Just the TICKET : Hefty Fines Drive Motorists to Plead in Person for Clemency--and Even a Little Tenderness

If not for the sign out front that says “Orange County Harbor Municipal Court,” the sprawling, low-slung building at the corner of Jamboree Boulevard and Birch Street in Newport Beach could be mistaken for some kind of bargain outlet having a big sale.

It’s only 8 a.m. Monday morning, and already people are jostling for parking spaces, then rushing inside with their credit cards, checkbooks and wallets at the ready. Others are lining up at the row of windows outside, also prepared to pay up.

But these folks won’t be walking away with any merchandise. All they’ll take home will be little slips of paper, not very different from the ones they hold going in.

Welcome to traffic court.

With about 500,000 traffic tickets issued in Orange County every year, business is always booming for Harbor and the county’s four other municipal courts.

The overwhelming majority of those tickets can be handled without an appearance in court, says James R. Peterson, court administrator for Harbor. But an increasing number of offenders are going in anyway, in hope of getting a break or at least a bargain.

For one thing, says Commissioner Richard Sullivan, who will be presiding over one of two traffic courts here today, even a minor offense can set you back plenty these days, not to mention what it can do to your insurance rates.

It can be especially expensive if you just mail in a check for the amount of bail indicated on your ticket--that could well be more than twice what a judge would order you to pay.

“As a consequence, more and more people are coming to court to give an explanation to the judge,” Sullivan says.

So much for that famous line from Alfred Hitchcock’s “North by Northwest” in 1959: “Oh, Roger. Pay the $2!” Now it would have to be, “Pay the $200!” and that just doesn’t have the same ring to it, somehow.

Here they come, then, stern expressions on their faces, pacing and glancing frequently at their watches, giving the impression that they’d rather be just about any place else right now--except jail, and for some, that’s the alternative.

“You really can’t blame the people,” Sullivan says. “These are all local people. Out-of-towners (who get tickets) can’t come to court and tell their story; they don’t have that convenience. Not that it’s a convenience.”

Speeding, running red lights or stop signs, expired registrations, no insurance, broken windshields, unsafe lane changes--whatever the specific charges, these are all relatively minor infractions. The more serious cases, such as drunk driving, are heard in other courtrooms upstairs.

Some defendants come in to proclaim their innocence; their cases are scheduled for trial at a later date, which means another trip to court.

Others acknowledge their offense but figure it might help to offer an explanation or simply plead for mercy. And often they’re right.

For example, Sullivan says, if a driver is caught speeding, an officer might “cite the person for going in excess of the speed limit and for unsafe speed. That just kicks the bail way the heck up into the clouds. Now the officer didn’t intend to do that, but maybe he just doesn’t understand the court system.”

So when drivers in such situations show up before him, Sullivan says he throws out one of the charges. “Nobody in this court is going to punish the person twice for something like that,” he says.

Others could have sent in a check and avoided a trip to court, but they forgot or just didn’t get around to it. Months later, when they discover there’s a warrant out for their arrest, they remember. But by then they’re charged not only with a traffic violation but with failure to appear.

The truth be told--and why not, this is a courtroom, after all--the defendants aren’t the only ones who would rather be doing something else. The judges feel almost the same way, albeit for a different reason: They would prefer dealing with something more interesting.

“I get so tired of listening to myself say the same things over and over,” Sullivan says. “If the only thing I did, day after day, was traffic, I don’t know if I could take it.” Fortunately, Sullivan does get to deal with other kinds of cases as well.

While Sullivan is in his chambers attending to a few details and putting on his robe, bailiff Robert D’Alessandro is in the courtroom doing the warm-up.

No, he’s not telling jokes to get everybody in a better mood. He’s explaining how the process works, in the hope that things will go more smoothly for everyone involved.

“You can plead not guilty, guilty or guilty with an explanation,” D’Alessandro says. He explains about traffic school, an option for those whose offenses are not too serious and who have not attended one in the last 2 years.

