my public defender

Now for something new… our first nonfiction article!

As a producer, I’ve worked with journalists to develop articles that have sparked studio bidding wars.

I’m not a journalist myself, but when I heard this surreal and hilarious real life story, I decided to try an interview piece:

We hope you' enjoy. TV rights are available…

MAX WINTER: What follows is my conversation with Audrey, a young woman who found herself charged with felony welfare fraud and dragged to court in downtown Los Angeles. What drew me in at first was the absurdity of someone like Audrey being involved in a crime like this. She just didn’t seem like the type. I wanted to know how it all went down. But the more I learned, the more I was fascinated by her relationship with her public defender. He seemed right out of a TV show. So Audrey, tell me about the first time you ever met this guy?

AUDREY: Well, the first time I ever had to show up to court, they make us all line up like cattle, and they say:  “Okay, if you need a court appointed defender, take a form... and if you have your own representation, get a form from this other bailiff...”

Okay, well, first of all: this is fucking welfare fraud!

None of us have money. So, we’re all lined up for the public defender — including me. 

Yeah, it looks like I don’t belong there. I’m the only person who’s wearing clothes that are business attire, you know what I mean? Everyone else is wearing sweatpants and basketball shorts and Nike Slides. And I’m wearing a silk blouse and a wool blazer and slacks and these little leather boots. I’m getting a lot of stares. I always get stares in this court. People come up and ask me questions thinking I work there. But I’m like, “No man, I’m here for welfare fraud!”

So on that day, when I went to get the public defender form the bailiff said, “Ma’am, are you sure you don’t want one of these other forms?”

And I was like, “No, I need a public defender, fucking unfortunately.”

He just shrugged and handed it over.

So, that first day, I specifically remember seeing the man who would become my public defender walking out of one of the courthouses. He has hair like Albert Einstein. And it’s more white towards the bottom and more black towards the end. So he dyes it, and then it grows. But he hasn’t dyed it in like three years. 

And he has this crazy completely unkempt beard that’s also white and black and patchy. He has a suit that you would find at like the worst Good Will in your county. Before he took it home, he just saw it, and he was like: “Good enough!” You know what I mean? 

What’s his name? Baker, Baker Ostrin. And Oh, my God, he’s so old. He’s probably, like… he’s definitely in his 80s.

And here’s the thing: Baker Ostrin is a man who in his prime was probably about five foot seven, five foot six. But now he’s at a near 90 degree angle. He walks completely hunched over. *Completely* hunched over. And he shuffles his feet.

He’s an absolutely absurd man. And so the first time I ever see him, I didn’t know he was going to be my public defender. For all I knew, he was *also* there for welfare fraud. So imagine my god damn surprise when the next time I show up to court, guess who’s my fucking lawyer? 

Baker fucking Ostrin.

MAX WINTER: So, tell me what it’s like when you have to go to the courthouse.

AUDREY: I’m driving around Downtown L.A. with a cracked phone, trying to find somewhere to park. Panic-parking in some random lot blocks away from the courthouse and already at least 45 minutes late to court — more like an hour. 

So, I obviously felt like I needed to call Baker. I needed to at least be like, “I’m coming!” Because I was specifically told by the court: “She must appear in person next time.” So, I don’t want them to think that I’m just ditching court. 

When I start calling him, my phone is going whack, and he answers the phone in kind of grizzled voice. It sounds like he smokes a lot of cigarettes, but he never smells like cigarette smoke, so maybe it’s just that he’s really old. 

So he says. “Hello?!?!” in a really grizzled whisper, but still like a shout, almost. And that’s when I realize, hold on a second, I don’t think that’s his office phone number.

I have is his cell phone number. He doesn’t have a receptionist. I’m assuming not. He just answers himself.

Which is crazy with all the court cases he has. Like 100 a day. Everyone just has his personal cell phone number! 

So, he answers the phone. 

And I’m like: “Okay, this is…” you know, I give him my name, and he’s like:

“Yeah, I know who you are!”

“Okay, well, I’m just making sure.”

He’s like: “I can’t talk right now. I’m in court!”

“But we’re literally talking right now. Why did you answer the phone, dude?” 

