Unwarranted

An arrest warrant just wouldn’t look good on my resume as a court interpreter.

That’s reason enough to make sure I take care of any and all traffic tickets promptly. Not that there have been that many tickets over the years, or to imply I wouldn’t take care of them anyway; but as often as I have to stand before judges, there is a little added incentive. So I can be excused if my sweat glands went into overdrive the other day when my cell phone rang and an electronic voice announced, “This is a message for Shaw...Carol...EEE; this is the City of Rolt...We have a warrant...”

The voice, with that unmistakable authority of the disembodied, went on to inform me that I had failed to pay a traffic ticket and was therefore a Very Bad Person.

First, where in the world was the “City of Rolt”? A reverse phone look-up helped translate that into the City of Rowlett. That made more sense. I actually did get a ticket in Rowlett a couple of years ago, but defensive driving had removed the offense from my record. Hadn’t it?

I pondered whether to call the court for clarification. It was either a mistake or the result of an out-of-body experience: either way, the situation needed to be addressed post-haste. I opted for the anonymity of their online system. The robocaller had provided a case number. I entered it into the appropriate field and was informed “Case Not Found.”

I tried substituting the “A” for an “8” (considering the Rolt vs. Rowlett confusion, that seemed reasonable.) “Case Not Found”, it said again.

Maybe it was case sensitive - no pun intended? I tried playing with upper and lower-case letters and was told repeatedly “Case Not Found”. Eventually, I gave in to the obvious. I would have to call the court. Maybe whoever answered wouldn’t know me.

Murphy, of course, had other plans. The clerk on the other end was cheerful, efficient – and definitely familiar. Not only had she been around for years, but she had once been a student of mine. I launched into an awkward explanation for my call.

Before it got too painful, the clerk interrupted me. “And you got a call saying there’s a warrant?” she prompted. I could hear the grin in her voice.

Then she explained. The court had just installed a new automated calling system. The program was supposed to recognize and ignore closed cases based on their coding. Apparently, one of those codes got missed on implementation, generating a backlog of cases that now appeared to be delinquent - and the court was being flooded with calls from people suddenly haunted by the automated ghosts of old transgressions.

As I hung up the phone, I couldn’t help thinking that the past is never really dead. And that the vast electronic conspiracy through which their computer could call my mobile device and mess with my adrenaline makes anyone’s mistakes everyone’s problem.

To paraphrase the late, great John Donne, ask not for whom the cell phone rings. It rings for me.