Wild About Writing

It’s a muggy but coolish July afternoon in Toronto when I set out for the Ontario Court of Justice branch office in far-off suburban Scarborough, in the northeast corner of the city.

I’m due in Courtroom E9 at 3 o’clock to defend myself against a $100 fine for parking next to a fire hydrant on September 24, 2008.

The traffic is heavy and I’ve been forewarned that because of a strike of civic workers, you can’t use the Courthouse parking lot. I end up on a side street a few blocks away at a quarter to three. Just time to get myself before the Judge.

Look at this picture and you’ll understand why I elected to fight this charge.

Courtroom E9 turns out to be a modish and modern little room, nicely fixed out with blond benches and a grey carpet.

There are 14 people waiting to hear their fate. The prosecutor calls us forward, asks our names and how we wish to plead. He explains that we can plead guilty with an explanation, and put our faith in the judge to be generous to us. If we plead not guilty, but the judge convicts us, the fine can run as high as $500.

That gets me to thinking. Now, I don’t deny I parked where I’m accused of having done so. My defence is that it was dark, and the hydrant, which was set off by itself on the lawn of a nearby house, was invisible because tall grass had been allowed to grow up around it. Grass obviously planted in an effort to gentrify the look of this snobbish Cabbagetown Toronto street.

When I discovered the ticket on my windshield the next morning, I was so damn mad that I took the picture you see above. And I marched down to Metro Hall to say I wanted to go to trial. A few weeks later, I get the letter setting the court date.

After listing to the prosecutor, I’m thinking maybe I’d better plead guilty and throw myself on the mercy of the Judge! But before I can tell him that, he has news for me: The charge has been withdrawn! All I have to do is stick around, wait to be called, and then I’ll be told I’m free to go.

I was swept by a feeling of frustration and disappointment, mixed with the slight elation of knowing I had beaten the charge!

Before the Judge comes in, the court clerk tells us all that when we’re called up, we better not have our hands in our pockets, or our arms crossed. We have to show respect to the court, we’re told.

Finally, my turn arrives. The lady Judge asks my name. I tell her, and the prosecutor announces withdrawal of the charge. The Judge says I’m free to go. What a letdown!

So I decide to go for it. May I address the court, I ask? I say I’d like to acquaint the Court with the circumstances under which the ticket was issued. I have this photograph. I hold it up.

Give it to the prosecutor, the Judge says, airily waving me away. I offer it over. He doesn’t want it.

End of my day in court. But not end of my questions.

What were the parking officers doing issuing tickets they must have known they couldn’t defend? Was it because of their quota system?

What fool stood idly by and allowed someone to plant a dozen tall grass plants (I counted them this Spring), and then watched them grow all summer?

How many people paid their $100 fines without a murmur of protest?

Why could I not have been notified of the withdrawal of the charge, saving me the hassle of going to court?

Does this injustice have the makings of a class action lawsuit?

Of course, I won’t get an answer to any of the above.

PS – This summer some pretty low-growing flowers have been put in around the hydrant.

Far be it from me to protest the beautification of Toronto (especially with garbage piling up on the 17th day of the civic workers’ strike).

But don’t expect me to ever vote for Mayor Miller!