I tried to conceal my nervousness as I rode in a Sheriff’s squad car to the Cape Coral City Hall. Why was I riding in a squad car and why was I headed to a city hall, and not a courthouse on my first day as a judge? Well, that takes some explaining. Please indulge me.

Three years before that car ride, I decided that I wanted to sit on Florida’s Second District Court of Appeals, where I would read scholarly briefs, engage in erudite debate with the cream of the legal profession and write learned, well-crafted opinions to be read by succeeding generations of judges, lawyers, law professors and law students. However, my lackluster 14-year career as a lawyer, to which I freely plead guilty, and my dearth of political connections convinced me that the road to that lofty seat must begin in the lowest court in Florida’s judicial system. The official name of that court is the County Court. Journalists often describe it as “the people’s court.” To me it more accurately resembles a stockyard filled with people, instead of cattle, who are corralled there to wait and wait, sometimes for hours, until they are finally culled out of the herd and lead through a gate for a brief encounter with a weary, impatient, overworked judge trying to get through the docket without getting behind schedule.

You may ask why would I do such a thing? It just shows you, dear reader, how anxious I was to get out of the practice of law without leaving the legal profession. Consequently, in September of 1984, I was elected a Judge of the County Court for Lee County, Florida, and I would assume my new job on January 5, 1985.

The County Courts of Florida get “the people’s court” label because so much of its business is handled without lawyers. It is a specialty court with jurisdiction limited to small civil claims, minor criminal cases (misdemeanors), criminal traffic cases (DUI, driving on suspended license, etc.), and the crème de la crème: civil traffic cases (speeding, running a red light, etc.). I jest. Civil traffic court was awful.[1] The rest of my work ranged from tolerable to interesting, but civil traffic court, in my opinion, was the sewer of the judicial system, and I can honestly say I never enjoyed even one minute spent in that court.

Why, you may ask, is civil traffic court so odious? You see, traffic court is the place where motorists who couldn’t talk the cop out of giving them a ticket come to talk the judge out of enforcing the ticket. Their attitudes range from shock and surprise at the officer’s audacity to give a ticket to an innocent driver, to anger at being the alleged victim of the officer’s need to meet his or her monthly quota of tickets. We also find whiners begging for mercy because their poor driving has brought them to the brink of their licenses being suspended. Finally, there are the few contrite ones who come only to be allowed to pay their fines in installments. Those who plead not guilty, regrettably the majority, get a trial right on the spot, and that’s when the fun begins because motorists who plead not guilty generally belong to that class of people who will regularly lie to escape accountability, and they come to court believing their lying skills are superior to the judge’s ability to detect lying.

In these trials, the only witness for the state, the citing officer, has usually lost all recall of the traffic stop in question because it happened several weeks prior, and they’ve made anywhere between 30 to 50 traffic stops in the meantime. So, here we are with a motorist who is probably going to lie and a cop with no memory of the event trying to cobble together his or her testimony from the scant facts written on their copy of the citation. I’m reminded of what a colleague of mine, a jaded veteran of traffic court, is reputed to have once said at the opening of a traffic court session: “Madam clerk, swear in the witnesses and let the lying begin.”

There is a rule of evidence that witnesses can rely on just about anything if that “anything” serves to refresh, that is revive, their recollection of the events about which they have been called to testify.[2] If that “anything” successfully revives their independent memory, then it’s off to the races. When judges notice the officer constantly looking at the citation, they are supposed to have a colloquy with the officer which goes something like this:

Court: Officer Fife, I see you’re looking at some written material.

Officer Fife: Yes, your honor, it’s my copy of the ticket I issued the defendant.

Court: Officer Fife, can you remember what happened on this occasion from your independent   memory?

Officer Fife: Not completely, sir.

Court: Do you need to refer to your ticket to refresh your recollection?

Officer Fife: Yessir.

Court: Having looked at it, does it now refresh your recollection?

Officer Fife: Yessir.

Court: Very well, you may proceed.

Officer Fife, whose memory in all likelihood is not refreshed, then proceeds to fabricate a plausible account of the traffic stop using the citation as a blueprint. Judges know that officers are probably making up a scenario as they go along because, even with the citation in their hands, they still appear to have no accurate memory of the traffic stop. But a judge’s mere hunch is not sufficient to accuse the officer of perjury. Instead, the judge hears from both sides and decides which made-up story is closest to the probable truth. Ordinarily, the motorist does a poorer job than the officer, and about 90% of the time the judge finds the motorist guilty and imposes a fine.