Most of these people, with the possible exception of a few recent Central American immigrants, have seen every TV courtroom show from “Perry Mason” to “People’s Court” to “L.A. Law.” They know they’re supposed to say “your honor” when they address the judge. They’ve heard phrases such as, “May I approach the bench?” but they’re not sure in what circumstances it might be appropriate to use them.

They’ll have to wing it, however, because none of them came with an attorney. Hardly anyone does in traffic court.

This is most likely the closest any of them ever will come to feeling like a criminal, the only time they will have to stand up in a courtroom, knees trembling, and answer the question, “How do you plead?”

D’Alessandro’s audience is diverse, although not exactly a cross-section of the county’s population. There is a preponderance of men here, especially young men. There seems to be a large proportion of immigrants too. For those who speak Spanish, a translator is standing by.

Some of the defendants are dressed in business suits or nice dresses, in deference to the court or possibly to the job for which they will be a few hours late this morning. Others make do with clean blue jeans. Some men in jackets and ties are also wearing tennies. That’s OK; the judge is wearing sneakers too.

“Remain seated; come to order; court is now in session,” D’Alessandro proclaims as Sullivan walks into the room. No “all rise” or “hear ye, hear ye.” So much for TV.

Sullivan calls the first six names. Those defendants walk to the front of the room and sit in a row of black vinyl chairs.

“Would you be interested in traffic school?” Sullivan asks the first young man, a speeder.

“Yes,” says the defendant. At $45, traffic school is not only a bargain but a way of keeping the offense off your record. But traffic school is an option just once every 2 years.

“Have you been to traffic school in the last 2 years?” Sullivan asks the next man.

“Yes,” he says quietly.

“On this charge, then, how do you plead?”

“Guilty.”

“Did you see the signs?” Sullivan does not specify what the violation is.

“Well, yes, but I’d just got off work, and I’d had an argument. . . .”

”. . . And your mind was over there somewhere,” Sullivan says, not without sympathy.

“Yeah.”

“See the bailiff.”

D’Alessandro directs the offender to the next room, where he can settle up with the cashier.

Next is a young man who got caught riding a motorcycle without the proper license. That costs him $64, plus another $92 for not showing up when he was supposed to.

A young man who was caught driving a lowered vehicle gets a stern lecture.

“I consider a lowered vehicle a serious violation,” Sullivan says. “If you come in here again, the fine will be horrendous. When a vehicle is too low, if you have a flat tire it bottoms out, spins, runs into me, and I get killed. Have that vehicle signed off.”

“Yes, sir.”

After a couple of traffic school candidates, the black chairs are empty and Sullivan calls the next group. He goes through the cases quickly, rarely stopping to identify the charges.

“Let’s start with your driver’s license. If you have one, show it to the bailiff,” Sullivan says to the next young man.

“Do you have insurance?”

“No.”

“Why didn’t you pay your fine?”

“I did try to pay, your honor. I had my girlfriend come to court with the money. But she split and took the money with her. She was on drugs real bad, and. . . .”

The man has already spent 14 hours in jail because a warrant was issued for his arrest when he didn’t show in court.

“The (Department of Motor Vehicles) has been notified that you have no insurance, and your license will be suspended for 60 days,” Sullivan advises the man before sending him to the bailiff.

Next is a Spanish-speaking man, charged with driving without a license, and without insurance. His total comes to $202.

Another Spanish-speaking man, without insurance and with other problems.

“Have you corrected the front windshield?”

“Yes,” the translator says.

“Show us proof.”

“I haven’t brought it over to have it checked yet,” the translator says.

The next defendant ran a stop sign and wants to go to traffic school.

“There is a $45 school fee. Do you have it with you today?”

“No, your honor,” he says.

“Can you bring it in 2 weeks?”

“Yes.”

“See the bailiff.”

“We scheduled a trial on Jan. 3 at your request,” Sullivan tells the next defendant, a young woman. “You did not show up. Is that correct?”

“I was. . . .”