Like: if you can’t answer the phone in court, then why are we talking right now? 

Meanwhile, I’m running toward the courthouse. Jay-walking across freeway entrances downtown in the middle of the day — which is something I would never do. 

And right as I’m about to ask him, “Where am I supposed to go?” (I don’t remember since I haven’t been to court in nine months. I admit I’ve been skipping.) Right as I’m about to ask him again, he just fucking hangs up. 

Boom: hangs up!

When I get to the courthouse, I have to go through the metal detectors and that’s when I have to shout at the receptionist:

“Where’s the welfare fraud department?!?”

There’s 100 people all staring at me. All waiting around for the elevators, because the courthouse has eight elevators, but only two are functional. That pretty much encapsulates the government, doesn’t it?

So I repeat “Where’s the welfare fraud department!?!” to this lady — in front of God and everybody. There’s police, there’s working professionals, and degenerates like me. 

This lady tells me go up to the 12th floor. And in my brain, in that moment, I have this memory of my public defender. The first time we met, handing me the sheet. He said: “Take a picture on your phone! I don’t want you to lose this!” 

And I’m thinking: “Oh, my God, I remember. It’s actually the fifth floor!”

And I’m worried, because the elevator situation is taking so long, and everyone’s queued up to go into the two fucking elevators in a reasonable manner. At this point, I’m an hour and 15 minutes late to court. 

So I’m like: “Oh my God, I have to try to call this guy again with my stupid broken phone.”  

I’m actually starting to panic that my name is going to come up soon. I’m near the top of the alphabetical list, right? But typically they do the worst crimes first.

The court isn’t just welfare fraud. It’s welfare fraud, armed robbery, attempted armed robbery. You know, like super blue-collar crime-type-stuff. 

So, I’m in the elevator and I’m surrounded now. Really tightly packed. These elevators are supposed to fit like 15, but there’s as many people as humanly possible in them.

I’m on the phone trying to call my public defender again. 

And we both start talking at the same time. I’m just trying to get out: “Where am I supposed to go?” 

And he’s whisper-yelling: “Ma’am, I can’t answer the phone!” 

“But again, we’re talking right now! So, you keep answering the phone in court!”

Which is hilarious to me. There’s this expectation of court that there’s an orderliness to it, you know what I mean? And what I have come to find is that in the specific kind of court that I’m in? There is no order. It’s very loosely constrained chaos. At all times. 

You’re not supposed to use your phone in court? Well, fuck, my public defender is answering it. All the time!

Here’s the thing, when you sit in this court? They have you all sitting outside of the courtroom on these fucking benches that look like the New York City Subway in the 80s.

Really gross, weird, orange and brown, and I don’t know, it’s so unappealing, and the brown tiles of the floor. You already feel like you’ve been convicted of a crime and you’re in prison. You know? It’s just so horrible and so bleak.

And these public defenders are just coming in and out of the courtroom with different papers that they’re constantly printing off while everything is going on, just calling out names. And absolutely fucking butchering every single pronunciation. Most of them are young or they’re middle-aged white schmucks who couldn’t make it as real lawyer.

Or, my lawyer Baker, I don’t know what *his* deal is. Just old. Just really old!

Okay, so let’s just go back to the in the moment, I’m calling him from the elevator. And he’s whisper-yelling:

“Don’t call me!!!” 

And I’m saying:  “I don’t remember where I’m supposed to go!”

He’s saying: “I can’t answer the phone in court! Email me!” 

But my phone screen is broken, so I can’t email him. I have to keep calling him. And he keeps answering anyway — so it seems like it’s totally fucking fine!

So then, I’m surrounded by all these people. I just say: “I don’t remember where I’m supposed to go!”

And he’s like: “Fifth floor!”

I’m like: finally!

“Great, thank you.” That’s what I fucking thought.

So, I just got off at the fifth floor, and for some reason, in that moment, I just thought to myself, you know, obviously Baker doesn’t give a fuck that I’m late, so it can’t be *that* bad.

He has a very “Do Not Give a Fuck” attitude, you know?

For instance, I’m pretty sure your public defender is supposed to remind you to show up in court. But I haven’t heard from this bitch for at least four months!

