The True Cost of Arrogance

Jon Benêt Ramsey showed up in the news again, just in time for New Years. She’s the 6-year old Beauty Queen found raped and strangled in her parent’s basement on Christmas Day. The event happened in 1997, but she’s still making headlines. The case was sensational, mixing greedy parents with botched police work and even shoddier prosecutions. It’s the Christmas Story you want to ignore, but seemingly can’t get away from.

The news this time around mentioned thousands of documents recently released that may shed light on who actually committed her murder. Jon Benêt never did get Justice, so the case just rolls along. But what caught my eye was the name of the District Attorney who resigned in disgrace due to his handling of the case. So many Boulderites hate him, but his name just brings a big smile to my face. Why, you might ask? Because I beat that jackass in his own courtroom. I didn’t just beat him, I embarrassed him. I made a fool of him. And I will never ever forget it.

What should have been a simple underage drinking ticket turned into one of the greatest interactions I’ve ever had with the American justice system. A beer ticket should have just been a small fine, but our family lawyer insisted we take it all the way to trial. I faced potential jail time for this puny misdemeanor, but our attorney Jon Rickman was adamant. He said it would be “a great opportunity to learn how court works.” Then he chuckled. I should have known then from that chuckle that this wiley old coot had something up his sleeve.

Rickman is a schemer. He’s a criminal defense lawyer for good reason, as he’s on a righteous mission to hold city government accountable. The people he represents are often the dregs of society, but many are made that way by a system that is simply designed to exclude them. It’s a system that intends on limiting access to education and occupation, and thereby keeps people on the fringes of society. So they end up on the take. They end up getting caught trying to scrape by. 

Sure, some are actual criminals, but most really are victims of circumstance. America isn’t the land of milk and honey, of equal opportunity you always hear about. And courts often prey on these poor unfortunate souls, increasing the difficulty of achieving that mythic American dream. The court system is one of the ways America keeps its people separate. One of the ways it distinguishes between the haves and the have-nots.

And Rickman is right there, keeping the court honest. He’s the fly in the ointment, and serving not just as a defender of criminals, but as an advocate for the very concept of American Justice. He’s a social worker, and champion for the people who often are derided. A true “unsung hero.”

So there I was, sitting at a table with him inside one of Boulder County’s courtrooms. And across from us is the District Attorney, the prosecuting attorney. Over the course of the next half hour, we wiped that smug, arrogant look right off his face. Today was my chance to hold American Justice accountable, and I kicked him in the balls for thinking I’d be an easy target.

The charge was straightforward, or so it seemed. I had been caught drinking beer in a public park. Rock Park was right by my house in Boulder’s Eisenhower neighborhood, and the night I got caught was really no different than every other day. I was a teen dope smoker and recreational drinker. Sometimes I dabbled in harder drugs, especially hallucinogens, but weed and beer were my cornerstones. It was totally normal for me to be high on something, and just about every day ended either pulling bong hits in my backyard or ripping them over at Rock Park.

But on this particular occasion I got busted. It was weird too because it was the first night in years that I had seen my former partner in crime from my middle school years, Dan Callford. Dan never made it through school beyond Christmas Break of 9th grade, choosing instead to pursue a life of crime as a full-time occupation. He was in the midst of telling me of his exploits when the spotlight hit us.

That light popped on, and we never expected a thing until we were awash in its burning glare. The cop was young, an early 20-something with only two years service on the force. He had silently driven his cruiser onto the bike path, and snuck up on us on foot. It was actually a good catch and both Dan and I were impressed with his stealth. We were not your upstanding citizens by any means, and the two of us had run together from police more times than I can remember. Police, teachers, other citizens- they had all chased Dan and I at some point. So we were both humbled and intrigued at how Johnny Law pulled this one over on us.

We faced that immediate moment of dread in knowing our goose was cooked, but the cop swiped his flashlight all around to give us a show. On the left we saw Derek hustling away into the shadows, in that crouched run/hide that subversion requires. I immediately presumed he was on the way to my house, as our backyard fence was only 60’ away from Rock Park’s parking lot. Then the light swung to the right, and we saw a group of about a dozen teens zooming off in that direction. Then the light swung back to center, and a couple of teenage morons froze in its glare. I would have run at that point, but these idiots stood there like deer in the headlights.

There were about six of us that got caught. Copper walked us all to his squad car, parked just at the end of the baseball diamond. He didn’t have any legit breathalyzer equipment so he had us breath into his hand and he sniffed it for boozy smells. How gross is that? We took turns blowing, and it was hilarious because everyone else would laugh while the blower blowed. It was stupidly comical.

