Goatdog Triumphs against Adversity

I was in traffic court this morning—a familiar situation for me, although a new location for it. When I was much younger, I used to get a lot of speeding tickets in my hometown, and I would go to court to fight each one of them on the off chance that the ticketing officer would fail to show up. They always showed up, but I did manage to get one ticket reduced, so I think it was a good strategy.

A month ago I got my first traffic ticket in over ten years. It was for rolling through a stop sign, and I got an additional ticket for not having proof of insurance in the car. Was I guilty? Of course not. I stopped. Honest. Came to a complete stop for a full second. I mean, come on. Who rolls through stop signs in Chicago?

So there I was this morning, prepared to plead guilty and retrieve my license, which they take away to ensure your appearance in court. I got there early, was first to sign in, and was called first. I approached the bench and the friendly-looking judge, who bore a strong resemblance to Carl Levin. I presented my proof of insurance, and then he started to ask how I wanted to plead. Right as I opened my mouth to admit my guilt, he held up his hand and looked around the room. The ticketing officer wasn't there. He handed me my license and said I was free to go. I stood there like an idiot for a moment until he called the next person, and then I walked—nay, ran—out of the room before he could change his mind.

And who did I see coming down the escalator as I emerged from the bowels of the Richard J. Daley Center? The guy who wrote me the ticket. Mwaa-ha-ha-ha!