Not guilty prevails, justice is won
It isn ’ t everyday that 1 have a run
in with the Lincoln Police De
partment.
The first day of school I was driv
ing home to my new apartment. I
headed east on E Street coming to a
yield sign. I looked both
ways after slopping and
saw the driver of a green
car going west and turn
ing at the intersection.
He had a yield sign, as
well. There was no cross
traffic so I proceeded. I
see the mean, green
crushing machine com
ing towards my tail end, I swerve, but
it’s too little, too late.
SMASH! It sounded minor.
I get out and see that I have no
taillight, quartcrpanel, or bumper. At
least the gas tank is still intact.
In theory this is no loss. My rusting
1980 Honda Civic is no car to brag
about, but giving it up is like losing an
old boyfriend.
Master of Destruction comes over
and says he’s sorry; he didn’t see me.
“Wow, this is a lot of damage.”
After he offered to fix the car in
stead of opting to call the police, I
sensed there was something wrong.
I asked him why he did not want to
involve the law.
“See, I ain’t got no driver’s li
cense.” And certainly no grasp on
grammar either. That double negative
means you actually do have a license.
Except, we checked that out, and you
didn’t have a license in any of the
three states you lived in.
While I was trying to gain this guys
trust so he wouldn’t lake off, the
purveyors of the law show up. Thank
God.
We go to our separate cars and get
all the usual goodies; license, regis
tration, insurance. I don’t know why
the Terminator even had to go to his
car. He didn’t have any of the three.
Now, I realize that any of my friends
can attest to the fact that my driving is
not that good. But regardless of the
fact that I once hit a Wendy’s, I know
I can drive better than someone with
out a license.
So we sit in the back of the cop car.
My story is the same as I just wrote.
He, however, now claims that I never
stopped at the yield sign.
Mr. Apologetic, sweet-talking, no
drivers-license-having,new-story-for
every-situation-political-candidate
wanna-be says he never saw me be
cause I darted out of nowhere. 1 slide
away from him but realize I can’t get
out of the back of a police vehicle.
Ivan the Terrible gets a ticket for
no drivers license. I get one for failure
to yield because bullhead’s wife said
I did not stop at the yield sign. His
ticket is S71, mine is S81.
I tell the officer I didn’t think the
ticket was fair, and I would protest it.
Disgruntled, I go home and call my
mom.
Four weeks later, I go to my court
date ready to argue my case. The
defense attorneys call my name, tell
ing the judge why I’m there.
It’s hard to figure out who the hell
I’m supposed to talk to. I turn my body
all the way to the judge and speak into
the microphone: NOTGUILTY.This
should be a category on Star Search
— plea entering.
“Go with the Bailiff.” I have flashes
of Bull from Night Court, but my guy
is fat and has hair. He leads me into
another room with more bureaucracy
than you can shake a stick at. They
want me to sign a paper that says
“trial” at the top. I am not pleased.
“What I am signing?”
“It’s a form for your trial.” Oh, I
sec, you Tea rocket scientistdisguised
as a secretary for LPD. I try to get
across to her that I don’t understand
but it is crystal clear to her. The word
“lawyers” get muttered. I freak but
sign anyway. Disgruntled, I go home
and call my mom.
It’s October 15. Police report and
yellow legal pad in hand, I proceed to
courtroom 13. Great number. I see the
policeman who gave me the ticket. I
try to smile but he doesn’t/won’t,
look at me. I sit by this woman who
was my saving grace. We sat there
talking about people filing in front of
us, the militant DWI convict, the bi
cycle stealer, a guy on crutches. Was
he faking it?
They call my name. I play the
game again, trying to figure out who
I’m talking to. They ask me again how
I plead. I step up to the mike and say,
“NOT GUILTY”.
“Have a seat,” the same judge
mumbles.
The lady and I continue chatting.
We can’t believe we are in the com
pany of such derelicts and criminals.
We are scared; it’s obvious.
After an eternity, they call me
again. She asks me if I want to have
my ticket dismissed. I reply “yes.”
The judge mumbles, “You’re free to
go.”
WHAT? It was like bad sex, so
barely there you don’t even get the
satisfaction inherent in the supposed
length of the act, much less feel any
thing.
I stumbled to my seal, dazed. The
copgives me the f nger. Not the middle
one. He is motioning to come over to
him. He whispers to me, “When I
looked at your car again, I realized it
was a bad ticket. I asked them to
dismiss it.” He walks out of court
room 13 quickly.
After telling my friend the details,
full-well knowing that if I would, in
deference to my fear of authority,
have backed out at the last m inute, the
whole scenario would have been dif
ferent. I walked out of the courtroom
elated that I won but with a disap
pointed, jaded feeling as well.
Disgruntled, I went home to call
my mom. This time, we both thought,
justice prevailed.
Krnissc is a senior pre-med student and a
Daily Nebraskan columnist.
:-1 I
Pain, not issues focus of election
Ihavc finally figured this elec
tion out.
