1967 - Surfing Through Court

Ahh, the years before GPS, when we just followed the signs. This throw of the dice didn't aways work out when you are young and don't take time to look at the map first. WooHoo another adventure! "No!" "Stop!!" "Not there!!!"

1967 – Surfing Through The Chicago Court System

“Look!! State Street!” John yelled from the back seat. I whipped onto the freeway exit and headed toward what we assumed was downtown Chicago…it was not.

As I descended into the neighborhood at the end of the exit I looked around vaguely concerned that this obviously was not downtown as the buildings were dirty brown brick, 2-3 stories tall and unpainted. The street was full of litter and an abandoned burned-out Buick sat across the street with flat tires, broken windows and the back seat halfway through the door. What upholstery not burned, was slashed and torn from abuse. Following the sign to State Street, I made an immediate turn-right under the freeway and spotted the red stoplight directly ahead. I slowed to a stop still under the lip of the freeway above and curious as to our exact location. We looked around. “Where are we?” asked Kevin. It suddenly occurred to me that we were somewhere on the south side of Chicago, generally accepted in my world at the time as “The Ghetto” and where a mere 2-weeks ago race riots had hurt several people. There were also deaths. Directly across the street, leaning on a broken-down rusty chain-link fence, were 3 youngsters of an indeterminate teen-age. Just as I saw them – they saw me. The tallest yelled “Hey!” as one of his companions bent over at the waist. As he straightened up I could see the brick in his hand and the obvious intent to do something with it displayed clearly on his face.

I may not have anything against him but he sure appeared to have a problem with my appearance. Our appearance was quite obvious. A car full of white kids with surf boards mounted on the top of the car. We were in my dad’s big white station wagon. I glanced into the rear-view mirror. No cars behind me, no cars in front of me and none to the left or right, in fact, not one other car in sight. I floored the Buick and accelerated through the light. As I sped away I saw a brick flying in my direction. It fell well short of us as I slid around a corner following the signs to get back on the highway. My heart pounded in my chest as I settled down and calmed my other passengers. We consisted of 6 teens on our way back from a surfing contest in Grand Haven, Michigan. Mom & dad had allowed me to use the car for the extended weekend to drive my companions and myself 300 miles around the lake to the contest we had looked forward to for weeks. It had been a great success and we enjoyed meeting and partying with our fellow Great Lakes Surfing Association members. Our local organization, The Dunes Beach Surf Club, was a supporter of the bigger organization and had been intimately involved with helping RC and his buddies put on a successful event.

This is not to say it had not been challenging and, at times, less fun then I had anticipated as 3 parents had called me to ask that I watch out for their kids…2 of those kids were a year or so older than me. I valued and was honored by their trust but I definitely was NOT their kids’ keeper. More than once I, too, had made a less than smart decision that weekend. An example happened our first night in town.

We arrived in Grand Haven around midnight and immediately began looking for an open gas station. I was regaled from everyone in the car about the urgency of their need to empty their bladders. As we continued our fruitless search their pleas became louder and louder until they all suddenly shouted in unison “There!” We were stopped at a red light at an unlit intersection, which appeared to be a sharp turn onto a narrow road and a short ½ block trip to a point where we could cross the access road and into the service station. Confusion reigned inside the car as I began the turn “Hurry!” “Not there!-There!!” “Over here!!” “No, too far!!” “Come-on I gotta go!!!” “Hurry-up!!!” “Yes!!!” “No!!!” The chaos inside the car was reaching a new crescendo as I pulled into the right-hand side of the near lane realizing instantly that I was in the oncoming traffic lane. Although there was no traffic at that hour I didn’t want to continue down the wrong side and immediately whipped into a u-turn that rounded the light-post and took us back to the corner. As the noise level grew I again made my turn…and duplicated the last error by listening to various shouts of “No!” “Not there!” “Over there!” “Yes! Here” mixed with more pleas to voice the continuing urgency of the situation.

