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Parking tickets can make you feel powerless. Theyâre the adult equivalent of a trip to the principalâs office, and theyâre not cheap. I know: Last year, I was ticketed three times for parking in front of my own house. Okay, so the sign said âone-hour parking,â but it was on a residential street where Iâd never seen anyone get ticketed, my neighbors parked their cars there for days at a time, and I donât like following rules that donât make sense. So when I was inevitably ticketed, I fought back in traffic court. I won my case, and you can win yours, too.
Letâs start with the ticket: If you donât want to pay it, you have to send it back with a written explanation and a request for a hearing. Then you wait for a terrifying-looking summons to arrive. Itâll say something like âSTATE OF OREGON VS. BURBANK, MEGAN,â and make you feel like an enemy of the state. But you arenât. Youâre refusing to pay your ticket the responsible way. So marshal your inner Elle Woods/Leslie Knope/Sam Seaborn, take note of your court date, and show up early. You wonât be alone. Parking tickets are handled in batches, so youâll be surrounded by fellow violators and the officers who ticketed all of you. Thatâs right! Traffic court is the closest most of us will come to being on an awkward reunion episode of a reality TV show.
Before the judge enters, youâll have a chance to share your story with the ticketing officer. This sounds terrible. Do it anyway. Introduce yourself, and explain calmly and politely why you donât think you should have to pay your ticket. Here are some good reasons: inclement weather, unclear signage, a medical emergency, ditching your car after a night of drinking, and financial hardship. Here are some bad ones: anything thatâs a straight-up lie. Trust me, you will feel uncomfortable talking to cops and a judge in a courtroom, and unless you are a seasoned con artist, the truth is easier to remember. In all likelihood, your ticketing officer will at least reduce your fine. Then the judge comes in, and one by one, the offenders and officers go before the judge, who listens to each case and approves each resolution.
My ticketing officer remembered me, because Iâd yelled at him. After getting my third parking ticket, I spotted a traffic cop in my neighborhood and flagged him down. I asked why there was a one-hour parking sign across the street from my house in a residential neighborhood, and if he knew how I could get it removed. He told me to call the city, but indicated that he doubted my abilities. âIâm going to get it taken down,â I shouted back as I walked away. I donât know what compelled me to make such an absurd, cocky declaration, but I wasnât wrong about my impending successâor the sign, which a city worker told me over the phone had been installed for no reason she could find, even after going through city records. The sign was removed a few weeks later.
I now sat face-to-face with my nemesis, and he remembered me. I had a speech prepared, but I didnât need to use it. The officer recalled my foolish promise and was pleasantly surprised to discover that Iâd kept it. He said that civic engagement should be rewarded, and dismissed my fines.
âShe went to civics school and got a sign changed,â he said into the record when our time before the judge arrived. It was the jauntiest resolution announced that day. The judge said my refund would arrive by Christmas. It was July. A fellow ticket-disputer Iâd been chatting with earlier grinned at me as I left the courtroom. âSometimes you get lucky,â said another.
In a hard summer riddled by political anxiety and concerns about a sick family member, it turned out fighting my parking tickets was one of the few things I could control. But you canât take control if you donât show up. And that day in traffic court, I realized something: I was one of the only offenders to have my tickets dismissed outright, but almost everyone had their fines reduced. Not because their stories were amazingâmany werenâtâbut because they were there. Sometimes, thatâs all civic engagement really means. The people who make the trip are the only ones who get a second chance and an opportunity to be heard. You deserve to be among them.