A fool for a lawyer

To be sure, it was a non-moving violation, but I'd be damned if I was going to pay a fat fine because of a tire that went flat when it was 20 below.

My truck was hobbled by a slow leak, and when after a few days I went out to assess the situation I peeled a ticket off the frozen windshield. One of South St. Paul's finest had tagged me for violating the city's 21-hour parking rule. (Never mind that before the flat my truck had been parked in exactly the same spot for two straight weeks.)

The ticket said I could mail in the amount specified on the attached chart (not attached) or appear in court to defend myself. With the facts on my side and cash on the line that was a no-brainer. My court date was set for three days after the NCAA championship.

By the way, wasn't that a thrilling game? It's been years since we enjoyed a final like that. Cat called it "ridonkulous," and it was. Just that afternoon I had stumbled on a Sports Illustrated article about the unusual offense John Calipari had installed at Memphis, and this gave the game an additional layer of interest.

Still, for all the talk about the Tigers' firepower I thought the game turned on Bill Self's defensive calls. When Kansas went to the junk—box-and-one, triangle-and-two—in the second half, Memphis was on its heels for far longer than an elite team should be, giving the Jayhawks time to close the gap.

Speaking of defense, back to my case: A helpful sheriff’s deputy pointed me to traffic court at the shiny new government center. (My previous trip, some 10 years earlier, had been to South St. Paul's dingy 60's-era City Hall. My case having been called immediately following a third-time cocaine offender's, the judge took one look at my cherubic face and waived the fine.) When I pushed through the double doors I saw approximately one-fourth of the county's population waiting to plead its case. Who knew so many people had driver's licenses?

I thought about how Kansas had managed the clock that Monday night, repeatedly stopping the clock to send the nation's third-worst free throw shooting team to the line. Memphis, on the other hand, did a reverse Chris Webber, refusing to foul or call time out as the clock wound down and giving Kansas room to maneuver. Mario Chalmers's three-pointer put the game into overtime. Manage the clock.

At 7:57 a.m. a bailiff appeared and announced that court would soon be in session. He instructed everyone to sign in once they entered the courtroom. Cases would be called, he said, in random order: Just because your name is near the top of the list doesn't mean you'll be called sooner than someone whose name appears lower. Doing a quick head count and estimating five minutes per case, I put my best chance at appearing before Hizzoner at somewhere between 4:00 p.m. and next Tuesday. I decided to work the officials.

Clutching my citation I marched up to the woman behind the service counter and said, "How much?" She took my ticket and said, "Twenty-nine dollars."

"That's all?" Much less than I expected.

"It's a non-moving violation," she said.

"I had a flat tire," I said. "I didn't fix it in time."

She gave me a save-it-for-the-judge look.

"I have three children under five," I said. I know how to talk to women. "Sometimes it takes me a while to get to things."

"Did you want to pay?"

"I own my own business. Have to work late a lot. It was very cold that week. Yeah, I guess so. Check okay?"

"Checks are fine." She tapped on her keyboard and I reached for my checkbook.

"It's a very steep hill, where I park," I said. "Kind of awkward to jack the truck up right there. Anyway, it was like twenty below that week. Funny thing is, I actually went to pump up the tire but someone had stolen my air compressor. Right out of my garage. Can you believe that? Make it out to whom?"

"Dakota County," she said.

"I mean, that's something, isn't it? The police write me a ticket because of a flat tire, and meanwhile some crook steals my air compressor out of my garage. Where was Joe Friday then, huh?" I smiled at her. She was older than me but clearly didn't get the "Dragnet" reference.

"Does this go on my record or anything?" I asked.

"It's a non-moving violation," she said. "No."

"Will my insurance go up?"

"Non-moving violation. No."

Court had begun and most of those who decided to plead their case had filed in. The waiting room was nearly empty. I took my receipt and walked out, satisfied that while I hadn't quite beaten The Man I'd gotten to settle and plead my case.

And a smarter, more flexible Kansas team had beaten Memphis in overtime for the national championship. It was a good week.

---

It had not been a good Saturday previously. Watching the Tarheels go down 28 to Kansas in the semifinals had put me and a few loved ones in a serious funk. In the end, though, at least one bounced back with the news that she had won the St. John's Hoops Al McGuire Memorial Final Four Contest. This year's winner is:

Carolyn Carpenter!

Carolyn (UNC, class of '88) absolutely trounced the field, and will take home this year's prize: An autographed picture of Tarheel coach Roy Williams and a copy of To Hate Like This Is to Be Happy Forever: A Thoroughly Obsessive, Intermittently Uplifting, and Occasionally Unbiased Account of the Duke-North Carolina Basketball Rivalry. Congratulations, doll.

A shout-out to the shut-outs in this year's contest: My five-year-old nephew Sam and sister-in-law Audrey Schroeder both finished with zero points. Audrey once again handicapped herself by selecting teams that were not in the tournament. Better luck next year, Sis.

If you've read this far, then you must be interested to know: We are playing at St. John's tomorrow, and tip off at 8:000 a.m. Please let me know if you will or will not be there.