This mockery of justice was not what I thought I was signing up for. I wanted to judge what is the truth based upon conflicts in evidence which arise from witness’ honest but differing perceptions of what really happened. I didn’t want to referee lying and deceit matches. Nevertheless, every six weeks I had to endure one week of traffic court. When traffic court week ended, I would heave a great sigh of relief, go home and drink a big martini.

I digress. I’m on my way to traffic court at a branch courthouse, a temporarily re-purposed city council chamber in Cape Coral. In 1985, Cape Coral was a huge bedroom community to the City of Fort Myers, which is the county seat and commercial center of the county. At that time, the “Cape” was largely populated by transplanted Midwesterners whom, I would surmise by their personal behaviors and civic conduct, the Midwest was glad to be rid of. They, like our snowbirds and summer tourists, believe they are doing Southwest Florida a big favor by coming down and stimulating our local economy. Consequently, they feel a certain entitlement to some limited immunity from exceeding speed limits, ignoring stop signs, and blasting through red lights. Without question the worst docket this unbaptized, rookie Lee County Judge could possibly encounter on his first morning on the job is Cape Coral traffic court.

Another brief digression: Before taking office, I read about Socrates’ four qualities of a good judge: to listen courteously, answer wisely, consider soberly and decide fairly. All four of those qualities imply that rushing to judgment is not good judging. The bailiff who was driving me to Cape Coral was a veteran of Cape Coral traffic court and was directly contradicting Socrates’ advice. He warned me that I was going to face a generally obnoxious, argumentative crowd and advised me to short-circuit every case to a quick resolution – meaning that I limit testimony, rule quickly from my gut, and move on. Consequently, with Socrates urging due process in one ear and my bailiff warning me in the other ear not to get bogged down in a quagmire of querulous quarreling, I arrived at Cape Coral City Hall to begin my new career.

As I entered City Hall and was escorted to the council chambers-turned-courtroom, I paused at the entrance to hear for the first time: “All rise, County Court in and for Lee County is now in session, the Honorable James H. Seals, Judge, presiding.” As over a hundred people rose from their seats, I entered the room. I noticed that my bench was the long, curved, paneled dais where the mayor and city council sat. All chairs, except the mayor’s chair in the middle had been removed. I noticed I had to climb three steps to reach the dais.

This, I promise, is my last digression: I chose a full-length, down-to-the-ankle robe instead of the just-below-the-knee type. As I began my walk to the steps, I was reminded of a veteran colleague’s warning: “Watch out and don’t trip on your robe when climbing steps.” As I gingerly ascended the stairs, my right shoe caught the hem of my robe. Fortunately, I didn’t stumble, avoiding a President Ford-style pratfall. Successfully making it to the dais, and with 6 paces remaining, I was grateful that my loose robe concealed the quaking body beneath it. Finally, safe in my seat, I bade the crowd to sit down.

Remaining true to Socrates and eschewing my bailiff’s advice, I listened, considered, decided and attempted to explain the wisdom of my ruling to each officer and defendant. After an hour of proceeding in this manner, I had completed about six cases, and I had two and half hours left to hear the remaining SIXTY-FIVE cases! I had a docket of approximately seventy cases that morning which the bean counters in court administration figured I should be able to knock out by lunchtime because I was scheduled to be back in Fort Myers at one o’clock to handle the lengthy misdemeanor arraignment docket. At the rate I was going, I could expect to wind up traffic court around four o’clock that afternoon. Sorry, Socrates, but I had to speed things up. Without taking even a restroom break, I managed to finish traffic court around 2:30 p.m.  As we headed back to Fort Myers, my bailiff, in so many words, said, “I told you so.”

To this novice judge, I learned many lessons that day about traffic court: (1) courtesy gets you nowhere; (2) explaining your ruling only encourages and invites more argument; (3) defendants are not impressed with my efforts to do a deep dive into the facts; and (4) when I find a motorist guilty, they look at me like I’m an idiot. With some exceptions, most of the motorists who visited me that day didn’t deserve the Socrates treatment because it was clear they came to beat the system and avoid accountability.

