I fought the law and I won

This week, I was in a courtroom for the first time in almost 17 years.

Decades ago, after watching too many episodes of “L.A. Law,” I went to law school. For about five years I actually worked as an attorney, but the legal life was nothing like I expected. I was the kind of lawyer who pored through 200-page agreements looking for typos while chugging free but terrible coffee.

It was not for me. Long legal documents made my head swim, and I’d wake up at night shouting, “Billable hours! Billable hours!” And with five kids, coming home at 10 p.m. with a briefcase full of homework just didn’t fit. So I put my law license on the shelf and never looked back.

Then last fall, my wife and I got a parking ticket in Virginia while visiting our daughter at college. The ticket was for an expired registration and it would cost —get this — 60 bucks. The worst part? The registration was valid. My wife slapped the ticket on my chest and said, “You're fighting this!”

I started the way I deal with most things — writing a long, detailed, passionate letter that is completely ignored. I sat down and typed my argument: The car didn’t have a sticker on it, I said, because Pennsylvania did away with the requirement for stickers. This was all a big mistake.

A week later, I got my response. Pay up, they said. We checked with Pennsylvania and your car was not registered.

I wrote back again, saying that we’d just gotten this car, and Pennsylvania’s antiquated DMV (remember, we still used stickers until recently!) must have taken a few weeks to get the registration on the books. I sent along a copy of our temporary registration and a picture of the permanent registration showing it had just arrived in the mail.

They wrote back again, saying that those were just pictures, and how do we know you didn’t doctor them? Pay UP.

I wrote back. I’d provided them with proof that my car was registered at all times. Perhaps they didn’t read my extremely wellwritten and persuasive letters carefully enough.

They wrote back within a day, saying, in effect, that I was the one with poor reading comprehension, and we were now up to 100 bucks thanks to late fees. PAY UP OR GO TO COURT.

I work in Virginia anyway, so I took the court option. The morning of the hearing, I put on my best (well, my only) suit and put all my evidence in a fancy leather (well, imitation leather) binder with documents tabbed for quick access. I practiced my lawyer skills in the mirror, holding up my evidence, adjusting my glasses, and saying things like, “May I approach the bench?” and “I object!”

On the morning of my day in traffic court, I was delayed — ironically enough — by traffic and arrived at the courthouse with just minutes to spare. Rushing in the front door, I found a long security line. I’d have to go through a metal detector but not before removing my belt, shoes, wallet, watch and pocket change. I got to Courtroom D sweating and out of breath, still buckling my belt.

Inside, the spectator seats were filled with everyone from kids fighting speeding tickets to miscreants who were most likely going to be back in this same courthouse for something more serious before long. There were real lawyers hovering about looking nervous and overworked and a whole row of scary-looking uniformed officers, the kind who stand with their arms jutting out because it makes them look like they have too many muscles to put their arms down.

We came up as our names were called. The first defendant was a dope who failed to show up for his first hearing and was desperately hoping not to go to jail. The second, a man who spoke so little English that nobody, including him, was sure whether he was actually the defendant. Then they called my name. I walked up, straightened my tie, opened up my binder, and cleared my throat.

Before I could speak, the judge glanced up and said, “Expired registration? Taken care of by now?”

I started to answer and the judge called out, “Dismissed! Next!”

I turned around, looked at the motley crowd of defendants and resisted the urge to raise my arms in victory.

I probably will never get back in the law game again, but if I decide to, I can put on my resume, without exaggeration, that I have won every single court case I have handled.