I Reserve the Right to React

I Reserve the Right to React

It is late Saturday morning.  Abdullah’s wife, Safyia, is out shopping with their youngest daughter Aisha, for school supplies.

Abdullah, who likes to be called Abu Yazan, makes his own double-double coffee, two teaspoons each of sugar and milk. Then he goes to the family room, sits down on his favorite rocking chair and starts sipping and enjoying his coffee.

Saturday’s newspaper, ads, coupons and a stack of mail are left for him on the side table. He starts skimming through the headlines, looking, precisely, for the latest news from his birthplace, Syria. He locates the article, scans it quickly and finds, not surprisingly, nothing that he doesn't already know. The coverage of the Middle East in the newspaper is usually about 8 hours old, due to the difference in time zones. Abdallah heard it and saw it all the night before on Arab satellite TV. 

Abdullah shakes his head and takes a quick glance at the business section to see how the stock market is doing. It’s not that he ever invested in it. Sometimes his curiosity takes him to the vital statistics section of the newspaper (divorces/ marriages in the community), but not today. He folds the newspaper and puts it aside. He lays the ads on top of the newspaper for now; he will get back to them later. He begins sifting through the mail. Abdullah used to say the mail here in America is so generous; your mailbox is always laden with something.

The first letter is from the ACLU asking Abdullah to donate $50 dollars to help advocate individual rights. He likes that since he is of Arab origin and he fears for his own civil rights. 

Next is a medical bill from You Are in Good Hands Hospital. It asks him to pay $1078.80. The insurance refused to pay the full cost of a Denosumab injection for his wife’s osteoporosis. It only covered 58% of the cost. Abdullah gets very angry, curses the hospital, the insurance company and does not forget to include Obama Care.

Then, a letter from National Wildlife Federation with an enclosed ‘Treasures of Wildlife’ calendar pleading with Abdullah to donate generously to protect endangered species. What about the endangered Syrian population? Abdullah mumbled to himself.

This postcard is very interesting. In large print, Abdullah reads

 VOTE FOR ISSUE 56

HELP YOUR SCHOOLS

That does sound like a noble cause. When reading the fine print, it turns out that Issue 56 is, in fact, to allow a new casino to open in the neighborhood. The casino would donate a fraction of its profit to the schools!

Abdullah sees another letter.  For the last few months, he has been receiving this same letter with a membership card enclosed.  He loathes this offer because it reminds him of a reality he refuses to admit, not even to himself, let alone to others. Abdullah will be 60 years old next month and the AARP organization is making sure to help him remember. He is getting old.

Abdullah gets to his feet and heads to the kitchen to refill his mug with more double-double, still hot in the coffee machine. He comes back to his recliner and commences going through every charge listed on the Discover card statement. Suddenly, he freezes, his eyes locked on an online charge of $239.99 from Macy*s Department store; women’s clothing. 

Yazan comes down to the living room. He finds his father, whom he calls ‘Baba’ using the Arabic for Dad, lying on the recliner, his hands under his head and his legs crossed at the ankles, staring at the ceiling, and looking very angry. Yazan notices three crumpled papers on the floor a few feet away from Baba.

Yazan is Abdullah’s favorite son. In fact he is the only boy among five siblings. Despite his young age of 13, he has become Abdullah’s confidant.

“What is wrong Baba?”

“Nothing son. Did you do your math homework?”

“Come on Baba! I know you’re upset. You look miserable. Is it Mama again?”

Abdullah adjusts his recliner, sighs and explains,

“This time she managed to place an order online.”

“What is wrong with that Baba? Isn’t it cheaper? No sales tax!”

“How do you know about sales tax?’’

“We learned that back in sixth grade” Yazan replied proudly.

Abdullah clears his throat and adds, “Well, it is harder to return an item when purchased online if I object to it.”

“But Baba! You never objected to anything Mama bought or did!”

“Tell you what son! This time your mother went overboard. I cannot take it anymore. Every month, she spends money, right and left, on new outfits. For every occasion, be it a Aqiqah, baby shower, wedding or the like. She thinks she needs a new outfit

for …” 

Yazan, deep in thought; if Mama has one skirt suit, two pants suits and three blouses, she could then make twenty seven different outfits. At an average of two events a month to attend, one year would have to pass before Mama will be seen in the same outfit, and no human mind would be able to remember. Of course Mama has to keep a log. Yazan is a boy and is applying his math talent here. Obviously this genius idea is nonsense for his mama.

“I’ll not tolerate this anymore! I reserve the right to react!” Abdullah grumbles.

“Baba, talk to her when she comes back!”

