The Speeder and the Judge (First Appeared in the Contra Costa Times)

     I was speeding, but not on purpose—-as I kept trying to tell the officer.  For once there had been no traffic along that San Francisco thoroughfare, and I had zoomed along, making every light with ease.

     The officer said, “Look, ma’am, it took me a mile and half to catch you.  Don’t you ever look in the rear view mirror?”

I gave him my senior lady smile.  “I just love Law and Order,” I told him.

     He grunted and handed me the ticket.  Because I was going 52 M.P.H. in a 25 mile zone, I’d have to appear in court.  So much for my smile.

     Going to court terrified me.  I couldn’t sleep the night before and envisioned barred doors clanging shut behind me.

     Having read somewhere that lavender is a color of vulnerability, I wore my one lavender outfit for my court appearance.  I skipped the jewelry and usual makeup, then practiced looking pathetic.  I didn’t have to work at it.  I felt pathetic.

     At the court house I waited with the other miscreants, all of whom were many years my junior.  They accepted me as an equal and could not understand why I was so nervous.  One experienced speeder advised me to ask for traffic school.  The young woman next to me kept sizing up the male population and asked if I didn’t thing the guy in the next row was adorable.  I told her the judge was more my speed.

     The kids took the ordeal in stride.  I was the only one shaking with fear.

     The judge was tough.  He meted out stiff fines and, in one case, a nasty sentence.  One repeat offender would have to spend a weekend in the county jail.  By the time my turn came, I could hardly walk to the front of the room.

     After the procession of jeans-clad young people, the judge saw me coming and did a double-take.  He consulted his papers to verify that, indeed, I did belong there, then looked up again at the lady in lavender who quaked before him.  His manner changed from gruff to gentle as he leaned forward to question me.  I realized we two were the only gray-haired people in the room.

     My words came out in a jumble.  I tried to assure him that I did not mean to speed, had no idea I had, and promised I would NEVER do it again.

     He said he believed me and almost apologized that certain formalities must be followed.

     I asked about traffic school.  He nodded and allowed that option to clear my record but said that most of the fine had to remain.

     I was so relieved not to be picking up papers along the freeway in an orange jumpsuit that I almost skipped out of the court house. 

     A few minutes later I climbed into my car and after offering a prayer of thanks for that kind elderly judge, I put on my lipstick and stuck on my earrings.  Only then did I begin the drive home—slowly.