|
Dec
12
|
My bail money refund came in the mail just in time for Black Friday.
You’re probably wondering why they had my bail money in the first place. Honestly, I still wonder that myself. I’ve never been in trouble with the law before (okay, except for that Ratt concert in 1984, but I swear that was an accident, and yes, I cried like a little girl at the police station, but we won’t talk about that).
That spring, I’d received a certified letter from the lady I’ve boarded my dog with for years. It turned out that an $88 check I’d given her was returned for insufficient funds. This made no sense to me; I had the money in my account.
I chatted with the bank. I chatted with the now unpleasant kennel lady. The bank chatted with the unpleasant kennel lady. Everyone chatted with everyone else, and yet no one knew what was going on. Finally we figured out that despite being identical to all the other boxes of checks the bank sent me, this one had different numbers on the bottom.
(New rule: if you’re unpacking boxes two years after you’ve moved, don’t get excited about a box of checks.)
The checks I’d used were for an account I’d been required to open as an attachment to my business account, and it was several years old. I’d never used that account, so the bank automatically closed it. Why I had the box of checks baffles me; I’d never ordered any.
My bank, being the awesome people they are, sent the kennel lady a certified check that afternoon. I told my husband, “Problem solved!” He’s been married to me for a long time now, so naturally he said, “Ha!”
A few weeks later, I received a warrant for my arrest in the mail. My first thought was, “This is sure to ruin my husband’s political aspirations for me! Bonus!” and was quickly followed by more dizziness than usual.
Breathing into a paper bag, I finished reading the notice. It politely said that I was to immediately turn myself in, or I could wait around and be arrested at a less convenient time. Probably in public, with small children and grandmothers in full view. A toll-free number was included on the bottom of the notice, in case I preferred to be arrested by phone.
I checked my online banking information; the funds hadn’t been deducted from my account. I called Kennel Lady.
“I may have gotten a check. If I did, I threw it away. And if you send another one, I’ll toss it in the trash too.” Things got less pleasant, quickly.
“My dog’s been boarding with you for more than six years with no problems, ever. Why would you treat me like this?” It made no sense!
“You wrote a hot check. This is what you get.” She refused any type of payment from me, saying she’d planned to prosecute me all along, and that she was going to “teach [me] a lesson.”
After browsing eBay for a while in search of some Canadian real estate, I called the 800 number. A pleasant female voice informed me that I was arrested and gave me some options for bailing myself out over the phone.
(Note to self: When being arrested, do it by phone. It’s much less embarrassing.)
Arraignment was two weeks later. I entered my plea, was fingerprinted and processed in a room full of people. There wasn’t much of a wait before I was stuffed into a tiny room full of table, and the prosecutor. She was at least six feet tall, and she was having a bad hair day.
Shuffling her paperwork impatiently, she said, “Why didn’t you try to pay Kennel Lady for the NSF check?” I choked on my thoughts, got my temper under control, and went with a more PMS-friendly response than the one which had instantly sprang to mind. Calmly, I recounted the events and showed her my documentation.
The Prosecutrix was openly skeptical of my story. It was almost as if she was used to dealing with liars and criminals all the time. Or maybe she had lots of kids. So I countered with logic, as always.
“If the $88 was such a huge deal, why did it take her a month to get around to telling me there was a problem? And why did she throw away the replacements I sent?” Neither of us had an answer to my question.
I sat, miserable, while the Prosecutrix berated me for a while. My lawyer friend says this helps drive home the humiliation. It works.
When it was clear that she wasn’t going to scare me into pleading guilty and easing her caseload, she offered to try and mediate. An hour later, it was mostly over with. Kennel Lady had happily acceded to Prosecutrix’s request to accept a cashier’s check, and the charges against me were dismissed.
Sort of.
As I was leaving, the Prosecutrix warned that she was going to “check up” on me in six months time. So much for continuing my wicked crime spree. I wonder if she can see me out of the security cameras. I won’t risk it.
The law is not for breaking.