It’s amazing that he even knew who I was when I was calling. He has like a thousand clients a day! That’s why I was like: “I’m so and so.” When he answered back to me, “I know who you are.” I’m like, “Well, how am I supposed to know that?”

So I get onto the fifth floor, and one of the rules of court is, when court is in session, you’re not supposed to go in and out — but everybody does anyway. So I just go boom, boom, through the two sets of double doors in the back, and I immediately fucking see him standing… Well, you know, *hunching* over by the printer. He’s hunching so much he can’t see past the top of the printer.

Just to give you loads of context — it’s a little printer on a desk. He has his hand on the printer, tapping his fingers on it. And I come boom, boom through those two double doors. And when I do, a lot of people in court turn around and look at me. I mean, I stand out. And I probably look fucking insane.

And also they’re thinking: “Who’s this girl?” you know? “Is she someone’s lawyer? Is she supposed to be here right now?” And as soon as I walk in, I see Baker look over his shoulder, not even fully look at me, but boom, we immediately make eye contact. And the way he looks at me, I can just tell that he’s like, “Oh God… *this* girl.” You know what I mean?

When I see that, I think to myself, everything’s gonna be just fine, because he’s just dismissive — I guess is what it is. He’s been around this block a million and one times. He’s probably been a public defender since he was 20.

I’m thinking: my public defender has this. I’m all good.

MAX WINTER: Why don’t we back up for a minute. How did you get charged for welfare fraud to begin with?

AUDREY: Okay, my ex-boyfriend, who was kind of a loser, yeah? Basically, a musician trying to make it in L.A. Of course, right? You know, he pressured me so much, to where I felt like I didn’t actually have a choice… into signing up for food stamps specifically. Even though I didn’t qualify, right?

So, I did that for maybe a year, okay? And then I stopped getting them. And then nine months later, I wake up one morning and I check my emails, and right at the top of my inbox is this email from the Los Angeles County Courts with this notice: You’re being charged with defrauding the government. Fraudulently getting ‘welfare.’

I thought it was so fucking strange to get a notice like that from the government in your email inbox. At first I thought: is this SPAM? This can’t be real! This seems fake.

It was like: “If you don’t show up to court on this date, there will be a warrant put out for your arrest.”

Wow. Wow. Going after the welfare people hardcore!

And then the next day to my regular mail, like the USPS mailbox, I receive this thing from the Treasurer and Tax Collectors office saying: you owe us this much money. It was just under four grand. It was like $3,998.

They didn’t say what it was for. But I saw that, and I thought: “Oh, yeah, obviously these two things go together.”

So, then I call the Treasurer and Tax Collectors office, which is what it says to do on their notice, which they send with a pink envelope for you to send the money back, right? By the way, you can pay online and you can set up a payment plan. But I didn’t have any fucking money!

So, I call the Treasurer and Tax Collectors office, and I’m like, “I have to set up a payment plan.”

And they say, “Okay.”

And I say, I need to pay the *least* amount as possible every month, because I literally have *no* money.

Because, keep in mind, I literally made maybe $1,000 more than the cut off for welfare to begin with, right? So, I wasn’t even *that* fraudulent. But still! I’m getting absolutely hammered by the government here.

So anyways, they say to me, “Okay, how much do you think you can pay every month?”

And I say: “$75.”

And she *laughs* at me on the phone!

And she’s like, “How about $300?”

And I tell her, “I literally can’t. I don’t know — what am I supposed to do? Pull money out of my ass?”

And I was like: “For real. I can’t do that. Like, I was committing welfare fraud for a fucking reason!”

And then that’s when she said: “Well, then you have to go to court.”

Like fuck. I’m already being charged — and its a felony.

MAX WINTER: So, back to the courtroom.

AUDREY: Yeah, this is my third or fourth court appearance — who knows? I had already skipped a bunch. And I still owe $2,300. And my public defender is trying to get the felony kicked down to a misdemeanor.

They make you keep coming back to court just to basically berate you and say, “We need to see more progress! The DA wants to see more progress!”