“Son! I choose the right time to react and the way as well!”

Yazan makes a show of thinking, trying to hide a smile, “Baba! Why don’t you cancel her credit card?”

“Ah no, are you kidding me? That would be a tactical act,” Abdullah points at a side table “Besides, look at these three offers, ‘You are pre approved for a credit card with no annual fee’ waiting for your mother to consider.”  

“Baba!” Yazan thought, “you're now sounding just like the Syria TV after each Israelis’ air attack: We reserve the right to retaliate; we choose the time and the mean; a reaction now would be considered ‘tactical’” Yazan wanted to counter Baba but he did not for fear of further irritating his father. 

“Baba, Baba!” Yazan warns “They are back; I can hear the garage door rolling up”

“Okay, Okay son, get these crumpled papers off the floor.”

With a grin Yazan rushes to pick up the papers, smoothes them and returns them to Baba.

“Assalamu alaykum Abu Yazan,” Mama exclaims.

“Assalamu alaykum Baba. I got a new backpack with Dora’s picture on it!” Aisha yells.

Abdullah, with a fake smile on his face replies, “Waalaykum assalam, ahlain wasahlain.” 

Mama comes into the living room with a 24x36 plastic hanger bag with JC Penny printed on it. A navy blue skirt suit can be seen in the plastic bag.

“Abu Yazan! You won’t believe it; I saved you a lot of money today. I bought this great suit that I was waiting to see go on sale for over a month, and for only a hundred and thirty five dollars. It was seventy-five percent off, plus an extra ten percent for using my JC Penny card!” Mama exclaims. “I am so excited and I can’t wait to go up, put it on and show it to you!”

Mama rushes upstairs. Baba looks at Yazan who is about to burst out laughing. They both chuckle, keeping their hands over their mouths.

Yazan starts to leave the room when Baba calls upon him and asks him to sit down.

“Yazan, son, let me tell you something.  A true man, as the Prophet salallahu alayhi wa salam tells us, is the one who controls himself when angry. He also tells us, “The best amongst you is the one best towards his wife.”

Abdullah then praised Safyia as being an excellent wife, a superb mom, a great cook and a wonderful companion. He then adds. “She has one weakness, though, like all women, the love of shopping and for that …”

Yazan interrupts teasingly, “But Baba, no offense, you have the same weakness. Look at your wardrobe; you have fifteen shirts, twenty two trousers, not to mention over thirty neckties, and counting.”

Abdullah hops out of his recliner “It was nice talking to you this morning Yazan!”

“Sure Baba, I love you!”

Abdullah, hurriedly, heads towards the kitchen for his

double-double coffee, encore.

     

 

There is Always Another Way

Over the last few years I’ve been writing and posting short stories on my blog. I chose ten of these stories to include in this just published book. 

Each and every story delivers one or more moral lessons. The hope is that the readers will enjoy the stories and benefit from them in their personal lives.

Acclaim for There is Always Another Way

“Dr. Nabih Tarazi has acquired much knowledge and wisdom over the years in his roles as a spiritual leader, community activist, and family counselor. In this collection of short stories, he reflects on life lessons he has learned and wishes to share. His stories inspire us. They challenge us to remain patient and take the high road. They encourage us to trust in God’s plans. These stories extend the mentorship and gentle guidance that Dr. Tarazi has brought to his community for decades to a new audience of readers, inspiring them to navigate life’s challenges in a spiritually uplifting way.”

-Dr. Asma Mobin-Uddin, Author of My Name is Bilal, The Best Eid Ever, and A Party in Ramadan

 

"A nicely written collection of short stories by Dr. Tarazi. Dr.Tarazi employs simple language and story form to convey deep and complex ideas and traditions. His simple yet straightforward approach drives the message home without any ambiguity. It is a book about traditions and morals and is a must read for all.”

-Khaled Shammout, Author

 

“I really enjoyed reading the stories. Each one had an excellent lesson/reminder that stuck with me.”

-Rima Dabdoub, Language Arts Teacher

The book is now available in Paperback Format ($6.95)  
and in eBook Format ($2.99)
 at Amazon

 

 

Son! There is always another way!

Son! There is always another way!

When Sammy found out who was sitting near him in the National High School Graduation Exams, he thought that he was the luckiest man on earth! A dream come true! Opportunity seldom knocks twice!

“Finally, getting a high school diploma is now guaranteed!” Sammy thought to himself. He had failed miserably in two previous attempts to pass the graduation test required to get his diploma.

