It’s a nice feeling being exonerated.

The notice from the library warned that my book was overdue by several weeks. The next note some days later announced that if the book was not returned, the fine would be $5 and I would have to pay to replace it, something like $21. I searched high and low, and even went on line to find out if the book in question was one I had actually read. It was. Margaret called the office Friday and said, “The library just phoned about that book.” I said, “I don’t know where it is. I went through the trunk of the car today and I just don’t have it.” I went to my favorite internet source and ordered a copy of the book for eight bucks, brand new, and then wondered if the library would let me replace it.

Monday afternoon on my way home from the office, I drove by the library. The man was extremely nice and I was not upset, I’m happy to report. I paid the fine, but was still flustered. Where was that book? The librarian was patient and agreed to help me run this down. He said, “We only have one copy of that book and we’re showing it out, of course.” I said, “Do you mind if I check.” Two minutes later I brought him the book. It was on their shelves all the time. Someone replaced it in the stacks without checking it back in through the computer.

“Is my record clear now?” I asked, as he returned the five dollar bill. “All clear,” he said, and proved it by turning the monitor around for me to read.

To satisfy my curiosity, I asked if they would have let me donate a brand new copy of that book to replace the missing one so I would not have to shell out 21 dollars. “No,” he said, “we used to allow that. But they changed the policy.”

I honestly cannot recall the last time I was ever accused of something I didn’t actually do. It’s such a nice feeling beating the rap, I might try that again.

One of our co-workers got a speeding ticket today. Doing 50 in a 35 mph zone. “I just wasn’t paying attention,” he said.

Wonder if that would work, for me to be accused of speeding and then to prove I wasn’t. Probably not. The evidence is all on the side of the guy with the radar gun.

Did I ever tell you about the time Thom Brett and I beat such a rap? In court, even.

He was a senior at Birmingham’s West End High School and I was a sophomore at nearby Birmingham-Southern College. Thom was driving his 1938 Buick sedan, all 12 cylinders firing, and I had my big brother’s 1954 Buick Roadster. Both were heavy and lumbersome and made quite a racket getting up to speed.

We had been at church with a bunch of girls, decorating for the Valentine Banquet the next evening. We finished, and everyone piled into our cars and we were driving off. To the malt shop, and then to deliver our riders home. Okay, it was actually Alley’s drug store and they had a soda fountain–straight out of Happy Days, Melissa–but it sounds neater to call it a malt shop. As we roared away from the curb and pulled out into the street, we had no idea one of Birmingham’s Finest sitting in his patrol car across the intersection had just spotted us and was determined to catch us speeding.

Two blocks later, one of Thom’s riders needed to speak to a girl in my car, so we all pulled into a vacant lot and stopped. As we got out, the police cruiser pulled up with his lights flashing. That was the first we had seen him. The officer pulled out his book and started writing. We were stunned. Charged with speeding.

He asked whether we intended to pay the fine or appear in court. My inclination was then and still is not to fight these things, but to pay up. Thom called me off to the side and said, “I can’t get another ticket. I’ve already had two and a third one, they’ll take my license. We have to go to court and fight it.” Oh brother, I thought. The cop insisted that we had to decide together, that one could not pay and the other go to court.

To court we would go.

I had to skip classes that day to appear in the Ensley Traffic Court. We sat in the courtroom feeling like nervous jailbirds. When they called our case, something happened.

I got the bright idea to question the police officer. The judge allowed it, and what followed was like something out of Perry Mason. Now, bear in mind this was in the days before radar in police cars. We’re talking about February of 1960, Ginger.

I said to the officer, “You were sitting at the intersection?” Yes I was. “Was your engine on?” No, it was not. “So you had to start up your car and get into gear to follow us?” Right, college kid. “And in order to clock us for speeding, you had to get your car up to the same speed we were driving and hold it there long enough to be sure how fast we were going? Right?” That’s how it’s done, kid. “Well, the problem, sir, is that we only went two blocks and we stopped of our own accord without knowing you were back there. So, how could we have gotten up that fast and held that speed long enough for you to catch up to us and clock us?” I did, kid, that’s all I know.

The judge–sure wish I could remember his name–said, “The point is well taken, officer. The charges are dropped and the case is dismissed. You boys can go.”

I had never kissed a judge, but honestly I felt like it then. I was sky high. To come so close to the electric chair, then to get a reprieve. What a great feeling.

Thom almost kissed me, but I managed to fight him off. His father had come to court with us, and I think he had been upset with his son getting another ticket, so he felt pretty good too.

A footnote to that story.

Three years later, after finishing college, I was working for the James B. Clow & Sons, Inc., cast iron pipe company in suburban Tarrant City and was asked by the personnel manager (when we called them that) to serve on the District Executive Council of the Boys Scouts. The fact that I’d grown up on the farm and not been within 20 miles of a scout troop in my entire life didn’t matter; he needed someone for that slot. At our first council meeting, I was shocked to learn the judge from my traffic court days was an officer on that board. One of the nicest guys I’d ever met.

He had no memory of our experience before him 3 years earlier.

Reflecting on the matter later, I changed my mind about what happened in that courtroom. I had thought for years that it was my clear logic and brilliant questioning of the policeman that convinced the judge of our innocence and got the charges dropped. But after getting to know the judge–sure wish I could recall his name–I realize that he loved young people and was actively working on their behalf. The fact that we were decorating the church hall for a banquet gave him all the evidence he needed that we were not hoodlums, but just your good basic kids trying to live right.

People who try to do right need encouragement not harshness.

Those who enforce and interpret the laws should never forget that.

Mercy is a wonderful thing. Kindness from those in power is better than money.