Google Warrior: Dreaming of Courtroom Glory
The separation and divorce proceedings had turned me into a walking stress ball. One day, on my way to court to fill out some paperwork, I managed to forget my wallet at home—the only time that had ever happened. Naturally, that’s when Murphy’s Law kicked in, and I got pulled over by a cop who was convinced I had jumped a yellow light.
“License and registration, please?” the cop asked.
I hastily patted my pockets, realizing too late that I didn’t have my wallet.
“I’m sorry, Sir, but I forgot my wallet at home. It’s never happened before. I’m going through a divorce, so a lot is going on in my mind,” I blurted out, hoping he had a heart somewhere under that badge.
“I’m sorry to hear that, but I do need to see the license and registration,” he replied, with all the compassion of a rock.
Then, like a plot twist in a bad sitcom, he noticed the tinted windows of my car.
“Do you have a permit for the tinted front windows?” he added.
“No, Sir. The car came with tinted windows, and my understanding was that up to 20% tint is allowed in the front windows, so I never bothered to remove it,” I replied nervously.
“That’s not correct. Stay put; I’ll be back,” he declared, as if my fate hung in the balance of his decision.
While he was looking up my car’s information, I had a brilliant—though risky—idea: I could show him a picture of my license on my phone before he wrote me a ticket. But as I stepped out, waving my hand to get his attention, he freaked out and immediately picked up his loudspeaker, repeating himself twice in a very stern voice.
“Get back inside your car. Get back inside your car now!”
I immediately scrambled back into my car.
A few minutes later, the cop approached and said, “First of all, never step outside the car unless directed. It is for your safety! Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir. I’m sorry, I just wanted to show you the picture of my license,” I replied apologetically.
“Unfortunately, I need to see the physical license. A picture is not acceptable. Now, I have written you four tickets: one for jumping the yellow light, one for the tinted windows, and two for not being able to present a license and registration,” he said indifferently.
I was shocked at his complete lack of sympathy while issuing the tickets, even after I clearly explained what I was going through. Maybe he was just annoyed because I had dared to step out of the car.
I tried to argue in my defense, but it was useless. I left in despair.
The next day, armed with the collective wisdom of Google, I decided to take on the legal system like a fearless warrior. I called up the court and pleaded not guilty, showing my intent to fight the ticket. On the appointed court date, I showed up and spoke to the prosecutor, hoping to strike a deal by reducing the charges.
“I can take off one of the tickets out of four,” he said, sounding like he was doing me a grand favor.
“Sir, is it possible to take off two of them?” I asked politely, laying out my case and explaining the situation when I was issued the tickets.
“I’m sorry, but that’s the best I can do,” he replied, shutting down my hopes of a better deal.
Unwilling to settle, I decided to take matters into my own hands. When the judge called my name, I boldly declared my intention to be my own counsel.
“I understand that you would like to be your own counsel. Is that correct?” the judge asked, sounding skeptical.
“Yes, Sir. That’s correct,” I replied, trying to muster up some confidence.
The judge, clearly unimpressed by my decision, brandished a thick book, as if to intimidate me.
“Very well. If you plan to do so, make sure you have some idea of how to speak the lawyer’s language. Everything is in this book,” he said sternly, waving the book in my direction.
“Okay, Sir. Can I request a dismissal of the tickets, though, since the officer who issued them is not present in court?” I asked politely, hoping for a stroke of luck.
“No, you may not,” he replied, indicating the flaw in the choice of my word.
It was abundantly clear that the judge wasn’t thrilled with my choice to play lawyer, and the idea of making a public spectacle of myself in an unfamiliar courtroom didn’t sit well with me either. My grand plan to be the Google warrior, the savior of frugal fighters everywhere, dreaming of a courtroom glory, quickly crumbled to pieces. Taking the hint, I decided to hire a lawyer, reluctantly coughing up $800 for the entire ordeal, attorney’s fees included.
