Basil Jarrett | My traffic court experience

SOME TIME ago, I picked up a speeding ticket on the South Coast Highway. I don’t quite remember what I was doing or where I was rushing to, and it was probably that same nonchalance why it slipped me to pay the fine promptly. Needless to say, I was one of the thousands of Jamaicans caught in the mad rush to beat the February 1 deadline, ahead of the new Road Traffic Act which would see greater fines levied for all traffic violations.

So, when I got my Saturday morning court date, I was determined not to allow my fine to balloon and promptly entered a reminder for the court date, location and time in my backup brain – my iPhone, that is. Now, on this particular Saturday morning, Brighton were scheduled to play Wolverhampton in the EPL, a game of much more than academic interest to me, given that Brighton was challenging my Liverpool for a spot in Europe next season. I wanted to see that game, hoping they’d get a trashing from Wolverhampton and ease some of the pressure off my unreliable side. So, when my backup brain reminded me that I had a court date that morning, I was a bit worried. After all, anything to do with court, traffic or otherwise, is a notoriously long affair.

“Don’t worry, man. When they recognise you, they will just send you on your way. You’ll be back in no time” was the advice I got as I headed out to Spanish Town. My experience with long lines at the tax office and other government services told me that this was highly unlikely, but, admittedly, I did hope to get back in time for kick-off.

On arrival at the courthouse, I was greeted by a line of about 20 persons waiting to go in. For ease of reference, I’ll call them my co-accuseds. “This isn’t so bad. Shouldn’t be too long”, I thought, as I found an appropriate parking, paid the appropriate tout, and bounced confidently to Court Room 2.

Now, if you know me, you will know that my favourite Saturday morning attire is typically a pair of cargo shorts, some sandals and a not-so-old faded T-shirt. But, out of due respect for His Majesty’s Courts, that day I upgraded the sandals and shorts to some closed-toe shoes and a pair of long pants. Even my bleached-out T-shirt was retired for something with a collar. But relaxed casual was the order of the morning as I went to throw myself at the mercy of the courts.

A TURN FOR THE WORSE

Almost immediately, things began to unravel. At the entrance, I was stopped by a stern-looking constable who was also clearly not happy to be missing the Brighton game. “Aye. Put on your mask”, he snapped from a safe, social distance. I complied in a most carefree manner, one he clearly did not appreciate. As I got closer and attempted to greet him with a pleasant and cordial ‘Good morning’, the type fitting of two colleagues in the law enforcement business, I was greeted with an even sterner, “Aye. Put yuh shirt inna yuh pants”. And that’s when it hit me. Forget Brighton, I’d be lucky if I made it home in time for work Monday morning.

I complied and hurriedly proceeded to tuck in my shirt, crease my collar and check my shoes for scuff marks – you know, the way we did back in my JDF days when you were about to be marched in on a disciplinary interview. Suddenly, I started to wonder how much trouble I’d be in for also not shaving that morning.

And so, with my face mask properly affixed, shirt tightly tucked and shoes lightly brush-shined, I double-timed up the stairs to take my seat on the bench. Yes, I was on a bench. With my 20 co-accuseds. Well it wasn’t quite 20 anymore, as about 80 persons were now waiting to hear their fate (and their fines) read to them.

ANANCY STORIES

As I sat there, inching my way closer to the judge, my co-accuseds regaled me with their stories about how unfair the system was and how they were going to fight the ticket and stand up for justice, human rights and George Floyd. When they asked what I was in for, I just hissed my teeth and growled, channeling my inner thug, but secretly thankful for the face mask which hid my identity.

As I sat waiting my turn, I must have witnessed some of the cleverest Anancy stories ever told to get out of a ticket. My favourite was “Guilty with explanation, Your Honour”, followed by some of the most preposterous scenarios you could ever imagine happening on a Jamaican roadway. I swear I even heard one person say the dog ate his road licence. Quite surprisingly, however, the line moved rather quickly. Almost too quickly, as I didn’t even have time to come up with an original explanation that wasn’t already used that morning.

When my name was finally called, I approached the judge confidently. After all, just how many Major Jarretts are there in this world? She must at least recognise the name. Without even looking up, she read my charge, asked how I pleaded and slapped me with a $4,000 fine for wasting the court’s time, just as the clerk shouted, “Next!”, and ushered me out. That was it? No, “Good morning, Major. Thank you for your service?”

NO ONE IS ABOVE THE LAW

Dejected but happy that the fine wasn’t worse, I quickly paid and exited the courthouse, just in case it was a mistake and I was called back. As I made my way home, I pulled my phone to check on the game but then thought better of it. After all, that’s $10,000 and four points ,under the new Road Traffic Act. Brighton would have to wait.

As I trudged slowly home at 70 km/h, backing up traffic all along Mandela Highway, a few things struck me about my experience that morning. For one, it was reassuring to see that, despite the criticisms that we usually levy on our government systems and procedures, this one was actually quite smooth and efficient. I must have spent an hour and a half tops, in and out. Most telling, however, was the lesson that, at least in this particular situation, no one is above the law, and justice can be fair, transparent, equal and even-handed. We need more of this.

Major Basil Jarrett is a communications strategist and CEO of Artemis Consulting, a communications consulting firm specialising in crisis communications and reputation management. Send feedback to columns@gleanerjm.com