Court Date- no names of course

Monday morning I travelled out to Markham road to deal with my friend's two traffic tickets as he is out of the country. I expected to be in and out in ten minutes, good deed done, let's get some cheap ham and eggs at the open 24 hours "Markham Station" (wait, is it open 24 hours, or does it have all day breakfast? Doesn't matter.) before bussing it down to work.

I arrived fashionably early, twenty minutes to the required 9am. I hopped into the bathroom so I wouldn't have any distracting urges to pee later. I find my door, where I have to pass through a metal detector, leaving all my belongings (backpack with book, wallet, cell phone and... the two buttons that has come off my jacket) in the plastic bin as I walked through and had the wand waved around me, it's various theremin like sound effects completely undecipherable (okay, it WISHES it sounded like a theremin. Ah, the theremin- the electronic device all other electronic devices wish they sounded like.). Cleared, I begin to walk away, until the officer points out I'd forgotten to take back my two buttons from the bin.

"Thanks. They're important!" I say, fully convinced of my own status as a charming, absent minded professor type. Rather, this hits later as a harsh foreshadowing of things to come. A clue revealing my own foolishness for whatever audience may have been following along at home. (you say my life isn't a boring tv show? I need to call my agent..)

I'm waiting outside the door labelled E-1. A cluster of people gathered around, some clutching their own tickets. I didn't particularly stop to consider them. I was far too pleased with myself for finding my friends name up on the, what, docket sheet? The sheet of paper posted to the wall.

The doors are opened by a cute young woman with wavy hair held back by a... um. Not an elastic, not a scrunchie, not quite the semi-circle thing girls wear (although that's pretty close!). Dare I say headband? Is that an option? Alright, let's go with headband. Except she didn't look that young, thanks entirely to her tired eyes and pallid skin. She announced the judge coming in when that happened. What's the job again? She clearly wasn't the bailiff, they off the "... take that man into custody!" cliche holder. Court reporter? Was she the stenographer? Man, I don't know a lot.

Taking charge was a short, white haired woman with a slight accent, sort of a british/australian thing going on. She was the prosecutor, and we all lined up before her to quickly say what we wanted to happen. Most just plead guilty, getting reduced fines. Some ancillary tickets were then waved after the fact. I don't think I actually saw anyone there say "I want to fight this." There were people that wanted to explain things away- I was one of them- but nothing as straightforward as "innocent."

My secret hope, secret in that I didn't want to mention it aloud to the Madame Prosecutor, was that I wanted the officer that issued the tickets to not show up, and therefore to have the tickets thrown out, or waved or whatever you'd call it. I kept my ears pricked for any indication about this. I finally got it when someone at the front was asking about whether the officers had arrived and the Prosecutor said to everyone "okay, I don't want to hear from anyone about whether the officers are here. One is here, the other isn't."

A fifty-fifty chance then? Okay, okay, fifty-fifty. I needn't worry about things until there's something to worry about. Then the other shoe dropped. "Okay, both officers are here now."

Unprecedented! Here I'd been told the cops rarely show up for these things, the courts counting on people paying up front, well I'll tell you right now, going to court my experience is that they show up!

It was at this point that I began mentally cursing a blue streak. What was I asked to do? I was told if he ended up having to pay the tickets, well that's how it goes sometimes. But the officer, as I was told, even said to fight the second ticket, with a single sheet of what had carried the insurance permit sticker... thing (I clearly do NOT have the vocabulary to be telling this story. However if I did, then I'd have the experience necessary to keep this story from existing altogether.). When it's my turn with the prosecutor, I try to say that the first ticket is one thing, but this other one I've got this thing *shows insurance permit sticker thing* and...

"There is no discussion about individual tickets. What do you want to do?" (I'm, once again, super paraphrasing.)

"Ah, well, I'm not entirely..."

"Then you should call your friend and see what he wants to do."

My friend not being in the country, and entirely lacking any phone I could reach him at, this was a quandary. Not having any ready answers, my face burned red with embarrassment.

I resumed my seat on the hard wooden benches. I can't help but think now how much like a church it was- hard pews, robed uniforms for the girl and judge, codified rules of conduct. Very strict. Not pentecostal. May have spelled that wrong.

