You Can Tell by Looking at Her

by Rebecca Schoenkopf

And so I went to court last week. I’d tossed a cigarette out my car window at a stop light in Santa Ana—my only vice, and now that I’ve been scared straight, I’m going to have to find a new one—and was facing up to a thousand dollar fine, which was making me very unhappy. I’m a good citizen! A single mother! I care for my aged father! I even vote in off years!

And that’s exactly what I was going to tell the judge.

I settled into the Santa Ana courthouse by 7:30 am It was me, one white guy, a few Asian people, and 30 or 40 Latinos. I was hoping I would have a racist judge, who would notice I’m white—you can tell just by looking at me!—and would cut me a break because of it. But as person after person came before the judge, to the man each of them charged only with not having a valid driver’s license, and unable to rectify that, I began rethinking my strategy of throwing myself on the court’s mercy. How unbecoming to bitch about hardship when the people around me were actually poor. Really poor. So poor they didn’t have the $20 it cost to trade a fine for community service. Fucking POOR, man. Wah, it’s so hard being middle class in Orange County. Shut the fuck up, me!

Each of them was fined $346, and none of them had the money, and asked for many months to pay off the fine, which the unfailingly courteous and civil judge gave them. It’s the cost of doing business here, I guess, and they’ll pay it off eventually and then get cited again.

When I went before the judge, I pleaded guilty and got my $346 fine, and eight hours picking up trash. I not only didn’t want to throw myself on the court’s mercy, I didn’t even want to say the word “citizen,” even if it was modified with “good.” It was over, I was okay. “Yes, your honor, I can pay that today!” I said when asked, and felt virtuous for a moment. Yes I do have $346 at the ready, sir! And then I will pick up some trash! Perhaps I will wear a fetching apron. I will definitely be wearing gloves, to ward off all the hepatitis.

I went downstairs to pay my fine and arrange my trash pickup. In the window next to me was a neo-Nazi family: fat mom in stained sweats; son in camouflage fatigues; googly eyed daughter who looked a little fetal alcohol syndrome and who had sewn screaming eagles all over her clothes. I tried to eavesdrop and conduct my business simultaneously; the neo-Nazi family was mesmerizing. But all I could get was that the son had been cited for something, and the family was very stressed out. Finally, their transaction completed, the girl asked, “So we can go now?” Yes, the lady at the window assured her. They were all done. “Oh, I NEVER WANT TO COME BACK TO THIS PLACE AGAIN,” moaned the girl in agony and ecstasy. Because it was all full of Mexicans!

My trip to court was entirely worth it. Ha ha, White Power family, in your Mexican-induced distress! Come back any time! Santa Ana’s not going anywhere.

Yes, we know we ran this picture with Rebecca’s last column.
We like it with this one too.

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