In Syria, high school graduation exams are held for the whole country at the same time of the year; usually the first week of June. In every school district, each student who is a candidate for graduation is randomly assigned a seat and an examination center – a large meeting room such as a cafeteria or gym. Students from one building in the district are distributed into other buildings. In this way, teachers are not supervising their own students during the exams and students are generally in unfamiliar surroundings with unfamiliar people.

It was the first Saturday of June 1973 and that day was for the math section of the test.  Sammy arrived early in the morning to his center, Ibn Khaldoon High School. The exam’s room had 20 rows of desks. Each row consisted of 15 desks, each desk serving two students, for a total of 600 possible students.  Each desk had two labels attached, one for each student, indicating which side of the desk was assigned to which student.

It was 7:30 am; Sammy easily found his seat, D6, without the help of any proctor – after all he was an old customer. Sammy always liked to come early, to size up the proctors, possibly befriend some of them, and to study the environment. This strategy had not helped him in the past, but it did not hurt to try it again. Sammy was a famous basketball player in his district, 6 feet one tall, 240 pounds. He was chatting with one of the proctors to his right when he suddenly froze. His heart skipped a beat and he became adrenaline-charged.

“Here is your seat Ayman, it is D5!”  a proctor said, while showing Ayman his seat to the left of Sammy’s. “Please sit down and get ready for the test.”  

Ayman said “Thank you Teacher,” and sat down without noticing who was to his right.

When no proctors were around, Sammy turned to Ayman and greeted him, “Wassup dude?” Ayman stuttered in surprise, “Hey ha ow are you Sa sa sa mmmy?  What a su su surprise.”

Though Ayman stuttered, he was an excellent student. He was number one at his school building. Straight As in all subjects. He was a small boy; only 5 feet two inches tall, 120 pounds. He wore very thick glasses. For an 18 year old, his cheeks were still smooth and he wasn’t shaving much.  All of this made him a soft target for bullies. Sammy, who was the father of all bullies at their school, provided protection for Ayman from other bullies. In return Ayman had to help Sammy with his homework and projects. Sometimes he paid for Sammy’s lunches. Ayman thought his nightmare with school bullies was over until he saw Sammy sitting near him. He realized that his nightmare would continue for a while longer. He was a serious student and he detested cheating. He did not want to get in trouble, but if he did not cooperate with Sammy, he would be in danger of being beat-up. 

At 8:00 am, the doors to the exam’s room were closed and no late students were allowed in.  Proctors went around and gave each student the answer booklet to the test.  On the top left corner of the first sheet of the booklet there was a small square. Under the diagonal of the square, there was a place for the student’s name. The top half of the square, above the diagonal was all black.  The proctor made sure the student wrote his name on the square, then he folded the upper part of the square and glued it, along the edges, over the lower part. This would conceal the identity of the student from the people who would grade the exams.  

The first day went all right for Sammy. He managed to cheat a little bit off Ayman without being caught. Sammy was not too bad in math. Actually he was good in math. He thought that he just needed to double check his answers.  The next day would be the language arts test - the killer test, as Sammy called it. Sammy had always flunked language arts in past years.

The next day, Sammy arrived at 7:40 am. Ayman was already there. “Hi Shorty Aymano.” Sammy greeted Ayman with the name bullies used to call him. This was to remind him of his misery and of the fact that he was still under his control. “Go.. go.. good morning Sa.. sa.. sam” Ayman replied.

After distributing the answer booklets, the proctors passed around and made sure all the names were properly written and sealed the names and then the test questions were distributed to the students.

Mr. Malik was a new teacher at Ibn Khaldoon High. That year was his first year as a teacher and his first time as a proctor. He was in charge of about sixty students in columns C and D and he wanted to do a good job at this exam. A few minutes after the start of the exam, he noticed Sammy was close, too close, to Ayman. He went to him and politely whispered to him to get back to his side of the desk. “Oh! Sorry teacher! I wasn’t paying attention, I was concentrating on my work” Sammy replied. Minutes later, Mr. Malik heard some hissing, turned around and saw Sammy trying to talk to Ayman. When confronted, Sammy said he was asking for the time. Mr. Malik pointed out a huge clock on the wall and reminded him that talking was not allowed. This happened a second time, so Mr. Malik decided to stand near Sammy’s desk for as long as he could. “I cannot concentrate, teacher, while you are looking over my shoulder,” Sammy snapped. So Mr. Malik warned him again not to talk and walked away.

One hour passed. The room was very quiet, and you could hear a pin drop. Students were working hard. Students would gripe afterward when they left the room that it was a “killer test”. Suddenly, Sammy stood up and started barking at Mr. Malik, who had just taken Sammy’s answer booklet: “No Sir, you cannot remove me from my seat!”

