The oversized courtroom was filled with maybe one-hundred individuals with a summons of one form or another, and ranged in age from kids with wet ink still on their license to grannies that learned to drive in a Model T. As instructed we all rose as the judge entered the chambers, and to say he was not a physically beautiful specimen of humanity is a gross understatement. He spoke well, had perfect diction, and was obviously well educated, but geez, to look at him was an assault on the eyes; he was tall, rotund, completely bald, grossly disfigured in both body and face, and had an enormous port-wine stain (you know, the mark on the top of Mikhail Gorbachev's head) running from the top of his head above his left ear down across his left eye, over the bridge of his nose, across the right cheek and jaw, and down to the right side of his neck.

His Honor's opening remarks went something along the lines of, "Today you are all here because you were cited for violating one or more laws. What I expect from each one of you is a declaration of either guilty or not guilty; I do not want to hear any dialog recounting decades of a perfect driving record, extenuating circumstances, officer misconduct, or anything else your creative minds can come up with. I want to hear a plea of guilty, in which case I'll pass sentence, or not guilty in which case I'll have you scheduled for trial; a trial in front of me I might add. Do you all understand?"

He paused while he scanned the room for any sign of a lack of understanding, and then continued, "Mister Prosecutor, please call the first person."

Sprinkled within the first twenty or so defendants were folks who just had to do exactly what his Honor told us not to do; kids who wanted to argue, wealthy middle aged folks who brought lawyers who wanted to have the charges summarily dismissed, and little old ladies with certificates showing perfect driving records for decades. They all fell before the wrath of the judge and were all declared guilty. With the opening salvos out of the way, the next fifty or so defendants were like lambs led to the slaughter; all pled guilty, and all were given a fine and points.

The prosecutor called my name and I walked up to the bench and faced his Honor. "Mister Shipo, how do you plead?"

"Well you Honor, I'm really not sure."

The violence in his eyes betrayed the flare of anger that had welled up inside of him as he took a deep breath to launch into one of his obviously well rehearsed lectures; then his eyes caught sight of a copy of my ticket and what I was charged with. His face softened (relatively speaking), and both of his hands dropped to either side of my ticket. "Mister Shipo," he said, "I have to agree with you, I'm really not sure how I'd plead either."

He then handed the copy of my ticket to the very confused looking Prosecutor and the double-take he did when took in what was written on my ticket was comical to say the least. The look on the officers face when he saw the ticket he'd written was even more comical as was his immediate reaction to dive through his pile of tickets, just to make sure nothing had been changed.

The Prosecutor returned to the bench and sheepishly said, "The People move to dismiss the charge against Mister Shipo."

"Mister Shipo," the judge said in a loud voice, "you're a very lucky man. Have a wonderful day."

As I was walking out of the court room the look of disbelief painted on the faces of the remaining defendants was priceless.

Dont Talk to Police - YouTube