Back into another u-turn and finally through the light and into the correct lane. The red-light bubblegum machine on top of the police car came on immediately and pulled out behind us about 10 car-lengths back. He had sat unseen on the corner next to a closed restaurant and had observed the entire fiasco. As we were considerably ahead of the patrol car when I pulled into the gas station and came to a sliding stop in front of the restrooms. Everyone instantly piled out of the car in a rush and ran desperately towards the restrooms. I danced in place as the officer pulled up wanting to relieve myself as well. He quickly recognized the symptom and told me to go ahead and go, “I’ll wait.” he said quickly hiding a smile with a faux-serious look.

Upon my return he listened to my explanation regarding the stress level inside the car but halfway through interrupted me with another laugh as he held up his hand, palm facing me. “I’ve got three kids and almost the same thing happened to me last week.” He continued to laugh, “Get out of here.” We left. “And don’t wait so long next time before stopping!” he shouted at our retreating backs.

3-Days later we were returning from this visit to Grand Haven when someone suggested we cruise downtown Chicago. After all, we had recently been highlighted in a 3-page article in a recent Sunday-News Magazine-insert and we were feeling famous. This led to the incident on the South-Side but even this did not sway or desire to “cruise the loop.” After avoiding getting bricked and finding our way back onto the freeway we remained determined to show-off our status as Great-Lakes-Surfers. Again a sign indicating State Street attracted us and we exited onto city streets. Obviously, still not downtown. We were in a residential area consisting of high-rise apartments and cars parked all the way to the corners, sometimes with bumpers inches away from each other at a corner where they were parked 90-degrees to each other. As I approached one of these corners I stopped completely. There was no stop sign in either direction but I was unable to see beyond the corner due to the parked vehicles blocking my vision. I crept slowly forward, several times coming to a complete and cautious stop in an attempt to see any oncoming cross-traffic.

I crept slowly forward into the cross street when WHAM! A Yellow Cab came out of nowhere traveling slightly faster than residential speed and definitely faster than advised when traveling through several blocks of blind corners. As we were barely moving when we met, with my stationary front-right fender greeting his traveling left-front-fender, he slid into place in front of my car caving in the entire side of his vehicle where my car only sustained a small scratch. We jumped out of the car to be greeted by the cab driver who was cussing up a storm in our direction. After a few words and questions, on my part, like “Why didn’t you even TRY to avoid me?” and answers like “I was going in that direction why should I worry about you?” I decided only a police officer would do. The “safety” from Yellow Cab showed up, took information and told me I could be on my way to which I replied, “No, I’m waiting for a policeman.”

“The police don’t show up at little accidents like this one. I’ve got all of the information we need. I’ll take care of everything.”

“No. My dad taught me to never leave the scene of an accident until I’ve spoken to an officer. I’m not going anywhere.” After a few minutes of this the Safety made a call and, in a few minutes, a policeman showed up.

He greeted the Safety with “Charlie! How you doin’? How’s your mother?” It took no time to find out the officer was the Safety’s cousin. I had already discovered the cab driver was the Safety’s step-brother and the passenger was the grandfather of both the brothers and the police officer. It was old-home week in South-Central Chicago with myself and my small cadre of white middle-class rural kids standing around with a crowd of very dark black men, most of whom spent a significant time joking about arrests, courtrooms and discussing their courtroom testimony. Someone drove by in a big white car and shouted “Charlie! What happened here? Yo! Ah see!” He waved and laughed shouting, “Ah saw the whole thing! The white-kid did it!” They all laughed. I just looked worried.

The officer soon wrote me a ticket for causing a traffic accident. Despite my protests about my stationary position and the fact that he slid into me the officer noted that I “obviously” ran into the side of the cab and I would, indeed, be appearing in court. Secondary and tertiary arguments had no impact.

We departed for home – any thought of “scooping the loop” forgotten. I arrived home and related the incident, including the ticket and the behavior of the gentlemen involved. Mom said she would go with me to court but that I should plead “guilty” to avoid return after return to Chicago for a trial and extensions.

The next month we showed up in court as scheduled. When the judge entered I was devastated. The judge was not only black but her last name was the same as the cab drivers. I was sure my boat was sunk. I whispered to mom “I think I’m in for a long sentence.”

