9:10 am
I arrive at Tinton Falls Municipal Court 10 minutes late, but confident, with a stack of documents in hand. Two months earlier I was issued a ticket for “use of handheld device.” Yes, I was holding an iPhone in my hand while driving—but it also happens to be an MP3 player, which I play through my car speakers.
I did my research and found the relevant law, which states: “no phone, texting or use of communications” while driving. I printed it out along with my phone and text records to show that I was not communicating at the time I was ticketed. I was ready to defend myself.
The courtroom is packed with at least 400 people. I take my place among the standees.
All eyes are on the man enthroned above us in his black robe. In front of the judge stands an intimidating-looking sergeant in a smart uniform, his face frozen in a half-frown.
With brisk gestures and terse commands, the judge conducts the room like an orchestra. Opening files like so many musical scores, he quickly sizes up each case.
“Sir, you’re aware of the charges…?”
“You can settle it in court today for $750, or you have the right to an attorney….”
One hapless defendant after another is strong-armed into filling the city coffers. The judge clearly enjoys his job. I am getting angry.
10 am
I find a seat.
10:30 am
Someone’s cell phone rings. The sergeant completes his frown.
11 am
I’m starting to get hungry.
12 pm
A smartly dressed young man stands. He doesn’t have that defeated, submissive look. The judge is visibly agitated. He pronounces the terms. “Pay $900 in fines today and avoid possible suspension of license.” The smartly dressed guy wants to say something, but the judge cuts him off.
“Trust me, this is what you want!”
Nausea wells up inside me.
1 pm
There are about 100 of us left. The judge is working faster now.
I hear bits of dialogue.
“Work it out with the prosecutor.”
“$250 surcharge.”
“$35 court fees.”
My hands are getting clammy; my mouth is dry. I’m starting to rethink my strategy.
1:03 pm
The judge walks out. We are warned not to leave.
1:36 pm
Hearing my name, I walk to the front of the courtroom and take a seat near a hulking police captain. He examines my file, runs his hand through his hair and looks up at me.
“There are no points for this ticket, why are you here?”
I answer weakly. “I’m not guilty.”
He looks at me quizzically.
I explain about the MP3 player.
The captain whispers something to the prosecutor sitting beside him.
The prosecutor declares, “That’s also illegal.”
I try to protest.
Eyes bulging behind metal glasses, the prosecutor cuts me off. “You’re arguing with me?”
The sergeant comes over to see what’s going on.
They all look so well fed.
The prosecutor continues, “You could wait for the judge to come back, plead not guilty when your turn comes, then get a trial date, spend another day here, and if you lose you’ll have to pay double the fine, plus $250 and court fees.”
My heart races. My stomach rumbles. The energy is draining out of me. I prepare to speak. The captain gives me a wink. “Come on Michael, it’s just $130. I’ll walk you to the window.”
1:59 pm
I am beaten.
Michael J. Schnitzler is a freelance writer based in Lakewood.