I have a warrant out for my arrest. Well, I did until I went to court yesterday and sat among hardened criminals who roll through stop signs, don't use turn signals and wear pink polyester pants.
I could tell the long and convoluted tale about how I came to be driving Miss Maisie to the vet for an emergency visit when I was pulled over by a cop for my slightly expired license plates, but I would bore even myself.
I could tell the sad and touching saga of how a calamity this spring kept me from taking seriously any of the Very Scary Paperwork I received as a result of said traffic stop, but I'm still too distracted.
And I could explain how, when I got the letter with a dollar sign followed by the upsetting number "950", meaning I now owed the state of California $950, was about to lose my license AND had a warrant out for my arrest, I suddenly took all of this really, really seriously, but does that even need to be said?
So, in Malibu Superior Court, the very place Robert Downey Jr. wore an orange jumpsuit and a shit-eating grin while telling the judge that yes, he's a drug addict, there I sat, begging for mercy.
Well, OK, I didn't actually beg. I really only spoke twice. First I told the nice judge how to pronounce my name. ver-ah-NEEK d' tuh-WREN. And then I said, "No contest." As in, dude, really, no contest - I see the deputy over there with the gun, and that bunch of guys in the hall with the prison tattoos, and that cluster of hungry, high-priced lawyers. I give up. You win.
I admitted I was wrong, had my fine reduced, paid $155 plus $10 to get the hold removed from my license, and then I drove home maybe a bit too fast just because I could. And because I was four hours late on deadline.