Jaywalker Is Subjected to Cross Examination

Here I am at the breakfast table, just another father preaching personal responsibility to a young and impressionable son.

“The Lakers,” I say, “have a personal responsibility to hire Phil Jackson.”

“No, they don’t,” says the boy, who, like a lot of young athletes, believes players matter more than coaches.

So I explain to the boy how it would be irresponsible to the fans not to hire Jackson, a gym-skinned NBA coach with a complexion the color of newsprint, a coach so dedicated he never sees the sun.

Which is when my wife walks in holding the traffic ticket.

“What’s this?” she asks, holding the traffic ticket up like a slice of salami--delicately, between thumb and forefinger.

“Oh, that,” I say, then dive back into the newspaper.

I’d gotten the ticket the night before. Wasn’t even driving, merely crossing the street in downtown L.A., sidestepping a panhandler, then stepping off the curb, doing that slow, end-of-the day march to the parking garage.

I’ll admit, the Don’t Walk had already begun to flash. I kept going. Because that’s the kind of criminal I am. The Don’t Walk sign was flashing and I just kept going, oblivious to the public safety.

“Can I see some ID?” the motorcycle cop asked.

“You’re kidding?” I said.

Apparently in Los Angeles, you cannot cross against a blinking Don’t Walk light. They’ll ticket you. They’ll do it politely. But they’ll ticket you.

“At least the streets are safer now,” I tell a co-worker as the officer writes out our tickets.

“Right,” she says, handing him her license.

I stand there watching him write the ticket. I’m sure he’s a good cop. Just doing his job. I think back to the great work the police in Los Angeles usually do. In all of America, there is no safer city.

“By the way, nice job with those riots,” I say.

He tears off the ticket and hands it to me. I put it in my wallet. Right away, I make a mental note to tell my wife. In a million years, I plan to tell her about the whole thing.

So, of course, the next morning she finds the ticket. She hardly ever goes into my wallet. There’s never any reason to. There is rarely money there, just 85 ATM slips and my Emil Verban fan club card, my token tribute to the former Chicago Cub player who had one home run in 2,911 at bats, coming to exemplify the steady, nonflashy caliber of play that has become the Cubs’ hallmark.

Basically, there hasn’t been any actual money in this wallet since the day after I was married, at which point I turned over all my cash to my new bride, Al Capone, who promised to never let it leave her sight.

“Dad got a ticket?” the boy asks, quickly tuning in to the situation.

“What?” I hear from the bedroom.

It’s a shriek more than a question. Because somehow children who haven’t been able to hear anything in years can now hear--from two rooms away--that their father is in trouble with the law.

Two of them come running from their bedroom immediately, sliding in their socks, wearing bedspreads like togas.

“Dad got a ticket?” they ask.

In a family, justice often is too swift. There are no rules of evidence. Due process is a joke. Fortunately, my lawyer is here.

“Maybe,” the little red-haired girl says, “he was just being stupid.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“You’re welcome,” my lawyer says, struggling to hold up her bedspread.

“I hope you’re planning to work this off with chores, Dad,” my lovely and patient older daughter says sternly.

“Yeah, Dad,” the boy says. “Money doesn’t grow on trees.”

I try to remind them about all the good things I do, how the other day I could’ve honked at a housewife but didn’t, showing tremendous self-control.

“What’s he telling us this for?” the boy says.

“Let him talk,” my lawyer says.

So I tell them how the housewife blocked our way in the ball field parking lot. Thirty seconds, a minute, we waited.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” the woman said after we waited patiently behind the bronze minivan, then inched our way around her. “I’m really sorry.”

“Did you notice, she said sorry twice?” I say as I finish the story.

“I don’t see how this is relevant,” my older daughter says.

“I could’ve honked, but I didn’t,” I say. “Doesn’t that count for anything in this crazy world?”

“I still don’t see how this is relevant,” my older daughter says.

“What’s relevant mean?” my attorney asks.

“We need to talk,” I tell my attorney.

So my attorney and I huddle off in the corner. Like Ally McBeal, she keeps pushing her hair over her right ear. That’s how I know she’s a good lawyer--she’s really skinny and she keeps doing that hair thing.

“What do we do now?” I ask my attorney.

“Let’s have a Pop Tart,” she says.

“Why?” I ask.

“Because the bacon’s all gone,” she whispers.

“Hey, you’re a pretty good lawyer,” I tell her.

“Thanks,” she says, flipping the hair over both ears. “Now let’s eat.”

Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.