I now know why character
doesn’t matter and why people don’t
want to talk issues — only what the
government will give them — why
we refuse to believe the economy is
recovering and why the
“change’\ mania has
taken ovos. and shut
down voters’ frontal
lobes.
Election ’92 has be
come the national 12
step program.
Years ago, the self
help shelf at B. Dalton
was the preserve of Bob Vila or the
Chilton’s shop guide to the 1973 Ford
F-1 (X). Now, it’s been taken over by a
slew of books on “Finding your inner
abused child,” overcoming just about
every sort of addiction known to man
kind — to alcohol, to food, to sex, to
bad TV movies.
Too fat? Not nurturing enough?
Find yourself constantly getting into
bad relationships? Don’t blame your
self, blame your parents for their chi Id
rearing practices or their genes. B lame
society. Blame your dog. People arc
more willing than ever to stand on a
rooftop and let us know their most
intimatp, disgusting problems.
It’s the Oprahfication of America,
where the bi/.arre is celebrated as
courageous, and the normal is con
demned as oppressive and demo
graphically incorrect. We have en
shrined dysfunction as a viable alter
native lifestyle.
And therein lies the secret of this
election. The Democratic National
Circus featured a representative of
every miserable affliction known to
mankind. AIDS, the homeless, and on
and on. The only thing lacking was a
spotted owl.
Clinton’s speech was a soliloquy
of pain about coming from a dysfunc
tional family, where his poor drunk
father used to whup him constantly.
How brave was young Bill to rise
above it and love his father and stand
up to him.
The crowd ate it up. It’s the sort of
emotional vampirism that they diet
on every day with Phil and Sally.
Clinton’s tag line, “the courage to
change,” is right out of an AA guide
book. You sec, we went on a binge in
the ’80s, where the rich got richer, the
poor got poorer, and the country went
to hell. Only we were in denial then.
We were doing bad things like
making money, but we really weren’t
responsible. It was our dysfunctional
co-dependents, Reagan, Bush and
supply-side economics, that really
were to blame. We were innocent
dupes.
Then came the recession, the cri
sis. We saw how naughty we’d been,
what a problem we had. We faced up
to the problem. We sought help, from
any candidate who claimed to not be
George Bush — Buchanan, Brown,
Tsongas and finally Clinton.
Now, we acknowledge that our
salvation can only come from having
faith in a power greater than our
selves. In AA, it’s God. In Election
’92, it’sgovernmcnt. Biggovcrnmcnl.
This is why, despite everything,
we still refuse to believe that the
economy is not all that bad. Com
pared to the recessions in 1973-75 and
1981-82, unemployment is lower, in
flation is a lot lower, and the deficit as
a percentage of Gross Domestic Prod
uct is half what it was then. GDP itself
was up 2.5 percent in the third quarter
of 1992. But do we hear this when we
watch the news, or read news head
lines?
We need to feel miserable, and not
only that, we need our leaders to feel
miserable along with us. How else to
explain the idiotic question at the
Richmond, Va., debate? “How has
the national debt affected you person
ally, and if not, then how can you
know what it’s like for us?” This,
asked of a billionaire, a policy wonk
in government all his life, and a mem
ber of the eastern establishment elite.
There is a deep vein of self-flagel
lation in the American psyche. It goes
back to some of the first settlers here,
the Puritans, who were big on self
denial and abstinence. America has
spawned more than her share of
hcllfirc-and-brimstonc preachers and
seels proclaiming eternal damnation
for doing something that feels good.
So it’s no surprise, then, that this
inbred guilt combines with the cur
rent misery fad to produce electoral
insanity. When Bill Clinton gets “the
look” — bites his lip, casts his eyes
woefully downward, with an almost
imperceptible shake of the head, and
a voice is dripping with pity and tells
us how sad he is about the pitiful
attacks of the Republicans, he’s pull
ing off a clever psychological ploy.
George Bush, the demographically
incorrect white male—breadwinner,
with dutiful hausfrau at side — be
comes the respected Rotarian who
secretly beats his wife and kids while
drunk.
1 have a feeling, though, folks, that
it won’t last. There arc signs that it is
all beginning to wear thin. There is
something going on underneath the
surface that augurs well for the re
election prospects of George Bush.
First, the Blue Jays won the World
Scries. Since 1930, every time an
American League team has won, the
Republicans have taken the White
House.
But, beyond that, I believe that
there is a silent mass of Americans
who arc sick of being told who the
President is weeks in advance of their
decision. And these people know that
while things aren’t perfect now, they
could gel worse if we have “the cour
age to change.” They don’t answer
polls and, with the current climate of
fear and loathing in the media, may be
reluctant to support the President or
his party. Come election day, they
will be heard.
My prediction — George Bush 42
percent, 290 electoral votes; Bill
Clinton 39perccnt,240elccioral votes;
Ross Perot, 20 percent, 0 electoral
votes. You heard it here first.
Get out and make your voice heard
Nov. 3.
Kepfidd is a graduate student in history,
and alumnus of the UNL College of Law and
a Daily Nebraskan columnist.
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