Mr. Malik told Sammy to chill out and to follow him to another location in the room. “No Sir! I ain’t followin’ you. You have no right to change my place. This is a government assigned seat (the Promised Land for Sammy!) and you cannot mess with it. I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” Sammy shouted louder.

Everybody in the room stopped working, eyes on Sammy and Mr. Malik. The tall student glowered with menace at the proctor.  Other proctors rushed to the scene to protect their colleague against possible punches coming from Sammy. The superintendent in charge of the whole examination center, a career educator with over forty years of experience, a man in his mid sixties with hair turning white, noticed the commotion, and strolled towards it.

 “Make space, make space for the superintendent,” a proctor barked.

“What is going on here? What is all this noise about?” asked the superintendent calmly. 

Nervously Mr. Malik explained, “Sammy tried to look at Ayman’s work and tried to talk to him. I warned him three times before I decided to change his seat. He became very belligerent and started shouting. He claimed that his seat is given to him by the government and no one else can change it.”

“Sammy is right,” the superintendent addressed Mr. Malik, “If he is not voluntarily willing to change his seat you cannot force him.”

Mr. Malik was stunned by the superintendent’s remark. He felt humiliated. He had expected the superintendent to back him.

Then the superintendent ordered the teachers to get back to work and ordered the students to continue their test. He took Sammy’s paperwork from Mr. Malik, handed it to Sammy and told him, “Sammy! Son! Sit down and finish your test.” (The superintendent used ‘son’ to call his students and sometimes young teachers.) 

Sammy was extremely happy with the outcome of the intervention of the superintendent and smiled broadly. He was proud that he had stood up for his rights (as he saw them). But his happiness was not to last long. The superintendent turned to Ayman, took all his work from the desk and ordered him “Ayman! Son! Please follow me!”

The superintendent showed Ayman to a seat by himself far away from Sammy. This ended Ayman’s nightmare for good, as it ended Sammy’s ‘dream come true’ for good. In fact, a few minutes later, Sammy turned in his half empty test booklet, frowned at the superintendent, muttered a few cusses and left defeated.

After Sammy left, Mr. Malik went to the superintendent and thanked him for his help in diffusing a major incident. The superintendent looked at Mr. Malik and said, “Son! There is always another way!”    

The Accident-A tale from my time in France

The Accident

A tale from my time in France

 

It was the last Friday of September 1976, two hours before sundown, and my mother and I left Lausanne in Switzerland and started driving back home to Besancon, France. We’d spent two days visiting my brother Mataz. It was the last day of Ramadan and the trip was supposed to only take about one hour forty five minutes. So we decided to continue fasting.  My wife stayed home during these two days and she was expecting us back home before the time to break our fast.  

My mother was filling me in on all sorts of events that had happened in Syria since her last visit, one year before. Who married who, who had new born children, who graduated from high school and much more. She was extremely happy to be with us. I had paid for her round trip ticket; I took her shopping. My wife sewed her a few skirts and a jacket. We were doing our best to please her.

When we were silent she‘d be praying. She loved looking outside the car at the magnificent scenery of the Jura Mountains. She prayed for Allah to bless us, to make us successful, to return what we spent on her multiplied many times. When I heard her last prayer, I wondered how Allah was going to give me back what I spent on her and more, while I had a very limited income and no prospects on the horizon for any increase?

Suddenly she shouted “Ya Latif, Ya Latif, Ya Latif”. A speeding car appeared from a hidden curve from the other direction, two thirds of it in my lane heading towards me. This was a two lane mountainous road with steep rock walls along one side and a deep drop on the other. I tried to swerve as much I could to the right to avoid a head-on collision and I needed to avoid crashing off the mountain and killing my mother. The oncoming speedy car tried to veer to its right as well but there was not enough time….

My mother had been visiting us in Besancon for a few weeks. I was there doing my post graduate study at the university. I had a basic scholarship. My wife did some babysitting and I did some tutoring, and we barely made ends meet. We had eggs and macaroni almost every day because it was cheap. Meat was eaten once a week. On Saturdays, we went to the local farmers’ market, just before it closed, to buy what was left over of vegetables and fruits. My friend, Abdulwahab, with whom I came from Syria on scholarship, would go with me. We would jointly buy fruits and vegetable by the box, cheaper that way. But how to divide fairly the goods between the two families presented a dilemma at first. Then Abdulwahab came up with a genius idea! Every Saturday, alternatively, one of us would divide the merchandise and the other one would chose first.   

