k8 the scofflaw: part deux

I still hate the MTA. In case you think I've forgotten, or enough time has passed, I haven't and it hasn't.

I went to contest my ticket this morning, armed with The Shoelaces Defense, which I thought would certainly be strong enough, especially when combined with my harmless demeanor and twinkley smile.

Um, no.

I showed up at 505 Fulton Street at 8:15 this morning and had my life searched before entering the building. ("Is that a cake? There's no eating in here." Ok, I won't eat this whole cake at 8:17.) Then I got on line and waited.

Did I mention I waited?

Oh, and I waited.

Then my name was called, I was escorted into a freezing back room with an adjudicator, who read a great deal of information into the record, and I was asked to give testimony in my own defense.

Then I faltered. I hedged my bets. And I lost myself the case. Instead of going over the top, telling them how the cop had told me to contest the ticket, how the ticket cites the platform as the scene of the incident (when, in fact, I was pulled off the train), how there was NOBODY else on the train (and hence, how could I be obstructing seating?)... no, instead, I just told her that at the time the officer spotted me, I had pulled my right foot onto the seat (and I didn't emphasize the edge of the seat) to tie my shoelaces.

And then I was dismissed. I felt confident, like I was a cute, Connecticut-bred white chick who clearly deserved to be let off.

Um, no.

Needless to say, I had to pay my fine -- although it was noticeably reduced to $50 from $60.

Whatever. At least I tried. And next time this happens (which it won't), I'll mount a hell of a defense for myself.

Until then, would you like to come over for a slice of cake?