Of all the cases I heard that day, only one case still stands out in my mind. It was around noontime, about the time I was supposed to be winding up, and instead I had only completed about 60% of the docket. I was experiencing a mixture of feelings: weariness from having gone three and half hours without a break; panic because I was going to be very late starting my afternoon arraignment docket; and wondering if I had made a big mistake by leaving my law practice. The clerk called yet another case and two men, a cop and the defendant, came forward. The defendant pled not guilty and the two were sworn. The officer testified he was working in plain clothes in an unmarked police car on the day in question when he saw the defendant commit his traffic violation, and, as he was authorized to do, made the traffic stop and issued the traffic citation.[3]

While the officer testified, I noticed the defendant, a man in his late fifties or early sixties,[4] had a subtle, sardonic smile on his face, and unlike most defendants who appeared before me, he seemed very at ease. When the officer finished his testimony, I, as I always do, asked the defendant if he wished to cross examine the officer. Brimming with confidence, the cross examination went something like this:

Defendant: Officer, you gave me the ticket, right?

Officer: That’s correct.

Defendant: It was you and no one else, right?

Officer: Right. I was working a without a partner that day.

Defendant: And you were in plain clothes that day, right?

Officer: Yes, I was.

Defendant: And the ticket you gave me was written on a Florida Uniform Traffic Citation, right?

Officer: That’s right.

And in the style of a masterful trial lawyer, our defendant, feeling like the spider about to              capture a fly trapped in his web, decided to mess with his prey a little longer before striking:

Defendant: And you’re absolutely sure you were in plain clothes when you wrote that ticket?

Officer: Yes, I’m sure.

Defendant: And isn’t it true that the ticket you gave me was a Florida Uniform Traffic Citation?

Officer: Yes, we’re all required to use the Florida Uniform Traffic Citation.

Defendant: And you’re positive about that?

Officer: Positive.

With that the defendant turned to me and confidently announced, “Your honor, I move to            dismiss the charges against me.”

Totally puzzled, I answered, “On what grounds?”

“Don’t you see?” he replied incredulously. “When the officer gave me a Florida Uniform Traffic   Citation, he wasn’t wearing his uniform!”

Epilogue

                By the time my bailiff dropped me off at the Lee County Justice Center, it was almost three o’clock. I bounded up the stairs leading to the small conference room/robing room behind the courtroom filled with impatient defendants, angry lawyers, weary spectators, and anxious court personnel. I was thinking of what to say to them when I made it to the conference room. Out of breath from running and climbing stairs, there, feet propped up on the conference table, sat Isaac, God rest his soul, my late friend, colleague, and veteran County Judge. He looked at me, smiled and told me to relax. He informed me that he had covered my afternoon docket for me – perhaps rescued is a better word. He had arraigned 75 defendants, plus or minus, in slightly less than two hours. The hostile courtroom I was expecting to enter was empty.

My first day as a judge was over. I was exhausted, hungry and wondering whether to laugh at the absurdity of Cape Coral traffic court, to feel humiliated for failing to carry my load on my first day, or to go get drunk. I knew it would get better and I should not get discouraged because Cape Coral traffic court was the pits of County Court and an aberration from real judicial work. However, I wondered if I was going to be forced to abandon my pledge to Socrates.

For the most part, I can honestly say that I kept my pledge to him for the next 28 years.

[1] In 1972, Florida’s trial court functions were scattered among many different courts. Then they were consolidated into just two (County Court and Circuit Court). Before 1972, civil traffic cases were usually handled by Justices of the Peace, the lowest rung of the trial court ladder. With the abolition of Justice of the Peace Courts, civil traffic jurisdiction was transferred to the County Court. Lucky us!

[2] It’s been said that if a witness claims they will be able to remember what happened on the night of the murder if they could hear a few bars of Elvis Presley signing “Love Me Tender,” then play the song and see if it works!

[3] All Florida law enforcement officers with traffic control duties, whether city police, county sheriff, or state trooper, must carry and use a book of Florida Uniform Traffic Citations in order to enforce traffic laws. These documents are very important because they are not only the “ticket” the motorist receives, they also serve as the charging document and as a summons to traffic court.

[4] About the average age of a resident of Cape Coral, also known back then as Cape Codger.