This was back in the early seventies. We lived in a government subsidized apartment complex; three buildings, each building had eleven floors, with a total of 540 apartments.  The complex did not have tennis courts, nor did it have swimming pools. Instead it had a mechanic club.  All tenants were low income families or students and were using very old used cars that needed constant maintenance and repair. The club was a one story storefront where the tools were stored. All repairs were done outside. The club was open from 5:00 pm to 8:00 pm during week days and Saturday and Sunday from 8:00 am to 8:00 pm. A professional mechanic was present to help in diagnosing the problems and giving advice.

Quickly I learned how to change oil, transmission fluid, brake pads and how to purge the break lines. I also learned how to replace a bad muffler, a leaky radiator, a defective water pump and cracked CV boots, not to mention replacing car body parts.

I used to have an old Renault 8 with high millage - over 150,000 km. One day, in the local newspaper, I saw an ad for a totaled Renault 8 with an intact engine of only 48,000 km. The owner even offered to deliver it. I bought the car. It was an excellent deal and I had it delivered to the mechanics club. That weekend, with the help of Abdulwahab, we removed my old engine and replaced it with the newer one. We worked on the two cars all of Saturday and Sunday until noon.

The next day, Monday, I was supposed to travel to Paris for a 3-day conference from Tuesday to Thursday. Sunday noon, the complex manager came and asked me “What are you going to do with this wrecked car?” I told him I would take care of it the following weekend since I was leaving town the next day. He frowned and yelled, “Monsieur Tarazi, vous ne peux pas la laisser ici. C’est dangereux” - You cannot leave it here. It's dangerous.

He was right. The complex had a lot of children and they would be very tempted to play with the wreckage.  I didn’t have money to spend on a tow truck. I was very nervous and I needed to prepare for the next day 4-hour drive to Paris. As the saying go, a friend in need is a friend indeed; Abdulwahab came up with yet another genius idea.

We went home for lunch and decided to meet again at the club at 2:00 pm. When we came back, we both wore welding helmets and gloves. The wreckage was gutted of everything. We brought from the club an acetylene torch (metal cutting torch) and went to work. In a few hours we cut the carcass into four pieces. Another good neighbor, who owned a pickup truck, volunteered to haul these four pieces to the junkyard. 

Near the club, there was a payphone. Most of us, the tenants of the complex, had no phone lines inside our apartments. We could not afford it. Every time we needed to make a local phone call we used this payphone. For international calls I had to go to the post office and wait sometimes three hours to get through to Syria. Soon the Arabs and other foreign nationals made a huge discovery. They found out that these payphones worked for international calls at the same fixed cost as making a local call (5 centimes!).  Long lines at any payphone started to form. People were calling Algeria, Tunisia, Syria, Lebanon and other foreign countries (courtesy of the French government!). This honeymoon did not last long.  These long lines alerted the authorities to fix their problem and the payphones were deserted again.

The car accident happened about a mile east of Pontarlier, a small French ski resort town, about thirty miles from home, Besancon. With both cars trying to avoid a head-on collision, the approaching car ended up hitting my side of the car, pushing me closer to the edge of the mountain. For a few scary seconds I lost control and felt we would plunge over the edge, but thankfully I was able to recuperate and managed to get my car to a full stop. I checked on my mom. She was terrified. Alhamdullilah, we both were safe. We had no injuries. We thanked Allah for protecting us from an imminent death. Was this a punishment for me doubting how Allah would return to me what I spent on my mom multiple times, when I had very limited income? That is what came to my mind, but then I remembered that Allah does not hold us accountable for what crosses our minds.

I managed to push open my door and got outside the car. After hitting me, I thought the other car would disappear; instead it stopped several hundred yards away.  The driver, who later introduced himself as Jean Claude, turned his car around and came and stopped right behind my car. “Ça va?” he asked. I told him we were fine and asked about him. He seemed okay. He apologized for causing the accidence. He suggested driving to Pontarlier and finding a café to sit down and get the insurance paperwork done.

In France, for most car accidents, police were normally not called unless there were injuries or a major dispute. There was a detailed insurance form designed for reporting accidents. The form was usually kept with the car registration. In most cases of accidents the forms would be filled out, signed by both parties, and then sent to their respective insurance companies.  

Jean Claude started driving towards Pontarlier. I followed him and we both stopped at the first coffee shop.  By the time we filled out the insurance forms it was sunset. I ordered chocolate milk and croissants for my mother and for me and we broke fast. We could not call my wife to tell her what had happened because she did not have a phone. We continued our trip and got home about an hour after sundown. My wife was so worried about us and happy to see us back home.

The next day, I drove the car to the insurance agency. I delivered the accident report. The adjustor came out of the office and examined the damage to my car. Then he used several thick reference books (computers were not available at that time) to manually calculate the cost of the repair. After about two hours he handed me a check of 3,500 FF.

