GregMercer.ca Newspapering and other adventures

When you fight the law . . .

The Guelph Mercury, 11/22/2008

I fought the law. And you can probably guess what happened next.

First, though, a disclaimer: The people of the Mercer clan are an oversized bunch — prone to large ears, larger noses, and most importantly, larger than necessary feet. We can smell food with the range of a bloodhound, and on clear nights some of us can pick up weak A.M. radio signals with those floppy antennas on the sides of their heads.

But the feet are problematic. Any physicist will tell you large objects press downward more heavily than small objects. This phenomenon applies especially to gas pedals. It’s well documented in scientific circles. It’s a fact of nature, and nothing can be done about it.

This argument was lost, though, on the Kitchener courtroom your scribe found himself in recently, surrounded by serial speeders, rolling-stoppers and other hardened criminals.

This was traffic court, and they don’t suffer fools here.

No one wanted it to be this way. Your humble columnist is generally a law-abiding citizen. He carries his litter around in his pockets until he comes across a trash can. He gets flushed in unnatural circumstances, and no place is more unnatural in than a courtroom when you’re the one on trial. But no longer would your scribe just pay the ticket and accept what genetics and nature had done to him. No, he was taking this fight to court.

It was a strange place. They insisted the robed man up in the high chair be called your worship. Or was it your majesty? I was sweating to get it right. No one dared walk out of the room with their back to him. They shuffled out, awkwardly, backwards, like English butlers fetching a request.

Drivers, mostly men and a few women, stood before him, all broken, humble people asking for forgiveness. They were on their best behaviour, all yes sir and no your worship.

They laid before the judge the most creative array of explanations for speeding any courtroom has ever heard.

One man, completely straight-faced, said he was getting used to his new car when he was caught speeding. It had “double the power” of his old car, and so was more likely to speed. The judge nodded politely and pronounced him guilty.

Two more drivers sitting in the courtroom liked this excuse so much they tried it themselves, with similar results. Another man patiently explained he wasn’t at fault because he was driving his wife’s car. Presumably she had hidden the speedometer on him.

Oh, there were trees in the way of the posted limit. Or the speed limit signs were nowhere to be seen, so a driver assumed, naturally, the limit was 120 kilometres per hour.

There was the man who said it wasn’t his fault because he was driving a car whose speedometer was in miles, not kilometres. “It was an American car,” he said, shrugging. The justice smiled tightly.

Despite all these watertight legal arguments, not a single person got off that morning.

It was not looking good for your hero. Across the courtroom sat the officer who had busted yours truly, driving along Highway 7 after volunteering at an orphanage and on his way to read to old folks at the seniors’ home, as memory serves.

The man who would refute my every word was a veteran constable who has been nailing speeders since 1971, which, I believe, was the year the car was invented. When he stood before the judge, they chatted as if they were old buddies.

Finally, it was my turn. Upon the advice of the prosecutor, your heavy-footed scribe announced he would like to plead guilty with an explanation. The kind judge will show leniency and knock down the fine, the prosecutor had advised.

The judge blinked, and slowly explained there’s no such thing as guilty with an explanation. You’re either guilty or you’re not, he said. The prosecutor shrugged.

Your scribe said he would plead not guilty then, and fight the good fight.

He sat back down. And he sat some more. Over the next two and a half hours, he concocted the finest explanation possibly ever concocted. The was no speed limit sign. The road was downhill. It was dark. An unfamiliar road. The big feet.

As he worked on his case, a steady flow of folks facing charges were paraded in front of the justice, and every single one was sent home guilty.

Finally, your scribe was given his second chance.

How do you plead, asked the judge, a little less patiently this time.

Your hero started sweating. He stumbled. He fumbled through his papers. Then, finally, he said it.

“Guilty,” I cried.

The law won.