March 11th 3:43pm - Hall of Justice

Yesterday my experiences expanded, as my warrant exposed me to the paramount proceedings of San Francisco's justice system. The January warrant discovery was like choking on a baby in a King Cake - unexpected and undesirable. The $10 side mirror fix-it ticket stretched Pinocchio-nose-status to $300 bail. Over the previous sixteen months my side mirror conjoined to the car by surfeits of styles including duct tape, Scotch tape, and - durable for thirteen months before being ticketed - an Ace bandage. Ticketed in August, I archaic-mailed the auto-body receipt to whom I deemed the appropriate arena within the Trafficking Division, and assumed no answer = fix-it ticket success. This was wrong. 

The following composed the conversation between The Honorable Judge - whose nose's doppleganger was, incidentally, Pinocchio's after four lies - and myself:

H. Judge: "You didn't pay a fix-it ticket."

Me: "I didn't know I had to pay, your Honor. I thought fix-it tickets meant you fix it, you don't pay."

H. Judge: "It was a $10 fee."

Me: "Yes, I now know that. I didn't at the time."

H. Judge: "So you didn't read the ticket. Do you have the original ticket with you?"

Me: "No sir."

H. Judge: "When you scheduled this appearance you got a copy of the ticket. Do you have that with you?" 

Me: "No sir."

H. Judge: "So you have no copy of the ticket signed off by a police officer?"

Me: "No sir."

H. Judge: "Do you have any proof at all that you rectified the situation and fixed the side mirror?"

Me: "No."

H. Judge: "Is the car here so a policeman can walk out, review the car, sign it, and you can come back in with proof?"

Me: "No. I sold the car three weeks ago."

At this point his nose looked deceivingly dagger-ish desiring to be lanced directly and deeply into my throat. The Honorable Pinocchio requested my license plate, I provided it, and he rotated the screen so I could have the honor of seeing my name as the registered owner. 

Me: "Uhhhh," was my intelligent response.

H. Judge: "Do you plead guilty?"

Me: "Does that mean I don't have to pay $300?"

H. Judge: "Yes."

Me: "Then YES."

H. Judge: "You owe $50. Here's your bill. Go downstairs, pay, and get your life together."

Me: "Yessir!"