On a crisp Tuesday morning, I found myself in the sterile confines of the Jefferson County Traffic Court. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a cold glow on the tired faces around me. I clutched a folder of documents, my fingers tracing the edges nervously. An uneasy feeling settled in my stomach as I waited for my name to be called.
The clerk, a woman in her late fifties with weary eyes, called me to the window. Her voice was devoid of warmth as she slid a stack of papers through the narrow opening. “Sign here and here,” she instructed, her eyes already moving to the next person in line.
I hesitated, glancing down at the documents. They were filled with dense legal text that felt more like a foreign language than English. I scanned for any familiar terms, my heart racing as I tried to make sense of it all.
“Is everything alright?” the clerk asked, a hint of impatience in her tone.
“Um, yeah, just… trying to understand,” I mumbled, my voice barely above a whisper.
She nodded, clearly disinterested, before turning her attention back to her computer screen.
My attorney, Mr. Hargrove, a man in his early forties with a perpetual five o’clock shadow, assured me this was a straightforward case. “Just a minor speeding ticket. You’ll be in and out,” he had said with a dismissive wave of his hand during our brief meeting.
But as I flipped through the pages, my eyes caught a line that made my heart skip a beat: “Community Service for 60 hours.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. How had this not come up before? I glanced at Mr. Hargrove, who was busy typing on his phone, oblivious to my growing panic.
“Mr. Hargrove, can I speak with you for a moment?” I called out, trying to keep my voice steady.
He looked up, his expression unreadable. “Sure, what’s up?” he replied, slipping his phone into his pocket.
“This,” I said, pointing to the line about community service. “Why wasn’t I told about this?”
Mr. Hargrove’s eyes shifted, a rehearsed smile playing on his lips. “Oh, that’s just standard procedure if the fine isn’t paid in full immediately. Don’t worry, we can sort it out,” he said, his tone casual.
But I wasn’t convinced. Something felt off, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this story than I was being told.
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