Hate

I Hate The Justice System

It's Friday night. You've just lost your fake ID, your friends are inside, and you're without alcohol. Think that's bad? You ain't seen nothing yet.

BY WILLIAM BEUTLER

I have a confession to make: your Business Senator #17 is not the only figure in the ASUO to have criminal charges filed against them. I too must admit that I am guilty; I too must claim that I am truly sorry. Or do I? I'd be hard-pressed to call myself a student government figure-certainly not one comparable in notoriety to the recently outed (if not ousted) Michael Anthony Dixon II. So my admission is unlikely to instigate any organized campus outrage.

Furthermore, I did not use a position of authority to liberate $5,000 worth of others' personal property-I just wanted to go out drinking with my friends. Another admission: I am not yet twenty-one years of age. My Vermont driver's license said otherwise, until Doc's Pad liberated it from my possession during this winter term. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I got into this whole damn mess.

I'm not ashamed of my actions. If getting into a bar underage can becalled civil disobedience, then call me Henry David Thoreau. Lane County might consider me a threat to myself and others under the influence of intoxicants, but their priorities are mixed up. Dixon was found guilty of multiple felonies; I merely pled guilty to a single class C misdemeanor--the weakest offense still considered criminal, and not an infraction. Yet the outcomes of our unique, unrelated cases are far too similar to be ignored.

The scales of justice are stacked on the DA's side, to the point ofunquestioned bureaucratic dictum. Little consideration is given toindividual cases, simply because there isn't enough time. Instead, kids like me-whose worst crime was trying to do something they'd be able to in a few months anyway-find themselves on the wrong end of the scales. Losing the ID itself was painless enough. My roommate (equipped with an equally shoddy Vermont ID) and I had made it past the door check at Doc's Pad on a weekend night. As we stood to the rear of the dance floor, waiting for a table to open up, the bouncer approached my roommate and pulled him back to the front door. I managed to hide for a short time, but the bouncer eventually located me and asked if I could show him my license once more. In hindsight, I should have told him I would leave. That way, I would have been able to retain the ID for friendlier bars, i.e. any bar outside a five mile radius from the University. Instead, I calmly handed it over and prepared to lie. We had made sure to remember our addresses on the card, but a lot of details were left undecided-and those that were decided had been cooked up on the way to the bar. So much for preparation. Among other problems with the ID, it had my real name on it. My hook-up had convinced me that it was best for my name to be on it, so I could backit up with another piece of ID. Don't ask me why I agreed to this, but by the time a second bouncer was comparing the ID against the official book that all bars keep on hand, it was a moot point. We did our best to suppress panic, even putting on a thin veil of annoyance.

Despite the substandard quality of the ID's, I suppose they couldn't tell for certain. The first two bouncers were burly, twenty-somethingfootball-player-with-the-bad-knee-types, but the manager who pulled us into the lobby was a middle aged guy with a mustache, a crew cut, and an accusing glare. For all of his righteous indignation, he wasn't much of an interrogator.

Manager: What's your Zodiac sign?
Me: My Zodiac sign? I don't follow that, why would I know that?
Manager: What's the capitol of Vermont?
Me: Burlington. (Wrong-Montpelier. Yet he seemed to accept this
answer.)
Manager: What year you graduate?
Me: '95.
My roommate: Last year. (Oops. But again, the manager missed the
error.)
Manager: What high school you go to?
My roommate: Uhhh...
Manager: I'll see you gentlemen later.

He'd finally caught us in a question we didn't have an immediate answerfor. Leaving the bar, we headed toward his friend's dorm room to drinkourselves into oblivion. And with a bottle of Absolut, into oblivion wedrank ourselves. My roommate ended up kneeling before the porcelain god, and I somehow woke up on a couch in the basement. For what had happened, we were surprisingly upbeat. I tried to be philosophical--at least I'd had a fake ID during my adolescence, and I'd known it would be confiscated eventually. The legal implications were not yet a part of my consciousness--all I really cared about was losing my $50 investment. We had thought that would be the end of it, but we soon learned otherwise. A telephone conversation with an officer yielded the following information:

a) The Oregon Liquor Control Commission (OLCC, AKA Liquor Nazis) wanted to talk to us.
b) If we refused to cooperate, we would be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
c) I faced the suspension of my driver's license in any case.

Soon after, I spoke to ASUO Legal Services, who gave me the followingadvice: Do not talk to them. They will already charge you with what they can, and talking to them only opens you up to incriminate yourself. It so happened that the OLCC's threat based on our non-cooperation was baseless. That's just the way the Liquor Nazis (and the police, and the justice system) do business. If you aren't hip to their techniques, and they can trick you out of more information, then so much the better for them, and fuck you.

Legal services also warned me of another possibility. The OLCC has beenknown to press charges not just for Misrep of Age, but for fraud andmanufacture charges, if they chose to pursue it. I now had even morereason not to speak to them.

