Good Intentions Gone Bad...

As I was driving through Provence in search of great villas to represent for the Travel Club, I passed by an empty farm stand, and I thought of my grandmother who lives in a small town outside Aiken, South Carolina (which itself is a small town). My grandmother loves to drive through the county from whence she hails and buy peaches and pecans. This is her form of “recreational shopping”.

I turned to my co-pilot and suggested that we find some locally grown lettuces or parsnips to offer our villa hosts. I think I made the declaration that driving leisurely through the country in search of fresh produce should be the new form or "recreational shopping", and that I intended to write about it on the Blog.

We continued on through the vineyards and fields somehow winding our way down to the beach. It was after one o’clock, and I thought we shouldn't “hunt” lettuces on empty stomachs so we ended up at Le Club Key West. The intention of "Recreational shopping" turned into the reality of "Recreational Drinking"...

Two bottles of wine and three hours later, I panicked. All the farm stands must be closed by now!

We ended up "hunting" for a parking spot at the Geant Marche, the French equivalent of a Wal-mart/King Kullen hybrid. We walked to the back of the store under fluorescent lights passing tabloids and frozen foods to pick out four bottles of wine. As we waited in line for the clerk to scan our merchandise, I thought. "So much for finding a farm stand out in the sunny countryside…"

Case Number 19 at the Southampton Town Justice Center…

My summons was to arrive on Monday at nine o’clock in the morning at the Southampton Town Justice Center. With a budget shortfall, the police obviously had been instructed to write as many tickets as possible to generate revenue for the Town, and they were starting earlier than usual this year. I was busted at the famous Intersection of Main and Bay in Sag Harbor.

Terrified of being late for my summons and making the judge angry, I awoke before seven, shaved and ran to Starbucks arriving at the Town Hall just after eight. The Justice Center, located in the basement of the building, was not yet open, so I sat on a bench outside an adjacent office hoping for a celebrity citing. It seemed like I was always reading something about Billy Joel, Christie Brinkley and Alec Baldwin being in trouble with the law or engaged in some sort of legal scuttlebutt.

For approximately forty-five minutes, people walked by giving me the gravest of scowls. I felt guilty with those gawking eyes upon me, but secretly, the attention made me feel like a celebrity. I wanted to explain to each of them that I did stop at the stop sign, but I didn’t know I was meant to drive forward and stop again at the line. That intersection is a complete booby trap! As for those outstanding parking tickets from my college days in Ithaca, I thought even the IRS has a seven-year statute of limitations?

Nonetheless, these passing folks sure were judging me harshly for some minor driving violations. And why were they looking above my head before shooting me those evil eyes? It finally dawned on me to turn and look above at the sign above the bench: DOMESTIC ABUSE OFFICE

The Justice Center finally opened promptly at nine, and I passed through a metal detector into a waiting area where I was surrounded by attorneys wearing suits that couldn’t have cost more than $49….including the shoes. Paying such a premium, apparently they didn’t want to trim any of the extra fabric, so four inches of extra hem pooled at each of their ankles.

A second set of doors opened allowing the hoard of criminals, plaintiffs, defendants and attorneys to enter the courtroom. The judge, apparently one of the original English Puritan Settlers, entered and I recognized him from his likeness on the town seal (settled in 1640). After rising and pledging to the flag, the judge expeditiously read through ten civil cases. If the defendant and the plaintiff both announced “present”, he sent them to the waiting room to negotiate before returning with an agreement. I could overhear a plumber arguing with a homeowner’s attorney with an offer being thrown out at one thousand dollars and countered at fifteen hundred plus “the cost of a tank of gas”.

The judge then moved onto the criminal roster: No 19, please approach the bench. My knees were about to buckle under the weight of my fright and the chattering of my teeth could be heard throughout the courtroom. “Yes, Your Honor”. How do you plead? “Ignorant, Your Honor. I plead Ignorant…but I’m a good person”.

Totally dismissing me, His Honor told me to step to my left and negotiate with the assistant district attorney, a beautiful African-American woman in a caramel colored suit and good shoes. She asked me if I understood the charges against me: failing to stop at a stop sign and avoiding parking tickets from seventeen years ago. Before I had a chance to answer, she told me she was willing to negotiate the fine to $180 and waive any penalties against my driving record. No misdemeanor on my record, just a driving infraction. Had she noticed me giving an approving glance at her shoes to offer me such a sweet deal?

She handed my ‘record’ over to another court employee who announced that Number 19 had reached a plea bargain. The judge asked again how do you plead: “Guilty, I think”. The gavel slammed and he ordered me to pay the clerk my fine and to drive safely.

I was out of the building by 9:23 heading back to Starbucks thinking that I would probably be back in that court a few more times before Memorial Day as I was sure to be speeding around readying houses for what’s turning out to be a late, but busy rental season!