The car needed a new passenger door, a new back left side door and the two outside mirrors. I always had an extra mirror attached to the front fender of the car to cover my blind spot. That weekend, on Saturday, I went with my friend, Abdulwahab, to the car junkyard, purchased two doors and two mirrors. The doors were different colors from the rest of the car. We bought a few spray paint cans matching the color of the car. Total cost of the parts and the paint was about 350 FF. By noon, the next day, we’d replaced the two doors, did some minor body work on the front fender and painted the whole left side of the car. It wasn’t a great body job, but for a ten year old car it wasn’t too bad either.

By me doing the work, with the help of a friend, I made 3150 FF. This was more than four times my monthly income. Over dinner that night I told my mom how Allah had answered her prayer. She then reminded me of Allah’s saying:

"And whosoever fears Allah and keeps his duty to Him, He will make a way for him to get out (from every difficulty). And He will provide him from (sources) he never could imagine.”

 

  

 

The Plea Bargain!

The Plea Bargain!

My first encounter with the

 American Legal System

 

W

hen I first came to America, I was so excited to be coming to a place known for justice. Unfortunately many countries, including the one I migrated from, Syria, were not known for the honesty of their court systems and for an average person to get justice was often very difficult and expensive.  But here in the States, my new home, I would not have to worry about corruption and lying in the courts.  Here people said you could be honest and the system was fair.  I lived here for several years comfortably, before I had an occasion to experience the justice system for myself.

One day, in late afternoon, on January 4, 1994, I was driving about 20 mile per hour south down Olentangy River Road, normally a 45 mph zone. It was snowing heavily. The visibility was reduced to about 20 feet. The roads were covered with snow so thick you couldn’t see the pavement. When I was about to enter the intersection of Olentangy and Ackerman, the traffic lights became yellow. There was no way to break and stop before the lights because of the slippery snow on the ground. So it was a judgment call. Fearing to slip and keeping my eye on the few cars around, I proceeded with caution and turned east onto W. Dodridge.

  A few seconds later, I barely noticed a police car’s light bars flashing behind me. I did not know where the car came from; certainly it was not behind me on Olentangy. I knew later that it came from Ackerman. I thought it was flashing for someone else, but then he put on the siren and over the loud speakers ordered me to pull over.

 I pulled over and got out my driver’s license and the car registration. It was close to sunset and getting dark. The officer came to my side; I lowered the window and asked him why he stopped me.

 “Sir, you went through a red light.”

 “I disagree, officer, I did not. It was a yellow light.”

 “In addition to going through a red light, your license plate is covered with snow and I could not read it; which is in violation of the law”.

 “Do you want me to pull over every 15 minutes to clean the plate in this storm?”

 “Sir, you can tell that to the judge if you wish, anything you say here could be used against you in a court of law! Just hand me the driver’s license and car registration!”

 I was polite and respectful to him. I did not argue anymore. It wouldn’t have been wise to irritate an officer especially with my foreign accent. He left with my license and registration.While waiting for my ticket, I was thinking to myself how it would be nice to have heating wires going behind the license plate to keep it warm to prevent snow from staying on it.

Some weeks later, at the appointed time and date, I went to the courthouse on South High. In one of the courtrooms, Room A, the Bailiff, whose name was Jennifer Scott, greeted me and asked, “How may I help you?”

“I have this traffic ticket,” I answered.

She looked at it and asked, “What are we pleading today?”

 “We? I don’t know about you!” I wanted to say but did not. “I plead not guilty to all charges,” I replied. She frowned, looked at me and said, “Wait for me; don’t go away, I’ll be back in a minute”. She left to a back room.

Fifteen minutes later, she came back with a smile on her face, “I have great news for you, Mr. Tarazi!” she said. “I checked you out and you have a clean driving record and you never had any traffic violations otherwise. We are willing to reduce the charges to a non moving violation; to a ‘Noisy Muffler’ violation. You pay a $25 fine (my current fine was $80) and leave with 0-point violation.”

In legal jargon this is called a “Plea Bargain”. Basically you plead to a lesser charges and in return you get a reduced sentence – Life in prison without parole instead of death sentence for example -. This practice, I learned later, is widely used in an effort to reduce the number of cases, and thus the cost associated, that end up in courtrooms.

But my muffler was almost new! In fact I had it replaced a month prior to the ticket. If I pleaded guilty to a muffler violation I would have been lying! “I plead ‘no contest’ to the new charge,” I said. I thought ‘no contest’ would be the closest to not lying.  The Bailiff, now angry, shook her head and scowled at me “Mr. Tarazi! You cannot plead ‘no contest’ to the muffler violation. You need to plead guilty or the deal is off the table!”