And then someone came walking up. Just a random citizen out walking her dog. At 10pm. On Saturday night. It took us all a minute to realize this wasn’t your average dog walker but none other than Regina Marten. The dog was named Joey. I know that because Regina Marten is my mom! And Joe Joe was one of the finest dogs I’ve ever had. 

Mom rolled right up into the crowd, and took ahold of my arm like this was a totally normal, even expected, weekend occurrence.

“C’mon, let’s go” she said to me, but clearly intending for the cop to hear. 

“Excuse me ma’am, but I need to finish writing him a ticket.” 

“A ticket for what?” Mom glowered at me, then at the cop.

“I caught him drinking in the park.”

“Well then, let’s get on with it. It’s past my bedtime.” Mom snorted this response, and kicked the cop into high gear. All the teenagers started giggling, and I had a big, mischievous grin on my face. I knew this was supposed to be serious, but the whole thing was just turning absurd. The cop intended to write us all tickets, and I got lucky because mom rolled up to bail me out. Everyone else had parents called though, and there were three kids whose parents didn’t answer the phone call. Those three got taken downtown to Juvie so their parents could pick them up there. Dan was one of those three. This small infraction was tacked on to his already lengthy rap sheet, and became a violation of his parole. Dan went back into the Justice System that day and he didn’t come back out. I neither saw nor heard from Dan Callford ever again. 

So that’s the spark event that landed me in court. Mom said her and my step dad Charles were finishing their last glass of wine for the night on our back patio when they heard a commotion by the fence. It was Derek scrambling over and going into sneak mode in our vegetable garden. That must have been a weird sight, but Derek was too stupid to stay hidden. He jumped right up and told my parents what was going down, so mom grabbed Joey and off they went to spring me. 

In court, however, the D.A. was much more straightforward in laying out the accusations. It went something like this:

D.A.: “Your Honor, we’re here today for a straightforward case of underage drinking. Why this wasn’t a simple, paid fine is beyond me, so the accused has chosen to fight and brought us all here today.”

From there, he brought out the arresting officer and had this young cop relay the events of the night. The D.A. was right: this seemed straightforward. I’m sitting there wondering why I didn’t pay the fine, and what in the hell Jon was trying to do. I felt somewhat betrayed, like the lesson I was about to learn was how to spend a weekend in jail and pay a pretty hefty fine. How dumb! But then Jon started doing his thing. 

Jon stood up at our table and addressed the police officer:

Jon: “Officer (whatever his name was), can you identify my client, James Daleson, as one of the persons in your series of events that night?”

Cop: “yes, I clearly remember him.”

Jon: “why do you clearly remember him? Do you clearly remember the other teens?”

Cop: “Mr. Daleson was head-back chugging a beer when my flashlight hit him.”

Jon: “you say he was drinking a beer when you approached. Were the other teens in the act of drinking as well?”

Cop: “I’m not sure if they were drinking at that moment. I only saw Mr. Daleson.”

Jon: “but you arrested the whole group, is that correct?”

Cop: “yes I did.”

Jon: “you arrested a group of teenagers who weren’t doing anything other than being in a public park?”

Cop: “I arrested them for underage drinking.”

Jon: “but you didn’t see them drinking, is that correct?”

Cop: “yes, that is correct.” 

Jon: “why did you arrest them if they weren’t drinking?”

Cop: “they smelled of alcohol, so I made the arrest.” 

Jon: “did their breathalyzer tests document alcohol consumption?”

Cop: “no, I did not use a breathalyzer. I didn’t have one in my car at the time.”

Jon: “breathalyzers are standard equipment. Do you always patrol alone without proper gear?”

D.A.: “Objection, your honor.” 

Judge: “overruled. This seems like a pertinent line of questioning.”

Jon: “thank you, Your Honor. Officer, what did you see Mr. Daleson drinking on the night in question?”

Cop: “Foster’s Lager. It’s an iconic beer in those fat cans. I wouldn’t forget it.”

Jon (holding up a Foster’s oil can): “was this the can you took from Mr. Daleson?”

Cop: “I’m not sure. It might have been.”

Jon: “you seem unsure of quite a few things about that night.” (Looks over and winks at me. I’m still seated by the way).

D.A. (Jumping out of his chair and practically shouting): “objection Your Honor!”

Judge: “sustained. Keep it professional, counselor.”

