticket was for, and from when?

Court Lady (after I give her the ticket number): Speeding on February 28.

Me: Huh. I don’t remember that at all, but OK. How much is the fine?

Her: Do you honestly expect me to believe that you were stopped and gave your license and received a ticket and you don’t remember it?!

Me: I WILL PAY THE TICKET. How much is it?

Her: Well! It’s not that simple! You have to come here and talk to the Assistant District Attorney and plead guilty, and then we’ll see what the judge does.

Me: I’m guilty! How much is the ticket?

Her: [Cell service lost / she hung up on me]

In the end, it works out. My aborted phone call was apparently enough for them to put me on the docket. The ADA pleads me down from reckless driving (80 in a 65!) to failure to obey a traffic control device, which comes with a fine and a mandatory defensive driving class. I plead, and the judge imposes the minimum fine, which amounts to $322 with all the various surcharges included. Then the actual judge, black robe and all, runs my credit card, has me sign the slip, and prints a certificate saying my suspension is lifted, assuring me that there is an multistate computer system and I’ll be good to go back in Connecticut.

Costs:
Ticket: $322
Gas: $28
Dinner at a Brazilian steakhouse for my very good friend who drove me to upstate New York on short notice: $51

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