And speak we did not. In a short meeting, they made a futile appeal for our cooperation before citing each of us for Misrepresentation of Age by a Minor, a Class C Misdemeanor.

At this point, the fates of myself and my friend diverge-significantly.His primary concern was that as a juvenile, the Liquor Nazis would report this to his mother in Portland, which they did indeed. Instead of merely reporting the facts, they tried to convince her that, because we refused to speak with them, we were obviously the ones manufacturing the ID's. What leverage the OLCC thought they would gain from this was never made clear. His mother really didn't care--she'd partied hard in her day-and were he convicted, his record would inevitably be suppressed. But the proceedings never got that far. He turned eighteen not two days after receiving the citation--the charges were automatically dropped and the case was sealed. He could not be tried for a crime he'd committed as a juvenile, even if that crime was the previous week.

I wasn't quite as lucky.

I did not enjoy the idea of standing trial. Confessing to an MIP across the street at City Hall was one thing. For one, the greatest fine that could be levied against me for an infraction in Municipal Court is about $150. At the Circuit court, I faced a maximum of 30 days in jail and a $500 fine. While neither of these were likely outcomes-at least not the jail time-a stiff sentence could jeopardize my monetary flow, and subsequently my ability to remain at this school, or in Eugene.

My hearing was scheduled for 8:30 in the morning-far, far too early. Iparked my bike at a decrepit bike rack at City Hall and dashed across the street to the Courthouse. Dodging cars is a learned trick, and all the more ironic when the police slow down to help you jaywalk.

In the Municipal Court, my contemporaries had mostly been other collegestudents. Freshmen with MIPs, frat boys with noise violations, stonerspossessing less than an ounce of marijuana, even a preppy couple in on a shoplifting beef. Here at County Court, my cohorts were thirty-something Mexican guys up for armed robbery, strung-out middle-aged women on their fifth narcotics possession, and forty-something white trash men with track-marked arms and pock-marked faces in for either burglary or distribution of controlled substances. A few of those unlucky enough to be present were looking at serious jail time. One, a probable meth freak, pathetic girlfriend in tow, was facing a number of years for the sale narcotics. Then there were their lawyers, who were all court-appointed, I don't think I need to point out. One by one, they stood up and answered to their client's names, pled not guilty for them, and shuffled them out. Myself, I had resolved to go without counsel. I hadn't the money for a lawyer, yet neither was I poor enough to qualify for financial assistance-the curse of the middle class.

When my name was called, I answered for myself. The eyes of the judge, the DA's, and the collection of bailiffs, secretaries, and stenographers (excuse me, court reporters) were all on me. Everyone, the judge especially, was appalled that I had dared to play outside the system, without a lawyer to represent me. The justice system's prerogative revealed itself to me-that only those who understand the technical details deserve justice. I was doing it all wrong, and the Honorable jackass let me know that.

Judge: What do you plead?
Me: Uh...
Judge: This is a very serious charge. You understand that this
isn't like a parking ticket or anything.
Me: I understand.
Judge: Do you have a lawyer?
Me: Uh, no.
Judge: Why not?
Me: Because, I... want to handle this on my own.
Judge: Well you should get a lawyer. I'm entering your plea
as not guilty.

I myself never even uttered the words 'not guilty.' From his comfortable vantage point above the rest of the courtroom, the judge intimidated me to the point where I just said, "sure." There was now more than a month to wait, during which I would have my 35-day call to look forward to. I suppose I could have fled the country, but I wouldn't know where to find a job in Venezuela. The purpose of the 35-day call, I had gathered, was for me to find time to acquire a lawyer (I soon gave up on this) and think about my plea. The man at the referral desk (where I'd had court-appointed counsel denied) told me the judges usually coerce defendants into pleading not guilty the first time around, no matter what. In 35 days, however, I'd be able to change my plea.

However, as 35-day call neared, I soon realized that I would not be inEugene on the afternoon of my call. I was supposed to fly down toScottsdale, Arizona for a weekend conference that very day. After trying to ascertain whether or not I could have my date pushed back, I decided I was going to risk the bench warrant and skip town for the weekend. I'd never been to Arizona, I'd been planning on it for months, and I was told by a friend with a more impressive criminal background than my own that a bench warrant disappears the moment you turn yourself in, with no added charge. I would be booked and held until my call (which, if timed correctly, could be no more than a few minutes), but that was it. I was prepared to deal with this inconvenience if it meant I could drink in the desert for a couple of nights. As a last resort, I submitted an 11th hour written request to the judge, hoping to have my call pushed back. It was a long shot, and upon turning it in, the woman at the front desk warned me that this wasn't like a parking ticket or anything.

Upon my return from Scottsdale, I called the Courthouse the followingMonday, hoping to figure out the logistics of turning myself in. I wasbounced around from desk to desk, and though they found both my name and the charges filed, the case seemed to have fallen into a bureaucratic black hole. It seemed that the judge had (surprisingly) initially approved my request, but now that I was calling, nobody knew what had happened to my place on the docket.