“Then I will see you in front of the judge,” I said and left.

On my way out of the courthouse building I ran into a friend, Abdulla, a used tire store owner. When he saw me he greeted me, “Wassup brother?” I told him my story and how I refused the plea bargain. He stared at me, shook his head and yelled, “Are you crazy? It ain’t worth fightin’ man. You ain’t gonna win nothin’. You’ll end up payin’ the fine and court cost. Give ’em twenty-some bucks and get outta here!”

I knew I was innocent and I didn’t want to lie. Now I was left with no choice but to fight this to the end. I did not have money to hire an attorney. I had to prepare my defense on my own. I relied on the ‘legal advice’ from friends (as the saying go, a friend in need is a friend indeed). When it comes to giving legal advises, there are no shortage of friends willing to help. Mr. Google Esq. was not in business in 1994 and could not be reached.

In the morning, the day of the trial, I put on my three-piece charcoal suit, a light gray dress shirt, a striped navy blue tie with a tie clip, and wore a shiny black pair of shoes. I prepared my burgundy leather briefcase with golden hinges and locks, an imitation of French Cartier. In it I placed the traffic ticket, the court summons, some notes I’d prepared, a legal pad and few pens. I did my prayer, grabbed my black dress overcoat and headed to the court.

On my way, I continued to pray for the officer not show up in court, which would cause the case to be dismissed automatically. I arrived at the courthouse ten minutes before nine. On the second floor, I needed to report to courtroom A. In the hallway there were so many people waiting for all sort of reasons. Some were defendants going to trials, some were witnesses, and others were supporters. I noticed the presence of several police officers, but I did not recognize the officer who cited me, Officer Taylor, whose name was on my ticket. After all it had been almost two months since I last saw him on the dark street. 

I entered courtroom A and Bailiff Scott was there at her table. “Good Morning Mrs. Scott” I said. She looked at me and recognized me

“Good Morning Mr. Tarazi!, How have you been?”

“Fine thank you Mrs. Scott, and you?”

“Great thank you!” She added in a last minute maneuver, “Mr. Tarazi!  Do you really still want to go through this? You can still accept the plea bargain.”

I suspected that Officer Taylor did not show up and that Mrs. Scott wanted a last minute deal short of having the case dismissed.

“I appreciate the offer Mrs. Scott, but I would like to go through the trial.”

She walked me around the courtroom, showed me the defense and plaintiff tables, the jury box, the judge’s bench, and instructed me to sit at the defense table. I put my briefcase on the table, opened it and left it open, took out my legal pad, a pen and placed them on the table. I took off my overcoat and placed it neatly around the back of a nearby chair and fixed my tie.  While waiting for the trial to get started, I was going over in my head my defense strategy, but still was hoping for Officer Taylor not to show up.

It was around 9:15 a.m. when a big man entered the courtroom. He ignored me. He chatted with the Bailiff and both laughed. Then he sat at the prosecution table. Later I knew he was the assistant prosecutor in charge of my case.

The back door opened and an older distinguished man, with hair turning white, wearing long black robe, came through. “All rise” the Bailiff shouted. We all stood up. It was Judge Smith; he went behind the bench, sat down, and ordered, “Please be seated!” He started going through a stack of files on top of his desk, and then called “Mrs. Scott!” She stood up and addressed “Your Honor, before you, case number 1994 TR D 00078, The State of Ohio, Plaintiff versus M. Nabih Tarazi, Defendant.”

“Thank you Mrs. Scott, and now to you Mr. Martinez!”

The assistant prosecutor, Mr. Martinez, stood up, cleared his throat, and said ”Your Honor, on January 4, 1994, the defendant, Mr. Tarazi, failed to stop at the red lights at the intersection of Olentangy and Ackerman. He was spotted by an officer on duty. He was pulled over as he was going east on W. Dodridge. He was driving with an unclear plate. Those were clear violations of the law and the officer cited him for both. We ask the court to find him guilty of both charges, order him to pay the fees and the court cost. Thank you your Honor!”

The Judge looked at me and asked me, “Mr. Tarazi! What do you say of these charges?”

I stood up, cleared my throat and answered “Good Morning your Honor, I did not go through red lights. In fact, they became yellow as I was preparing to enter the intersection and turn left on West  Dodridge. As for the so-called unclear plate, Mr. Martinez failed to inform the court that the plate was partially obstructed by the falling snow. Your Honor! On January 4, 1994, I was stopped and cited during an ongoing snow storm. Therefore, I respectfully ask the court to dismiss all charges. Thank you your honor”

“Mr. Martinez! Do you have your witness?”  The judge asked.