So, they have this whole government set-up just to berate a bunch of poor people to pay like, $1,000. And here’s the thing I’m telling you, right fucking now: it costs way more for them to put on this whole charade than what they’re getting back from us poors, right? It’s absolutely absurd.

So, the Treasurer and Tax Collectors office: I started paying to them well before I ever had my first court date, which is the date where you get assigned your public defender, right? And so by the time I got assigned my public defender I had paid $1,000. And when I tell him that, he goes:

“Oh my god, WHAT?!?”

That’s what he said: “Oh my god. NEVER pay the Treasurer and Tax Collectors!”

I’m like: “Isn’t that the point?”

He explains: If you owe taxes, they’re gonna take taxes out first from the money you pay before it ever gets to paying off the welfare fraud.

He’s like: “I can’t tell you how many people I’ve seen paying this way — but they owed a boatload in taxes — so none of it got paid off! And they weren’t able to get their felony knocked down to a misdemeanor!”

So, he gives me a paper printed in Comic Sans, size 45 font, that says: Go to the 12th floor of this courthouse building. Pay them. They don’t take card, debit or credit. Which is just another way for the government to fuck poor people, by the way. They only accept cash, check, or money order. Of course. But that’s okay with me. I hate the government. I almost always deal in cash and could always get a money order. That was never a problem. The problem? I didn’t want to go down to the courthouse ever, right? Because parking sucks. This is downtown Los Angeles we’re talking about.

So again, he’s trying to scare me. “Don’t pay through the Treasurer and Tax Collectors office!” You know?

But I was like, “Here’s the thing, guy, I’m not a career criminal like the rest of these D-Gens! I’m here under other unsavory circumstances. But I’m telling you right now, I don’t owe taxes! All the money I’ve ever made that was not just cold, hard cash? I paid taxes on. So, I’m not worried about it!”

And he’s like: “That’s what they ALL say!”

Which is probably true. But for me? No. I was always paying taxes. I always had a normal job up until regrettably dating this musician loser.

Then Baker showed me a sheet that had my balance on it. I was like, “See! I paid $1,000 to the Treasurer and Tax Collectors office, and look, my balance is $1,000 lower than it used to be, right? So look! Proof it works just fine!”

But he was still absolutely adamant that you don’t do that.

Okay, whatever.

I’ve been doing it the entire time!

I’ve never once paid down at the courthouse. I never listen to this guy. Maybe part of it is that he’s just like, not even a fucking boomer — he’s a level above a boomer. He’s like Biden. Whatever that is? The Lost Generation. Yeah, we don’t even remember him!

Anyway, back to the story. I finally got into the courtroom and saw him behind the the printer. I sat down, staring at him.

“Have I come up yet?” I ask.

He just gives me a face!

I mean, how am I supposed to know?

He’s just busy dealing with the other D-Gens that are in court already, so I decide maybe I just need to go sit outside. I was having pretty bad anxiety at this point, so I went and I sat back out on the brown ugly Subway bus seats.

Baker keeps coming out to talk to other people, and every time he comes out and sees me, he says, “‘I’ll be right with you, Miss …”

And he absolutely bastardizes my last name!

Makes it sound like a buncha nonsense syllables!

Anyway. He always gets all the people’s names wrong. Thats his charm. It’s so fucking funny. Can’t pronounce even basic names.

So, every time he keeps saying it to me, and every time I say to him: “You don’t gotta say it again.”

But he just keeps saying it over and over and over, you know? Completely wrong.

So then finally, it’s my turn, and he comes up to me and he says, “I got your email!”

Because that morning, before I panic-drove downtown to get to court, already running late, I quickly went online to the Treasurer and Tax Collectors office and paid $500 because I hadn’t paid anything since like, January.

So, I got the receipt for it and emailed it to my public defender from my computer.

I knew it was gonna piss him off to see that, right? But I was like, you know, desperate times call for desperate measures!

I know he’s gonna hammer me for it, but that’s the price I’ll pay, right? I know it’s gonna be just fine. I don’t owe taxes!

So he says, “I got your email. Haven’t I told you? Do NOT pay the Treasurer and Tax Collector’s office!”

You just got to imagine, this is a hilarious thing to be hearing from your court-appointed attorney.

“Don’t pay back the government!!!” Right?