I waited for my time to be called up, soaking up the appropriate procedure so I could avoid the mistakes of others. I can make my own mistakes, thank you very much. Right then I thought- I get it. I get why people are so fearful of the police and the courts and the system of law we have here. We've propped up this system that leaves us at the mercy of the good or bad days of a man in a dress. It's a whole separate language needed to navigate this small world. I like to kid around, poke fun at whatever seems pokefunable. Like the concept of calling someone "Your honour". That seems ridiculous to me. Or the people that feel the need to remind you that they've spent X number of years too many, that it's DOCTOR not MISTER thankyewverymuch. But I'm aware that contempt of court is a thing, and that this is a world where any unfortunate thing can happen, so I'm yelling at my tongue to please mind your manners.

When the judge comes out, for whom we all stand, he seems like a nice guy. He's serious, he's straightforward, but softspoken and considerate. I'm still terrified of what he can do, and certainly still terrified of the Madame Prosecutor. One proxy comes up, explaining that his father doesn't drive much anymore, and is living off his savings, both of which because he's dealing with cancer. I don't know the original infraction, or the original cost of the ticket, but the judge first ruled the fine be $100, then the proxy (the man's step-son I think) talked about the living off of his saving, and the judge reduced it to $50.

I guess it all depends on what the original ticket was, but I certainly got a good impression of the judge from how quick he was to help this person out.

Meanwhile, I was still wrestling with my dilema. Is my only option to plead guilty? Pleading guilty on behalf of another man? When I have no idea whether he's guilty or not? For the other proxys, the judge always asks after they say "guilty" whether the person understands the repurcussions of pleading guilty. I certainly didn't understand the repurcussions in my case, did my friend? Is it just the cost on the ticket, or were there demerit points involved, and insurance brackets to get pushed into? Is this a one time cost, or something that'd follow my friend around for years? From both a metaphysical and a practical perspective, this was a surprisingly heavy burden.

The time had finally come for me to step forward. I (finally) got to explain the fact that my friend was out of the country to the prosecutor, and so she started in on the idea of a separate court date. I stated my name to the court, spelled it out quick and clear. Well, at least I hadn't forgotten my own name! Then I immediately set to work contradicting myself with the prosecutor. I can't even quite remember what I said, all I know is that there was certainly a confused look on peoples faces. The judge explained that you can't fight the ticket without a person who was present there. I certainly don't begrudge the explanation, though by this time I'd figured that much out. The Madame Prosecutor suggests a May 22, 2013 court date, in room E-2 at 10:30am (that's a reminder for me- there will be no notices mailed!!) and I'm asked if that's an appropriate amount of time, six months, right? Having lost the ability to do simple math, I half heartedly nodded and said "sure".

The judge once again asked what I wanted to do, what my friend wanted to do, and I said (this part I remember quite clearly): "Well, I know he'd want this matter resolved!" and the judge has this understanding half-smile and says "but you don't quite know for sure".

Told to write down that new court date, which I hastily did.. I PROBABLY said thank you, but I can't honestly remember.

I sit back down on the bench for a few seconds before I think "oh, uh, I just leave, I guess?" Even though I watched bunches of people leave immediately after speaking before the court, watched SPECIFICALLY so I would know what to do before, during, and after.

I left, not quite sure whether I did the right thing at all or not. E-2? Is that just another random room, or is it specifically for cases that have been delayed, or... I don't know! Is there any significance to that room?!?

I walked into the Markham Station restuarant. I got a seat, ordered the breakfast special, with special emphasis on having my eggs "SUNNY SIDE up!" in a moment of absurd positive energy. I may be a character from Annie. I definitely was one in that moment. I got a glass of water, and some new, cleaner cutlery. My server was really nice, and she seemed charmed well enough by my manners, my smile, my ability to use the instant credit-machine thing, and my two dollar tip on a five dollar breakast.

"You know, I hardly ever actually use my credit card. I actually just used the wrong pin- I got it the second time though."

"Oh, well, good for you not using the credit card. And oh, I know about forgetting your pin, I do that all the time with my mastercard, because I hardly ever use the thing!"

Okay, this was a world I was equipped to deal with. I was glad to be back in it.