I once had a brush with the law. Nothing too serious. I was stopped for not wearing my seat belt properly, a situation that snowballed into one mistake after another.
As I was driving a few streets away from my home, I had the misfortune of being stopped by a traffic police officer. Though he took some time before turning on his flashing lights, three blocks to be exact, it was clear that I was the object of his attention.
I was wearing my lap belt only, as I usually did at the time because I suffered from a medical condition preventing me from wearing anything tight across my chest. I was not about to discuss breast pain with a perfect stranger, so during the slow pursuit, I slipped the shoulder strap over my head to make it look as though I had been wearing it properly all along. In doing so, I thought I could avoid having to provide any explanations. Boy, was I wrong.
From my rearview mirror, I watched the officer slowly get out of his vehicle. Then I watched him walk slowly to my car with his shoulders back, and his chin tilted upwards at a weird angle. If he was trying to be intimidating, it worked.
The first words he spoke once he finally reached my car were: ‘You weren’t wearing your seat belt, Mam.’ ‘Yes, I was,’ I said without sounding too frazzled. ‘I was wearing my lap belt.’ Before I had a chance to explain, he started interrogating me about the ownership of our family SUV, in a tone suggesting I might be driving a stolen vehicle. Then he inquired about insurance, and I gave him all the documents I could dig out of the glove compartment. He said he would have to verify the ownership of the Pathfinder, and I watched him walk slowly back to his cruiser. The officer had only one speed, obviously.
It seemed like an hour had gone by before he returned to my car with a ticket and a hefty fine for having failed to wear the complete seat belt assembly. Ownership and insurance coverage were no longer an issue. My face felt warm as I tried to explain why I couldn’t wear the belt across my chest, and I probably should have kept quiet as anything I said at that point appeared to be irrelevant to him. Yet, he asked me to produce a doctor’s certificate, which I didn’t have as I never thought one would be necessary. All I could do was to take the ticket from him, with the best exaggerated huff I could muster up, and drive away.
I am the first to admit it was wrong not to tell my doctor I had been driving with only my lap belt since I started experiencing mastalgia (disabling breast pain in my case) caused by a prescribed medication I was taking. After my encounter with the officer, however, I made sure to keep the appropriate medical certificate in my glove compartment at all times.
The ticket indicated that I had three options. The first being the plea of guilty, for which I would pay the fine and be done with it. Option 2, to plead guilty with an explanation, seemed to be the one for me, as Option 3 meant I would have to go to trial. Looking back now, Option 1 would have been a wise choice.
Having settled on Option 2, I went to the Ottawa Courthouse to give my explanation. The clerk at wicket number 3 greeted me with a stone face, a pair of eyes that remained half closed during our entire conversation, and a mouth through which only grunts of disinterest could be heard. He was likely having a bad day.
I promptly proceeded to blurt out my explanations through the tiny holes in the plexiglass conveniently separating the clerk from members of the general public. With an attitude like his, I remember thinking the extra protection served him well.
In a well-rehearsed monotone, the clerk explained that by going with Option 2, I would be losing two demerit points on my licence. Preferring to maintain my perfect driving record, I selected the trial option instead. The clerk then confirmed that by going before a judge to show my medical certificate, I could avoid losing any demerit points. The last thing he said was that I would be informed of a court date by mail.
I had nearly forgotten about my pending court appearance when I received a Notice of Suspension of Driver’s Licence from the Ontario Ministry of Transportation (MOT). The suspension was for not having paid my fine by the required date. Puzzled, and more than a little upset, I called the MOT’s Toronto office for clarification. I explained to the woman who took my call that I was still waiting for a court date! Once she located my file, she told me that my licence had been suspended because the Courthouse had failed to reach me by mail.
Feeling the pressure mounting, I said: ‘How can this be? Could they not have contacted me by phone or email to verify my address?’ ‘Well,’ the woman from MOT replied, ‘I don’t know if they tried to contact you or not, but given the fact that you weren’t notified of your court date, you can go back to the Courthouse to file a motion to reopen your case.’
Face to face again with Mr. Congeniality at wicket number 3, I remained as cool as a cucumber while I expressed my displeasure with the situation. ‘Things like this happen when we don’t provide our complete address,’ he said condescendingly. I was quick to point out that the MOT had no problem sending me the licence suspension by registered mail. ‘Couldn’t someone from your office have verified my address with the ministry?’ I asked. ‘We don’t have access to their files,’ was the smart reply. ‘I’ll get your file.’
The switch from unpleasant to overly cordial was remarkable as he made his way back from a row of filing cabinets. He slapped the papers he held in his left hand with the back of his fingers from his right hand, and said: ‘Ha! The clerk made an error! He didn’t see your street name. We can fix that for you right away. All you have to do now is go before the judge in the next room, to swear to an affidavit, and your file will be reopened.’
I thanked him, for what I can’t recall. ‘How soon before I can drive?’ ‘I will have your licence reinstated straight away,’ he replied quickly. ‘But it will take another four hours before you can get behind the wheel of your car. It takes that long for our computers to make adjustments like a reinstatement.’ This time, no thanks were necessary.
The clerk made everything seem like a mere formality. I filled out the paperwork he passed over to me in the slot underneath his protective plexiglass, and I went next door to see a judge who wore a dangling earring. It didn’t suit him.
I hadn’t done anything to warrant the suspension of my licence, but there I stood before a judge to swear that a clerk from the Courthouse, probably my buddy at wicket number 3, had committed an error in failing to advise me of my court date by mail. There was something quite wrong with this picture, but I blew it off, having had enough excitement for one day.
The judge sent me back to the now personable clerk who immediately issued me a new court date. Had he done that a few months earlier when I first came to the Courthouse, my licence would not have been suspended, nor would I have lost a day’s work.
I looked forward to going before a judge to present my case; I had a good brief prepared, and I was convinced that the hefty fine would be waived once I produced my medical certificate. I was also planning to talk about how I had been seriously inconvenienced by a Courthouse clerical error that had resulted in my licence suspension.
Before I went to the designated courtroom, I was hoping for a brief visit with the cranky clerk at wicket number 3 only to be disappointed by his absence. I wanted to thank him in person for the inspiration he’d given me to write this story. His replacement was far more pleasant, and she was thoroughly amused by what I told her about my experience with her colleague. She confided that he was not always as friendly as he should be. She offered to give him a copy of the story I wanted to leave with him.
I then walked to the courtroom, where I was escorted to a table and chair adjacent to that of the opposing counsel. I could feel the anxiety building inside of me. We both stood when the judge entered the courtroom and took his seat at the bench. But before the judge started the proceeding, the opposing counsel stood and told him that my case had been dismissed! He added that the fine could be waived as I had provided the Courthouse with a copy of my current medical certificate.
I was happy to have won my case without having to say a word in my defense, although at the same time, a little disheartened to not have had the opportunity to expose the shortcomings of the legal system before the judge.
When I looked over at the opposing counsel, I noticed that he had a copy of my story in front of him. I picked up my notes, slipped them into my lawyer-like briefcase, and walked out of the courtroom with a grin from ear to ear.
Lise Cloutier-Steele is an Ottawa writer and the author of the 2025 Edition of There’s No Place Like Home: A guide to help caregivers manage the long-term care experience, available from www.ottawacaregiver.com.
