TRAFFIC COURT

I was transferred to Chicago in June of 1979. Early one morning the following July, I confronted the intersection of Elston, Addison and Kedzie. Elston is one of the few diagonal streets in Chicago, and I faced three sets of stop lights, all more or less in my direction. I guessed wrong. A striking Irish-looking police lady with black hair, green eyes and cream-white skin waved me over. “Sorry,” I said, “I’m new here; these huge diagonal intersections are confusing.”

“You’re from?”

“San Francisco. Like Chicago, San Francisco had burned down; and the Army Corps of Engineers came in and gridded the cities into right angles, for the most part.”

“I’d let you walk, but this is being filmed.” She nodded to a camera on a streetlight pole.

“That camera caught me choosing the wrong light?”

“I’m pretty sure it did,” she said. “It’s an experiment. If they get those cameras to work right, they’ll be a new source of revenue.”

“In the meantime, don’t the Chicago Police have better things…?” I stopped.

“In the meantime,” she said, “we need the revenue this experimental shakedown generates.”

“That’s…”

“Ah, your driver’s license.”

I handed her my license as the coffee shop behind her opened. “Do you mind if I get a cup of coffee while you write this up?” She nodded. “Do you want a cup?”

“Sure, cream, no sugar,” she said. “I’ll join you in a jiffy; stay inside.”

I was adding cream to her coffee when she entered. “The camera can’t get us here. You can beat this ticket.”

“How?”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a banker.”

“You wear suits to work?”

“Blue or gray, Monday through Friday.”

“You know how to behave in a courtroom?”

“I watched a lot of Perry Mason when I was a boy.”

“Good,” she smiled, “The traffic court is on State Street, just north of the river. Notify them that you’re taking this ticket to court. A court date will be assigned; make sure you’re on time and dress nice. Got it?”

“Yes. Why are you doing this?”

“You’re pissed off but didn’t make a scene or call me names. I put up with a lot of crap, especially from males. Oh, and thanks for the coffee.” She handed me the ticket.

I said, “Officer, why did you become a cop?”

“Irish make good cops; we’re authoritarian. When the Irish got here, many became cops, priests and politicians; we like giving orders.”

“I never thought of that.”

“See you in court?”

“I’ll be in a blue suit.”

She winked at me and left.

It was a sticky August morning that would turn gooey before noon — perfect for a wool navy-blue suit and a starched white shirt. In front of the court room was a sign: “No Shirt, No Shoes, No Justice.” Many of my fellow defendants wore shorts; several were in flip-flop sandals. The bailiff ordered us to stand when the judge entered; I was called first and stood in front of the judge.

The judge, an African-American man who may have played college football, was glaring at me. But I realized that he was looking past me. His eyes were cold, his jaw was set, and he was perfectly still — a predator about to pounce. After a long moment, “Good morning ah…” He checked a file. “It’s Mr. Jordan?”

“Yes, Good morning, Your Honor.”

He stood up. “Mr. Jordan, will you please face the people behind you.” I turned around. Pounding his gavel, he said, “Attention everyone, attention.” After a dramatic pause, “Even though this is Traffic Court, the gentleman facing you is dressed for a courtroom. And he addresses me as Your Honor. Most of you are dressed for the beach. And your lack of respect angers me, a great deal.” He sat down; I turned to face him.

“What prompted this citation?” the judge asked.

As I was explaining, he said, “Excuse me. Will the officer who wrote the citation please stand.” She did. “Was the defendant disrespectful, aggressive or anything like that?”

“No. He was angry but polite. He even got me a cup of coffee.”

“I hate that intersection,” the judge said. “Here’s my decision: the ticket is dismissed; you’ll spend a year driving under your mother’s supervision.”

“Your Honor, she lives in California.”

“You’re a dutiful son? You speak to your mother regularly?”

“I call her a couple of times a month.”

“She raised you properly.”

“Your compliment will flatter Mom.”

He chuckled, “Well, tell your mother something about your driving; we’ll leave it at that.” Down went the gavel.

On my way out, the officer tapped my shoulder, “Nice work. I need a favor.” She took a small camera, like spies use, from her pocket. “I’ll have someone take some pictures of us. Keep your left hand behind you.”

“Why?”

“Your wedding band. My parents think I should be married by now. I’m going to tell them that we’re dating; you’re a lawyer. The photo will keep them off my back for a month or two.” She looked around, “Hey, you in the flip-flops, come here.” A confused young man pointed to himself. “Yeah, you, over here, now.” She showed him how to use the camera.

After the photos, she said, “Thanks. A tip: until you figure out the lights on Elston, avoid Milwaukee Avenue; I’ll be testing the cameras there next week.”

“Why you?”

“I love cameras.” Walking away, she turned, “Hey, don’t forget to call your mom.”