JUNE 23, 2021 – Sunday evening, our son Cory (with five-and-a-half-year-old daughter) was pulled over. No one except the cop knows why she ran Cory’s plates, but in the process she learned that his license had been suspended three months ago. Cory called me to say, “I have a slight emergency.”
Based on the prospect of quick rescue, the cop said, “I could arrest you, but it sounds like you’ve got a ride. If you promise to take care of this right away, I won’t even write you up.” The trusting cop left before my wife and I pulled up. (Our son is a person of color (Asian) with a Swedish last name, but would an African American been afforded such leniency?)
I drove Cory and our grand-daughter home. “Now, explain to me why your license got suspended,” I said.
“I’m wondering the same thing . . . ” His voice trailed off. Then he remembered. “I got pulled over last year—March or April. The cop wrote a ticket for holding my phone. I wasn’t holding my phone. It was holstered on my dashboard. I told the cop and asked him what he saw. The [dumb] cop then said, ‘I couldn’t see because of your tinted windows. You want me to write you up for that too?’ I told him I’d fight it in court. The cop said, ‘Good luck.’
“When I looked over the citation, there was nothing that told where to appear or when. I figured I’d get a notice in the mail. I never did and eventually forgot all about it.”
At home I hopped online, searched the MN-courts site and found Cory’s case. His non-appearance was noted—as were two notices that had been mailed out. The fine: $125.00. I figured (naively) the best course was to pay online, then print and save payment confirmation for Cory to carry in his glove compartment until the court’s computer system reflected reinstatement of his license.
On the website I couldn’t find a way to pay. On Monday I called . . . to learn my “call [would] be taken in the order received.” Looped music played. It wasn’t Mozart.
Fifteen minutes later, a person answered. I asked about online payment. She said that wasn’t an option—the matter had been sent to “collections” with the state department of revenue (“DOR”). I’d have to “deal with them.” I called DOR, where my “call [would] be taken in the order received” with crazy music in the interim. I’d been hoping for Led Zeppelin or at least Beethoven.
Eventually “Steve” answered. He was good. “The best thing to do to expedite re-instatement is to pay in person with collected funds—a cashier’s check, money order, or just plain cash.”
“Where do I go with the cash from my mattress?” I asked.
Steve laughed. “The Stassen Building by the Capitol.” I wanted to ask (but didn’t) if he knew who Harold Stassen was. (Minnesota’s political wunderkind—at 31, youngest person ever to be elected governor; major contender for the Republican nomination for president in 1948; signatory of the UN Charter; president of UPenn; then, sadly, a joke, who ran perennially and unsuccessfully for various offices, including president; when I was a young lawyer in St. Paul, I often saw him in worn suit, scruffy shoes, and ill-fitting toupee as he strolled aimlessly, a man past his prime.)
(Cont.)
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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