And so I once more I had to wake up early, plead not guilty, and wait again for time to elapse before my 35-day call. After the second round of skeptical disapproval. This time, however, I arrived in the courtroom about ten minutes late, and moments after my name was called. I was forced to sit through the entire parade of scoundrels, scalawags, and gangbangers, before joining it myself, and again agreeing to plead not guilty when the court assured me of just how serious my charge was. When I got home, I called ASUO Legal Services, with the distant hope that they would take my case (unsure if representation was part of their service.) To my surprise and relief, it was, and they took me on as a client. At my initial meeting, my attorney explained what she was going to do: request discovery (all files the DA had pertaining to my case), and wait to see if it would be available in time for my 35-day call (chances were that it would not be, and my call would have to be postponed yet again.)

On a recent Friday afternoon (now several months after I'd lost the ID), I returned to the Courthouse, parking my bike at the same bike rack. Inside, I managed to find my attorney about ten minutes before proceedings started. My discovery was ready, she informed me, and I would have to pay a small fee for it. This was news to me.

Attorney: Do you any have money with you?Me: Do I have money?Attorney: Just a couple of dollars.

Well, I had $26 to my name, but it had to last me until the end of themonth. At the DA's office, I learned that I was going to be charged eight dollars for information about myself. I identified myself to the secretary, and was prepared with my (real) license to prove it. She located my documents, and was moments from handing them over when she noticed that it was not me, personally, who had requested the discovery. What, a legally incompetent college student in a Tool shirt is going to be making requests to the DA's office? Of course not--it was my attorney, who was currently downstairs killing time. She ultimately deemed me OK to accept the discovery, but as she was about to hand the papers over, she announced that the office would accept only exact change. A twenty, a five, and a one yield no combinations equaling eight dollars. The woman told me there was a change machine in the basement where I could change my twenty into quarters. Great-I'd be doing nothing but laundry for the rest of the month. After descending five floors and going back out through security, I found that the change machine accepted only ones and fives. Just when itcouldn't get any more pathetic, I was forced to borrow two bucks from my lawyer.

Finally, I had the discovery in my hands. The ironic part was that thedocuments were all about one thing: me misrepresenting myself to theauthorities. Yet all she needed to hand these private papers over was my name, and all she needed to verify this was my word. What a system. I'm surprised the Emerald didn't send Jason George up there to impersonate Michael Dixon.

The discovery outlined that Lane County wanted to:a) credit to me four days incarceration (No time actually served.),
b) put me on 18 months probation,
c) levy an unspecified fine,
d) and sentence me to 80 hours community service, with the possibility of roadwork.

Maybe Michael Dixon and I would have the chance to work together, perhaps digging trenches in Springfield. That would really be something. As my attorney put it: "Who do they think you are?" I was relieved to know that she thought this was a bit steep. The courtroom was standing room only. Every time Joe Bob or his lawyer had to make it past me, I had to step out of the aisle, into the crowd, and shuffle around like the slide-puzzle brainteasers found in line at toy stores. My name was called, my lawyer requested time to review the case, and we were out of there quick. My case currently stands as it did then.

I hate the Lane County justice system, and I hate the justice system atlarge. Most people my age are good enough at keeping their noses clean, but some of us have the bad luck to be caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. The system is without question uncaring. No thought is given to the individual--you're as much a number in that building as 1984's Winston Smith was. Why are they uncaring? Because there are too many cases. Pushing that number of cases through the court system is like pouring a bag of marbles through a funnel. Why are there so many cases? Because there are too many stupid laws, i.e. unnecessary restrictions on drugs and alcohol. Lower the drinking age to 18, raise the driving age to 21, and then see how many teenagers kill themselves per year. I'm right on this, and you know it. Since my group of friends got our ID's, four out of six of us have lost them. The two that still have theirs are careful of which places they go--Max's, for example, is reliably lax. One lost his outside of Bend, and ran once his ID was confiscated--it is unlikely he will ever be charged with a crime. My roommate had the most lucky coincidence work in his favor, and another of us will probably get a diversion. Myself, I've been fucked, and I blame the Liquor Nazis and the laws that keep them in business-it's the closest thing to fascism this state can offer. If there is anyone trying to organize a protest against the OLCC and needs a poster boy, I can be reached at wbeutler@gladstone, or through this magazine. It's a cause I'm willing to fight for. I expect this type of oppression to continue, hopefully in MIP form, until I reach my hallowed twenty-first year. After that, I'll probably forget about all of this.

Everything that has happened so far is bad and wrong, and I expect theoutcome to be no less. My next court appearance will be on the afternoon of June 4th, after which you should be able to attend my sentencing. I look forward to seeing all of you there, and maybe we'll let you join us for drinks afterward.

William Beutler, a sophomore majoring in English and Journalism, is an Associate Editor for the Oregon Commentator