A no-win situation

The way William Kirkwood sees it, he’s going to end up back in jail either way. He’s not actually at the Compton Courthouse for himself. He’s here with his brother. But later in the week he’s got his own traffic arraignment downtown for a Metro ticket. He’s not sure how much the ticket will cost him, but he’s failed to appear at several previous hearings and figures he owes at least a couple hundred dollars by now.

“If I don’t have money to pay them, how am I going to pay them?” Kirkwood asked. “If I go to commit a crime to try and pay off this ticket, then what? I’m gonna go back to jail, right? If I don’t pay the ticket, then they’re going to track me down and I’ll go to jail. I’m in a no-win situation with this court.”

Indeed, no love seems lost between Kirkwood and the Compton Courthouse. Earlier he was kicked out of the room where his brother was giving his plea. Before the arraignments began, the bailiff was clear about not coming in the courtroom unless your name was posted on a list by the door. Kirkwood ignored the rule and went in with his brother. He said he doesn’t trust what goes on inside those rooms.

“I could be out here for four hours while he’s handcuffed and going to jail,” he said. It was his excess talking that eventually got him kicked out.

Kirkwood’s got his complaints, but he’s also got ideas. He thinks traffic court could be better with a few improvements.

“For one, the long wait we have to wait. We’re out here at 8 in the morning, and things don’t start until 11.”

In the Compton Courthouse, traffic court does begin at 9, but only for people with trials. People who come to plead guilty or not guilty have to wait in the hallway until the trials are done—usually about a two-hour process.

“Then they need to change the way they talk to people,” Kirkwood continued. “They think they can talk to you any kind of way, like you’re a kid. I’m not a kid. I’m a grown man. I expect respect.”

In a word, frustrated.

Padraig O’Callaghan comes from a different world than Kirkwood. He grew up in Dublin, Ireland, and has never, before today, been inside a courthouse for a ticket. But in many ways, his sentiments are the same.

O’Callaghan said the instructions about appearing in court said to arrive before 9, so he was here at 8:50. He didn’t know he’d have to wait for the trials to finish up first. At around 10:30, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, he sighed.

“If I had to choose one word to describe the mood right now, it would be ‘frustrated.’”

He’s right. About 40 people lined the sides of the hallways outside the traffic courtroom. Several had resorted to sitting on the floor. About half had their cell phones out, texting or playing games. A toddler tugged at her mom’s shirt, upset, and started moaning, “Mommy, mommy,” over and over again.

At one point, the traffic court cashier opened her office door, stuck her head out into the hallway, and snappily asked, “Whoever is banging on the wall, please stop.” Everyone looked around befuddled. No one had been banging.

Minutes ticked by, and more people started to sit on the ground. The toddler’s complaints turned into full on crying. Someone made a comparison about being stuck on an airplane.

“Poor kiddo,” said O’Callaghan.

At 10:55, the traffic court bailiff, Deputy Stannard, appeared in the hallway. He cupped his hands around his mouth and announced that everyone needed to form four lines, one on each of the big rows of white tiles on the floor.

“Not the brown squares. Stand on four white squares,” he repeated.

O’Callaghan rolled his eyes. He whispered, “I feel like a sheep.”

Stannard clarified the purpose of traffic arraignment court to the group. “All you’re gonna do is tell the judge guilty or not guilty. The judge is not here to hear your case.”

“If you want a trial, he continued, “you have to pay the ticket first, and if you don’t have the money, the judge doesn’t care.”

The judge Stannard referred to is Ellen C. Deshazer. Stannard said she’s been the traffic judge at the Compton Courthouse for about a year and a half. The last judge was there three years. They don’t usually stay much longer than that, Stannard said.

Stannard continued his pre-arraignment speech, reminding people that if they wanted community service, there was still a fee for that, and it wasn’t an option if someone already had a job.

“If you want community service you have to ask to the judge.” He repeated the phrase again, word for word. “Don’t tell me later that you didn’t hear me say that—because if you didn’t hear me say it, three times now, then frankly you shouldn’t get anything.”

He advised people with tickets for driving solo in the carpool lane to avoid claiming another driver ran them off the road and forced them into the special lane.

“It’s a running joke about swerving into the carpool lane around here.” He said. “Don’t try it.”

His final piece of advice was not to blame a child for a seatbelt violation. “No one believes your kid unbuckled your seatbelt.”

As he ushered people into the courtroom, he asked the woman with the crying child, now slightly calmer, to stay outside. He would come and get her when her name was called. Later, he came back into the hall and the two made small talk. He looked at her ticket and said she could reduce her fine by going to traffic school.

The woman seemed unsure. She didn’t think she’d have time.

“Oh, it’s not a big deal,” Stannard said. He explained she could do the course online, from her home.

“I’d get a pizza and have some friends over,” he said. “Put the little one to bed and make a night out of it.”

Thoughts to share, but no chance to speak

Robert Rocha has been to his fair share of L.A. County traffic courts. He likes the one in San Pedro the best.

“At San Pedro, they take everyone in at the same time,” he said. “That way you’re not left waiting with no chairs.”

He’s also had plenty of interactions with court employees. Deputy Stannard yelled at Rocha and his friend for talking while he was trying to give his pre-court speech.

Rocha’s friend is waiting for his sister to get out of traffic court. He thinks she’ll have to pay $1,000–two $500 tickets for the same thing. Rocha’s not sure what his friend’s sister got a ticket for. He thinks it might be a DUI, but probably not, since that’s a matter handled in a different courtroom.

“Maybe open container then,” he speculated as he checked his watch. Rocha had to make it to a parole meeting in Long Beach after wrapping up here.

Suddenly, Kirkwood emerged from the courtroom, a goofy grin on his face, despite having just been kicked out. Rocha doesn’t know Kirkwood, but they bond over their mutual dislike of Deputy Stannard.

Rocha makes a joke about black and brown relations. Kirkwood is black and Rocha is Latino.

“Yeah, they say we’re not supposed to get along, but look at this love,” said Kirkwood, wrapping an arm around Rocha’s shoulder.

O’Callaghan came out shortly after and made his way into another line, this one to pay the cashier.

He pleaded guilty to riding a Metro bus without the appropriate pass. He said he bought a weeklong pass on a Saturday, but broke his rib the following Monday and ended up not using the pass until two weeks later. In Ireland, he said, bus riders validate their passes once they get on the bus, so the week doesn’t begin until you actually use the pass. He didn’t know the week starts at the date of purchase in LA.

“It’s quite draconian that you can’t even speak up,” he said. “That’s $180. Just gone.”

O’Callaghan would have liked to have had a trial and explained his case, but he didn’t want to take another day off of work to come back to the court.

He took one last glance at the receipt from the cashier’s office before folding it in half and stuffing it in his pocket.

“No Irish luck today,” he said.