Would there come now the sound of jackboots on my doorsteps . . . . ? : Between the Court and a Hard Place

Things like this do not happen to me, they happen to other people and I write about them. The way it’s supposed to work is you call me, weeping bitterly, and say you are trapped in the system and unable to extricate yourself and, dear God, would I help?

I listen patiently and sometimes I say “There, there now.” Then I pick up the telephone, make one call, write a column and bingo! Your problem is solved.

Afterward, I respond to the cheers by blessing the multitudes from the balcony of the Times building in Chatsworth. They won’t let me near the main building, else I would bless the crowds from the Times building downtown.

That’s the way it’s supposed to work.

This is the way it really works:

Last June, my 20-year-old son Marty was cited for making an illegal left turn. He would have taken care of the matter himself, but the next day he was moving to Eureka. So good old dad (the poor boob) volunteered to handle it.

I did not anticipate the notice that said the lad was supposed to appear personally in Municipal Court, but that seemed to present no major problems. I simply telephoned the clerk’s office to say he could not appear and they said fine, send $35 and that will be that. I sent a check and wished all of America could function so smoothly.

The euphoria was short-lived. A few days later the court returned the check and said Marty also had to furnish proof of a valid driver’s license, which, their records indicated, had been suspended by the state Department of Motor Vehicles.

I wrote the DMV and they said the license was suspended because my son did not have liability insurance at the time of a minor traffic accident the prior year. I insisted that he did have insurance because I was paying for it and they then said I must have my insurance company file an SR-22/SR-1P on his behalf.

A what?

An SR-22/SR-1P.

I believe it was at this point I began to sweat a little, which is rare because I never sweat.

The insurance company sent the DMV its SR-22/SR-1P, but that wasn’t good enough either. In form letter 09-14-40851/U1041120, the state, for reasons that escape me, wrote that Marty could not apply for reinstatement of his driving privileges until Sept. 14.

On the one hand, the court was demanding a copy of my son’s driver’s license by July 26 and on the other the DMV was not going to give him a license until Sept. 14.

I am a rational man, not prone to fits of dementia or even mild pique. So I called the Municipal Court clerk’s office and explained the situation to a nice lady named Dorothy who said “My goodness.”

I don’t know that my goodness was what I needed, but at least I had a sympathetic ear. She suggested I mail copies of everything to her and she would arrange for a two-week extension of the bail deadline.

This worked so well I telephoned the DMV in Sacramento and spoke to a lady named Edna who said there was no reason at all for my son’s license to have been suspended and she would clear it up immediately.

I smiled.

On July 31, I was able to send the court a copy of my son’s valid driver’s license and a new check for $35. At last, the end of an odyssey through a bureaucratic jungle.

The only thing that could stop the healing process now, I joked, was for the court to discover that Marty was wanted for murder in Kansas City.

A week later we received notice that a warrant had been issued for his arrest.

I remember it came on a Saturday. I stood in the doorway staring at the envelope and wondering whether it was for the illegal left turn in Woodland Hills or for the shoot-out in Kansas City.

I telephoned Dorothy who said “For heaven’s sake” and suggested I send everything to her supervisor, Mrs. Jordahl. That was on Aug. 13.

I waited. Would there come now the sound of jackboots on my doorsteps and the pounding of iron fists on my door? I thought of my son relaxing among the redwoods while they dragged me kicking and screaming off to prison for a Kansas City murder I had never committed.

On Aug. 29, another letter. The court had decided that, in addition to the $35, it would cost another $29 in “penalty and assessment.” I wasn’t going to argue with them.

If they would spare my life, I would give them the $29. I would also give them my son, my house and 50% of the furniture.

Then, on Sept. 20, Ilene called. She identified herself as a deputy clerk for the Municipal Court. I held my breath.

Ilene was embarrassed and apologetic that an overload of work and a computer foul-up had caused me so much grief. She was untangling the mess and would not only clear everything in the computer, but would also return the $29 check. It was like a message from Lourdes. I think I cried.

One is tempted to shout hosannas, but I know better. There is still the possibility of footsteps on the porch and a pounding on the door.

I haven’t heard from Kansas City yet.