We sat and watched as several other traffic violations were dealt with until, eventually, it was my turn. My name was called and I moved to the podium as I had seen others do. The violations were read and the judge spoke up in a bored voice, “How do you plead?”

“Guilty, Your Honor.”

“$25. Pay the bailiff.” Relieved by the small fine I moved to my left digging around in my pocket looking for the money mom had given me for this purpose. The judge paused and looked down, obviously reading something in front of her. “Is Larry’s father here?” She asked.

“No,” mom stood and answered, “but I’m his mother. I’m here with him.”

“May I ask if Larry lost his driving privileges pending his court appearance?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“May I ask why? Don’t you think Larry deserved to be punished in some way due to his causing this accident?”

“No, Your Honor. We didn’t feel Larry was responsible for the accident so punishment was not called for.”

“Wait a minute.” The judge replied, “You didn’t think he was guilty? Madame, please step forward.” It was mom’s turn to step to the podium. The judge turned in my direction addressing the bailiff, “Give Larry his money back.’ She looked at me. “Now wait a minute, son. Stay right there.” She turned back to mom. “Now Mrs. Wasion, why wasn’t Larry allowed to plead “Not Guilty” as he deserved?”

“Truthfully, Your Honor, we have heard about the Chicago court system and we can’t afford to keep showing up to repeated appearances and continuances.”

The judge sat up straight. “So for YOUR COMFORT you have allowed this boy to smear his record with this, as you feel, unfounded accusation. Hmmm. Get yourself back over here Mr. Wasion.” I made the six steps back to the podium. “Now, sir, when I ask how you plead I want you to say ‘not guilty.’ Can you do that?”

A very shaky, “Y-y-yyess?”

“Alright, Mr. Wasion, how do you plead?”

“Not guilty.” I said, still uncertain what would happen from this point forward.

At this point the judge sat back although still straight and rigid and, tapping a finger lightly against her cheek at the jaw-line, nodded twice to herself and sat forward again. She reached out to the front of her desk and, gripping the edge, she pulled herself up and forward so she looked directly down at me. She looked straight into my eyes, “Oh…” She paused. “…Not guilty, huh?”

My heart rose into my throat making it difficult to talk or even breathe. My right leg began to shake. Placing my weight evenly on both legs stopped the shaking but now my hands appeared to be palsied. I gripped the podium with both hands. I felt a bead of sweat trickle down the middle of my back. My heart beat so loud I was sure everyone in the room could hear.

“Is the ticketing officer here?” She asked.

“Here, Your Honor.”

“Is the Taxi-driver present in the court-room?” She looked around awaiting an answer. She repeated the question then said, “Officer, was the driver informed of this court date?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Alright. The plea is uncontested. Case dismissed. Mr. Wasion you can go. Mrs. Wasion I would like you to stay exactly where you are.” Mom looked up, nervous and uncertain about what was coming next. “WOMAN!” Said the judge quite forcefully, “This is an extremely poor example to set for your child. Expecting him to confess to something he feels he did not do sends a message of disrespect for both this court and our system of law. DO YOU UNDERSTAND THIS?”

“Y-y-yess, ma’am.” Mom looked at her feet wishing they were in the parking lot.

“The only thing that makes our system work is the honesty of participants in the system. The message you send to this boy will stay with him the rest of his life. Right now that opinion is cynical, untrusting and shows a lack of respect for both his rights and the rights of others. Is this the message you intend to send?” Mom opened her mouth but no sound came out. The judge continued, “Is this clear?” She didn’t pause for an answer. “Now I don’t expect you will try this tactic again, will you?”

“No ma’am. I’m sorry ma’am. I was only…”

“The court is aware of what you were trying to do. A little more consideration will be appreciated in the future.” A lengthy pause ensued with the judge sitting back and waiting for several seconds. She rapped her gavel once. “You may go.”

I guess you could say mom was understandably embarrassed after a lesson hard-learned. I guess you could also say we departed with all due dispatch.

I’d say we got the hell outa’ there.