CLYDE'S DIAMOND LANE CAPER by David VanBuskirk, Sr.
“Hi, Clyde, this is Dave. Do you want to pick up a dead body in Torrance for me?”
“Sure,” came the reply, with just a hint of excitement. “I’ll be right there.”
Within minutes Clyde walked into my office at Harford Funeral Home. “The signed death certificate should be with the deceased’s body at the hospital.” I handed him the removal slip with the deceased’s information and other pertinent data. “I need to get them both back here as soon as possible, so we can cross-file the death certificate with the Los Angeles County Health Department and embalm the body.”
“Got it,” he responded with a big grin on his face. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He took off in our First Call car for Torrance, a good two-hour drive, one way.
Clyde picked up the death certificate, removed the body from the morgue, and was on his way back to Hemet. As he merged onto the Artesia Freeway, he saw the diamond lane sign: Two Persons Per Vehicle Only. Well, there are two of us, he thought, and headed for the diamond lane.
It wasn’t long before a Highway Patrol cruiser loomed in his rearview mirror. It made its way over from the slow lane, from the number two lane to the number three lane, to the diamond lane, pulling in directly behind him. He maintained his speed and waited for the inevitable flashing red lights. Just west of the Cherry Avenue exit in Long Beach, when the diamond lane opened for access or exit, the cruiser’s top lit up. Clyde made his way across the busy freeway to the shoulder and stopped. The cruiser pulled in behind him. The patrolman walked up to the driver’s side window.
“May I see your license and registration please?” The patrolman asked.
“Sure, officer.” He fished the registration out of the glove box. He had his wallet halfway out of his back pocket when the officer took a step back.
“Step out of the car.” The officer’s hand hovered over his weapon.
Clyde swallowed hard, got out of the car, and followed the officer to the rear of the station wagon.
“What’s the problem, officer?”
“You’re driving in the carpool lane. Alone.” The officer jerked his chin toward the empty passenger seat.
“But I’m not alone officer,” Clyde responded. “I have a deceased person on the cot in back.”
“If you’ve got a body in there, let me see it.”
“I can’t do that sir, because of the body’s privacy.” Then, thinking fast, he added, “But I can show you his feet.”
He opened the station wagon’s tailgate and peeled back the cot cover and sheet, exposing the dead man’s feet, a tag tied neatly to his big toe.
“That’s a body alright.” The patrolman continued writing the ticket. “But it doesn’t count as another person in the car.”
“Well,” Clyde pleaded, “you know, the dictionary defines a person as the body of a human.”
“I don’t care what the dictionary says,” the patrolman shot back. “The other person in the car must benefit from the ride to qualify as a passenger.”
“He is benefitting from the ride,” Clyde said. “And so is everybody at the end of the line. He has to be embalmed when I get back because he has a funeral tomorrow afternoon.” The patrolman kept writing.
“I have a brother who’s a retired Los Angeles traffic cop.” Clyde told the officer. “On more than one occasion, he’s told me if he ever stopped someone who gave him a story he hadn’t heard before, he probably wouldn’t write him a ticket.”
Ignoring him, the patrolman handed him the ticket. “Please sign here.”
“I’ll sign it,” Clyde said, “but you’ve got to at least make note of the fact there was the body of a person in the car with me.”
The patrolman took the ticket and in the remarks section wrote: Carpool lane, solo, corpse on board.
Clyde signed the ticket, got his copy, and avoided the car-pool lane for the rest of the trip. He worried all the way home and decided that he would go to court and try to convince the judge a dead human being is still a person. He did not want to pay the $360.00 fine.
The next day, Clyde got a call from an attorney in Long Beach, telling him if he needed an attorney in court, he would be more than happy to represent him.
“I’m going to be in court to fight this,” Clyde told the guy, “but I can’t afford an attorney.”
“Oh, no,” the lawyer said, “I won’t charge you a dime. This is strictly pro-bono. I have seen a lot of traffic tickets throughout my career but never one like yours and I will probably never see another. It’ll be interesting to represent you.”
“In that case,” Clyde answered, “I’d love your help.”
They discussed the case. “Okay, I’ll see you in court.”
“Very good,” Clyde replied, “I’ll see you there.”
On arraignment day, Clyde met the attorney outside the Long Beach Municipal Court. They chatted for a while then went in and sat down. When his case was called, Clyde and his attorney made their way to the front of the courtroom.
The judge scanned the file in front of him. He looked up, removed his glasses, and frowned. Clyde shifted his weight from side to side and wondered if the judge’s look meant his fine was about to double.
“How do you plead?”
“The defense will demur, your Honor,” the attorney answered. Clyde had no idea what that meant, but his attorney later told him it was legal jargon. We can’t plead guilty or innocent because we say no offense was committed.
The stern-faced judge cracked a smile. “Not guilty,” he said as his gavel hit the pad. “Case dismissed.”
