SOLOMON’S NIGHT SHIFT

by Robert Lopresti

They ask me: “Where do you get your ideas?”

Well, how do you answer that? I could tell them about my day in court.

Around 1970 I was a new driver and I had my first (and only, knock on
plywood) serious accident. A simple matter of forgetting to check my
blind spot. (Never rely on your rear view mirrors, kids.)

So a few days later I put on a jacket and tie and my father took me to
night court. The judge was bored, professional, sardonic. He belonged to
the same men’s club as my father but Dad assured me that his honor would
never indicate that he had ever heard of the Lopresti clan, and indeed he
didn’t.

My moment of trial wasn’t very dramatic. I explained the circumstances of
the accident, apologized and said it wouldn’t happen again. The only
interesting part was when the judge frowned at the ticket and noted: “It
says here there were injuries. Who got hurt?”

I told him that as far as I knew, everyone was fine. There was property
damage, but no one had a scratch on them.

“Ah well,” he said, philosophically. “Sometimes people realize later that
they were injured. Especially if they need the money.” Then I paid the
fine and that was that.

But what really fascinated me, the young future writer, were two cases
that came up before mine, while we were waiting.

Unsafe at any speed

The first was an angry little man who had been arrested for speeding. He
explained to the judge that he was not guilty. He hadn’t known he was
going too fast, he explained, because his speedometer was broken.

“So,” said his honor. “You’re saying that not only were you speeding but
you are also confessing to driving an unsafe vehicle.”

The angry man decided to quit while he was behind. He paid the speeding
ticket.

A bag full of not guilty

But the star of the night was a woman who had been ticketed for driving
without a license. I should explain that she was a middle-aged African
American woman. Most of us in the courtroom, including the judge, were
white.

The woman told the judge that in fact she had had her license. It had
been at the bottom of her purse and by the time she dug it out the officer
had already written out the ticket. The cop had explained that he
couldn’t destroy the ticket but advised her to tell the story to the judge
and he might be inclined to go easy on her.

The judge was not impressed. “The officer was absolutely right, ma’am.
It isn’t enough to have the license. You have to be able to show it when
asked. So you are guilty. Now, why did he stop you?”

The woman blinked at him. “I don’t know. He just walked out into the
middle of the street and held up his hand.”

The judge frowned. “Did he say you were speeding? Or missed a stop sign?”

“No.”

“Did you say there was something wrong with your car? The lights?”

“No.”

“And was there a roadblock? I mean, was he stopping everyone?”

“No. Just me. He just asked to see my license. Afer he gave me the
ticket he let me go.”

The judge was scowling now. He turned to his clerk. “Get that officer in
here tomorrow to explain himself. This random stopping of motorists has
to stop.”

He turned back to the woman. “Get out of here, ma’am. You’re innocent,
even though you’re guilty.

People as me where I get my ideas.

I smile and say “I just make ’em up.”