The room was full of guilt, and I knew this because I was sitting in it. I arrived early and sat in one of benches toward the back of the room, perhaps a small attempt at being inconspicuous. But in a courtroom no one goes unnoticed, and this is particularly true of those who are on trial. Traffic court, I discovered, is an interesting place. At the very least it made for an afternoon of good people-watching. At most it offered a window into realms of justice, faith, and human behavior.

A few months prior to my court appearance, I had been caught speeding less than a mile from my house. True, there were several factors at work, but there was no question of my guilt. I was in a hurry to get home, deep in thought about a sad situation, and driving my husband’s car (which was a bit easier to accelerate). My mind was simply elsewhere, and I was speeding. My initial thought was to simply pay the ticket and be done with it. But the officer said if I showed up in court, he would lower the fine.

I had never been to traffic court before. I had no idea they were going to announce my crime in public and ask me to state my plea before the masses. It was all somewhat humiliating, even if warranted. (I felt sorriest for the teenage offenders in the room; the magistrate was especially hard on them.) After every crime had been publically exposed, our guilt seemed to loom like giant name tags. My entire row was filled with speeders. Others were caught driving with expired tags or licenses, cited for following too closely, or driving recklessly. One by one we were called to stand before the judge—and one by one we were pardoned.

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