Jon: “apologies, Your Honor. The arresting officer has confirmed that Mr. Daleson was drinking from this can, or a similar can, of Foster’s Lager (he put emphasis on lager). Your Honor, would you please read the definitions of “alcoholic beverage” from Colorado’s dictionary of legal terms?”

Judge (looking put out but grabs a HUGE book, probably ten inches thick. This is the legal dictionary that defines Colorado State Law). The judge reads aloud about 43 different terms, and amazingly “lager” isn’t one of them!

There was a moment of stunned silence in the courtroom as all involved, lawyers, judge, cop, defendant, and a sizeable crowd waiting for their cases to be tried next, processed what they’d just heard. Then the D.A. exploded, practically leaping out of his chair and shouting.

D.A.: “this is preposterous! Everyone knows what Fosters is! It’s beer! They sell it in liquor stores!”

Judge (rapping gavel): “sit down, counselor, and remember yourself.” The Judge was clearly frustrated not just by the D.A.’s outburst, but by the simple fact he had overlooked pretty much Step Number One: define your terms. 

Jon (waiting until there’s just enough quiet for him to continue): “Your Honor, Colorado State Law, as you just read yourself, does not define “lager” as alcoholic. In the absence of professional proof in the form of a legitimate breathalyzer test, there’s simply no way to confirm that whatever was in this can while Mr. Daleson drank from it was indeed alcoholic. It could have been orange juice for all we know. And the fact that the arresting officer didn’t actually see anyone else drinking anything makes me wonder if a crime was committed at all. 

“Mr. Daleson is a straight-A student, and the State would need to spend a significant amount of money on chemical analysis to prove that Foster’s Lager is indeed alcoholic. But of course, there’s no physical proof that that is what Mr. Daleson was drinking anyway.”

D.A. (In a LOUD voice): “this is absolutely absurd! Judge, you can’t honestly throw this case out! He was drinking beer! Underage! Everyone else paid a fine, and he should have too!”

Judge (rapping gavel again, and angrily addressing the D.A.): “counselor, you are NOT to tell me what I can and cannot do in my own courtroom. Is that understood? I don’t want any further outbursts from you.”

Jon (addressing the police officer, still on the witness stand and starting to squirm. He was in trouble and he knew it): “how long have you been a cop?”

Cop: “two years.”

Jon: “so you’re still a rookie?” (Winks at me again).

D.A. (Standing, and quietly saying in an absolutely flustered voice): “objection.”

Judge (looking down his nose at Jon, like he’s issuing Jon a warning): “sustained.”

Jon (addressing cop again): “what did you do with the can after you took it from Mr. Daleson?”

Cop: “I gave it back to him to pour out.”

Jon (turns to me and LOUDLY says so everyone: me, Judge, cop, D.A., audience- can hear): “that sounds like distribution of alcohol to a minor if you ask me.”

The courtroom audience erupted in laughter. This had become a comedic theater production. The cop looked horrified, and knew he was up the creek without a paddle. This would definitely go in his case file. The Judge’s eyes sprung open, with a look of absolute shock. He couldn’t believe that a simple underage beer ticket had turned into such a debacle. The courtroom was rolling with raucous mirth, all that except for me. I sat stone-still in my wooden defendant’s seat, attention squarely on the D.A. I watched intently as District Attorney Alex Hunter slowly sank into his chair, and put his face in his hands. I actually watched that happened.

Judge (POUNDING gavel): “THIS CASE IS DISMISSED! GET OUT OF MY COURTROOM!” 

It sounded like he was talking (it could have been described as yelling) to everyone in the room, not just me. He was definitely talking to the D.A., who couldn’t have screwed this one up any worse than he had. But that’s just it: Jon kept this courtroom honest. The D.A. thought his case was easy, and that arrogance of assuming the law is always right results in who knows how many wrongful convictions? I was the only one of my friends who fought this ticket, but every single one of them could have had their case thrown out. 

The lesson I learned that day is that the burden of proof is indeed on the prosecution. The State HAS TO PROVE that a crime was committed. If there’s ANY doubt, then the case is tossed. As it should be. Freedom might not be free, but it can’t be stolen from us either. If a crime isn’t proven, then it didn’t happen.

I also learned that that particular D.A. was indeed a total ass. He resigned in the wake of the Jon Benêt case because he screwed up his investigation so badly. Boulder’s newspaper, The Daily Camera reported regularly on his mishandling of the case until he walked away in shame like a dog with its tail tucked.

And I never even said a word to him. I didn’t have to. Jon did all the talking. I couldn’t have asked for a better teacher to walk me through a real-life classroom of American Justice. It’s a lesson I’ll never forget.