My heart started pounding, I needed to hear “No”, “Hasn’t show up yet”, “Running a bit late” or “On his way”, which would have disturbed the judge and the case would’ve been dismissed.

“Yes your honor, he is outside waiting!” replied Mr. Martinez.

“Then call in your witness,” Judge Smith ordered.

Officer Taylor was escorted inside the courtroom. Before sitting at the lectern he was sworn in by Mrs. Scott. Mr. Martinez asked him to identify himself for the court. Then he asked him to tell the court what happen on the evening of January 4, 1994. He said that I went through a red light and my plate was covered with snow and he couldn’t read it. Then Mr. Martinez asked him if I said anything during the stop. He answered that I denied going through red lights and that I told him,

“Do you expect me to pull over every few minutes to wipe up my plate from the snow?” Officer Taylor added, at that time, I advised him “anything you say will be used against you in court”. Mr. Martinez thanked him and thanked the judge.

“Mr. Tarazi!” Judge Smith called on me “It’s your turn to cross-examine the witness.”

I cleared my throat and started “Thank you Your Honor.” I studied my notes “Mr. Taylor, how long have you been in the police service?”

“Five years next month,” he replied.

“Do you consider yourself an expert witness?”

He hesitated, “Yes”

“What qualifications do you have?” I asked.

“High school diploma,” he answered.

 “Were you behind me when I, as you alleged, went through the red lights?”

“No.” He said.

I did some scribbling on my legal pad as if important information is being recorded. I glanced at the judge, and he seemed amused with the show. This was probably his first time presiding over such a ridiculous case. 

“Could you state your position, when you saw me go through red lights, as you’d claimed?”

“I was on Ackerman, at the traffic lights, at the intersection of Ackerman and Olentangy, going east.” Taylor said.

“And I was going south on Olentangy, is that correct?”

“Yes” Taylor replied.

“Olentangy meets Ackerman at about 45 degrees angle, is that correct”

“I don’t know, Maybe”

“Mr. Taylor! From your position, at Ackerman, could you see the lights that I went through?”

He realized that he could not have seen my lights from his position. He said “No Sir.”

“So you did not see me go through red lights?”

“When my light turned green, I saw you still in the intersection heading east on West Dodridge.” Taylor said.

“Is that a No answer?” I asked.

“Yes Sir.”

“If my light turned yellow when I was about to enter the intersection, don’t I need to proceed and get out of the intersection?”

“Yes”

More scribbling! I had learned from one of my friends -Legal advisor, if I can call him that way, that the best defense strategy is to discredit the witnesses’ credibility. I retrieved the traffic ticket from my briefcase, studied it, cleared my throat and asked, “How was the pavement at the time of the incident?”

He paused and said, “Dry.”

“Mr. Taylor! On my ticket you marked ‘snow’ for the pavement.

What about the visibility?”

“Clear.”

“Mr. Taylor! On my ticket you marked ‘cloudy’ for the visibility”

“What about the weather?”

“Snow.”

“Mr. Taylor! With the pavement being covered with snow, there was no way you could be sure, from your position, where I was with respect to the solid white lines delineating the intersection.”

Without giving him chance to comment, I quickly asked him, “At 30 miles per hour, how long does it take for a car to come to a full stop, in such a condition of weather and pavement?”

He shrugged “I don’t know, Sir.” 

At this point, even though the judge looked very amused, I needed to end this cross-examination. I did not want to irritate him. I looked at my pad, turned towards the judge and said

“Your Honor, I did not go through red lights. I’m not going to lie just to avoid paying a fee of eighty dollars. It is a matter of principle for me.” I cleared my throat. “Your Honor, Thou Shalt Not Lie!” I wanted to add but I did not. Instead I concluded, “Your Honor! They even wanted me to lie about my muffler in order to drop the charges, I refused and ….” The judge cut me off.  I thought he was fed up with me by then.

“Okay! Okay! Mr. Tarazi. They sometimes offer such plea bargains to reduce the load on the courts.” Then he addressed the assistant prosecutor, “Mr. Martinez! The State failed to convince me beyond a reasonable doubt of the guilt of Mr. Tarazi. In fact I have many doubts. Therefore, the case is dismissed.”

He looked at me and said “Mr. Tarazi, feel free to leave.”

I thanked him and picked up my briefcase and my overcoat and left.

                                                     Justice served.

[This is the story as I recall it.  I made up the names of the people for their privacy and also because I forgot their names.]