“That doesn’t answer my question.” He repeats it.

“That is correct,” she says, turning pale. “I was ill, and I have a note from my doctor. I really appreciate your consideration.”

After a thoughtful pause, Sullivan says, “How about Feb. 7? Is that a good date?”

“That’ll be fine, your honor,” the woman says as the color returns to her face.

(“We’ve never had anybody faint,” D’Alessandro had said earlier. “But some of the women start crying.”)

“Fred,” says Sullivan to the next person, in a congenial tone. “A couple of matters seem to have slipped by you here. But it’s only been 3 years. Where’ve you been?”

“I haven’t had a job in 4 years, sir,” the defendant says. “I couldn’t pay it. Now I have a job, so I can pay it now.”

Sullivan doesn’t take time to explain that if the man had showed up for his scheduled dates, job or no job, he wouldn’t have been charged twice with failure to appear.

The cases go by quickly.

“Michael, do you have a Class 4 license?”

“No.”

“I’ve asked for an extension,” another defendant says.

“Why? You’ve had plenty of time,” Sullivan says. “You just didn’t get around to it. I could fill this room with people who just didn’t get around to it. See the bailiff.”

A woman who was ticketed for running a red light has brought in photos mounted on poster board to use in presenting her case. “You won’t need that until your trial,” Sullivan says, and she packs it all up.

Excuses, excuses:

“The car threw a rod out, your honor, so I can’t drive it up to have it inspected,” a defendant says.

“The person I bought the bike from had to go to Ohio and hasn’t come back.”

“I’ve been on disability, and my check hasn’t arrived.”

“Since October?” Sullivan asks, incredulous.

“My wife kidnaped my children and took them to Wisconsin,” says another man who failed to appear three times for a speeding violation. “I wasn’t thinking too clearly.”

When Sullivan tells him he’ll have to pay a fine, he asks, “Can I do community service instead?” Community service means putting on one of those orange vests and spending a day or more cleaning up litter along the freeways.

“I don’t know about that,” Sullivan says. “I don’t know how your head is. It doesn’t seem to be screwed on right.”

“How do you plead?” he asks a young woman.

“Guilty,” she says. “I don’t even think I was speeding but I can’t come back for trial. I was in the slow lane on one of the world’s slowest freeways, and I was about to get off. I was going 55, maybe.”

“The CHP has the speedometers checked on their patrol cars regularly,” Sullivan says. “See the bailiff.”

“Is there any way I can get that reduced?” asks a young woman, obviously nervous.

“I haven’t set any amount yet,” Sullivan says.

“It says $266,” she says.

“Oh, I don’t pay any attention to the bonds,” he says. “My fines are probably about 6 times as high as the bonds.”

The young woman looks as if she might faint. But then Sullivan’s face breaks into an exaggerated smile, and she laughs nervously.

She gets by with a $97 fine.

By about 10:30 a.m., Sullivan has dispensed with the first group, so he declares a recess and goes back to his chambers. After about an hour, the room fills up again, and the process starts over.

The traffic windows outside the court building open at 7:30 a.m., and some of the drivers who check in there either choose to go to court or are required to appear. After the initial morning rush, more customers straggle in through the day.

In the afternoon, a lawyer comes in, a nattily dressed, brusque contrast to the defendants representing themselves.

“OK, you can talk to me about it, but nobody’s going to traffic school out of this court for doing 85 m.p.h.,” Sullivan says. “Looks like we’ll be doing some business on the 30th, then.”

After a few more hours of listening to excuses and asking over and over, “Have you been to traffic school in the last 2 years?” Sullivan is done for the day. This has been a light day, he says, and it helps that it’s Monday, when no trials are scheduled for the afternoon because night court begins at 5 p.m.

Still, Sullivan looks as if he could use an aspirin.

“It gets tedious,” he says. “I get so tired of hearing people say, ‘I forgot,’ or just not taking it seriously. But I can’t think of any other system that would work better. What can you do? People have the right to a hearing.”