My Day In Court
If you’ve never driven in Culver City, let me save you a lot of time and money and suffering with this succinct piece of advice: don’t. It’s an uppity, crotchety, stuck in his ways uncle where nothing he says or does makes any sense.
Culver, where known and uniform driving rules are thrown out the window as they exclude you from their inside jokes and cackle, “You thought wrong!”
Where one random intersection forbids a right on red so violently that two weeks after being caught in a flashing blitz of confusion I found myself choking on a homemade margarita and staring at a grainy red light camera image of myself above an outstanding bail amount (yes, bail!!!??) of $486.
For turning right on red.
Nowhere else in LA have I encountered such a rule. Heading to a catchup dinner with a boss I worked for six years prior, I’ll admit this was not a neck of the woods I was intimate with. And ok, I’ll even admit that I was already worried about the ticking clock and fearing where I’d find parking, my brain one little layer below “clear.”
However.
On the corner of Washington and National, the since-shuttered destination restaurant literally in arms reach, I did what one normally does: turns. For the record, at this very moment google maps is placing this location at 12 minutes from my permanent residence. The aggression by which this law changes is simply unjust. I looked left (see: photo evidence!), saw no cars, and headed on my merry way. Before I knew what was happening flashbulbs were blinding me as I darted into a parking structure and pondered, my heart slowly and regrettably sinking.
I walked into the restaurant and greeted my old boss with a hug and a disgruntled “I might’ve just gotten a ticket??” which she laughed off, knowingly. “Oh, Culver.” Was this a cute little quip to the residents of this eighth circle of hell? I prayed I was wrong, my eyes had played tricks, I had in fact seen NO SIGN alluding to any legal demise. I pushed it out of mind.
2 weeks later,
the citation was in the mail, pointing its wrinkly finger at me. Crotchety Uncle.
$486? I was aghast. I didn’t run a red, I wasn’t speeding, I didn’t impede traffic, I was literally no harm to anyone. I turned right when no cars were coming. Sue me! (But actually, don’t. I beg you. I have only crumbs.)
I immediately fell down a Reddit hole trying to figure out if this could actually be real. Some comments appeased my desire to ignore it, but after consulting my boyfriend’s lawyer aunt I realized ignoring it would simply not do. Not only did I have to pay this elaborate bail, I was required to complete traffic school and provided court details to stand trial. Fine print mentioned a possibility of community service. Extra was an understatement.
After pushing it all off for as long as I possibly could, I finally called the hot line to acquire my “arraignment details.” February 27, 2024, at 1:30pm. It was currently August. Works for me.
I went back
to the scene of the crime and gathered my evidence, snapping pictures of every possible sight from the path my car had driven. The one and only sign was whatever the hell this is. No literally, what does this mean? Am I seriously meant to surmise that a traffic light symbol = no right on red?? I deemed my case strong.
Half a year later,
I glided through the metal detectors of the Santa Monica courthouse as my bowels gurgled. Channeling my best Saul, I paced outside of “Department B” with my files in hand, a giant sign screaming that court was in session and thou shalt not enter. I gulped.
“Name?” An officer grumbled to the ether without so much as a glance up. “Baldwin”, I quivered, praying I had made it as if this was the high school musical cast list. I hadn’t received any documentation or confirmation for this whole ordeal and I was starting to wonder if I had dreamt it all up, a latent effect of the hundreds of true crime documentaries orbiting my subconscious. He nodded and checked me off. Guess I hadn’t.
At 1:31pm all 10 of us criminals trickled into the courtroom. Caution tape inexplicably roped around the front pews, we took our respective seats. I lingered behind a very old man because, frankly, he felt safe. I set my gaze on the desk in front of me with microphones and placards for the plaintiff and defendants, in so far over my head I was fully scraping bottom.
They latched the doors shut and a voice emitted from the ceiling, Smart House at her finest. I went full law student cosplay as ten minutes of elaborate legal details droned on from Madame AI, anxiously debating whether I should be taking notes before finally clocking out at the reading of my right to an attorney. I wondered if I had this all wrong, suddenly vibrating with a vision of handcuffs slapping my wrists, the judge laughing at poor silly Kelly, thinking she could fight the system. I’d soon be hauled off to prison, my destiny to stumble into the filming of 60 Days In and finally become the reality star I always knew I’d be.
The holy judge appeared as if by light beam, informing us that she actually wasn’t a real judge and we had the right to refuse her. In a room full of traffic violating misfits with barely a leg to stand on, we sat there, still and silent. She carried on.
She called the first case number and another - this time human - voice, billowed out of the intercom. Immediately spewing off the evidence disputing four client violations, I was confused. I glanced around and awkwardly tried to sip from my squeaking water bottle as quietly as possible. Was I supposed to have an attorney? Yes, Your Honor, Yes, Your Honor, Yes, Your Honor, my brain looped.
Finally those of us present in the room began to be called. She’d read the violation and ask how they pleaded: Not Guilty. Not Guilty. Not Guilty. Guilty - she laughed. “You said guilty? Thanks for making it easy!” One man with face tattoos and a backwards baseball cap they made him remove pled No Contest for speeding and running a red and driving an unregistered car… because he had been on parole and was an army vet and his destination that very early morning had been a volunteering facility. The non-judge judge was ill equipped for whatever this argument was, and just told him to sit back down. She’ll get to him later.
As I began recognizing how low stakes and routine this all was, my pulse eased and I found myself starting to enjoy the show. I felt like an SVU cast member and was here for it. She called my number and then my name, and I made my way to the front of the room. “Hello, Your Honor”, I smiled warmly. My heart skipped a beat.
“You’re in violation of… oh, this is a red light camera ticket… um… what’s goin on?!” She said casually. Breaking from the simple script she had used with everyone else, all I could do was think “of course.” As chagrined as I was I couldn’t help but feel special. I was first on the call sheet, and this was my show now.
“I’m pleading not-guilty and contesting the ticket due to insufficient signage. I have evidence to present.”… And in an instant I had become a lawyer. WHAT LIKE IT’S HARD??
“Oh…this is the light on Washington and National…”
The law is stupid.
“I can offer you a deal. I can give you half off your ticket if you pay it today.”
The law is stupid and they know it!
I sighed and bowed my head. Again, the only person out of the whole room faced with a Sophie’s choice, I weighed my options.
“I can’t take your evidence today but if you choose to fight, you can present that at your trial.”
Ugh. My trial. Ugh. Don’t like the sound of that. The cards were stacked against me, disputing a red light camera and all. But even this judge knew that light was bogus. My evidence made me confident. Cocky, even.
Deal or no deal. Deal or no deal. Deal or…
“I’ll fight.”
And that was that. She gave me a court date of August 29, and sent me on my way. I felt pretty proud, and a little regretful, and a lot Elle Woods. I burst onto the courtroom steps and soaked in the sun. I was a success. I was a lawyer. I was a free woman.
For now…