What am I supposed to do? I just shrug and sit there and I just take it.

Take his hammering.

“How much did you pay them?” he asks, all disappointed.

I’m like: “500. I thought you saw my email?”

And he’s like: “Okay, well, here’s your current balance. I guess according to you, this is supposed to be 500 lower then?”

And I say: “Well, yeah, it should be!”

He shakes his crazy hair in frustration. “But it takes them five business days to process it!”

“Okay, yeah. Well, what do you want me to say? Oh look, I have the receipt! I feel like that’s good enough proof! For the judge?”

And he gives a big tired shrug. “Oh. Okay, I’ll be right back.”

And he goes back into the courtroom, shuffling, shuffling — all hunched — the whole way, you know? Bent over. And then so I’m just sitting out there, waiting, waiting, waiting. And then he finally comes back out and he says:

“Okay, the DA is gonna give you until January 14th to pay the rest. You can come in now and see the judge.”

Then I come in and I’m waiting, waiting, waiting. And they say case number, blah, blah, blah. And the judge is the most non-plussed looking person you’ve ever seen your entire life. You can just tell he’s thinking about, *anything but this* — probably about how much he hates his wife or something based on the look on his face —

He’s just like, “Okay… whatever”

You stand up there and he looks at you over his glasses… and the way that this works with your public defender? They don’t train you at all what you’re supposed to say in court. Okay? You just stand up there and you side-eye your public defender. He’s totally hunched over, at a 90 degree angle, hand on one hip, and then with his other hand, he holds it up as if it’s a starting flag of a car race.

When the judge says, “Do you understand?” Or whatever.

My public defender will put his hand down like he’s saying:

“Go! This is your time!” And then, and he’ll either wave his hands and his crazy Albert Einstein hair “YES!” or “NO!”

He looks like a conductor, or something. A conductor on crack. But also keep in mind: he’s an old Jew.

That’s when you say: “Yes, Your Honor! No, Your Honor!”

And Baker is conducting you like an orchestra. Waving his arms like a maniac during the longest part of the judge’s whole spiel. And then finally, at the very last moment, he closes out the symphony like fucking Dudamel. The grand finale. And then you go, “Yes, Your Honor!”

And then my public defender goes: “Agreed, Your Honor.”

And then he nods to me. “Okay, see you next time.”

MAX WINTER: How many clients and cases do you think he has? You said like 100 a day? What is his life like? His daily routine?

AUDREY: It seems like he’s there every single day of the week. Every day court is in session. In an absolute constant fucking rush from beginning to end talking to different people. And it’s all different crimes, not just welfare fraud.

MAX WINTER: Would he be a public defender for murder?

AUDREY: There’s no way in hell they would ever let this guy be someone’s public defender for something serious. No, no. He’s like low, low-end crimes.

It’s welfare fraud. It’s like you’re not paying your fucking child support, maybe. Or it’s that you’ve racked up a lot of parking violations.

MAX WINTER: So deadbeats?

AUDREY: Yeah. Deadbeats. Basically, deadbeats… and me! Well, I’m technically a deadbeat, so…

MAX WINTER: Any other personal details that you can think of about him? Do you know if he’s married? What have you found out about him while working with him? Or is it just those kind of interactions where he’s just yelling at you?

AUDREY: Yeah, he basically only ever yells at you. But here’s the thing: It seems like he basically only ever yells at everybody.

MAX WINTER: I’m picturing Al Pacino, by the way.

AUDREY: I don’t know who that is.

MAX WINTER: You don’t know who Al Pacino is!?!

AUDREY: Like, I’ve heard that name before?

MAX WINTER: Okay, fair enough. What can you tell about Baker’s life at all?

AUDREY: I’m telling you right now he looks just like such a sad, wet sop of a character, you know what I mean? He literally looks like a kitten that you’ve thrown in a burlap sack and tossed into the river. Yet it somehow survived. He is absolutely raggedy. Just ragged! Really he is.

And here’s the thing: he’s barely one step above the D-Gens he represents. I thought he *was one* when I first met him. I am always significantly better dressed than my public defender.

You know how when you’re at an old person’s house and they’ve had something in their closet for a really, really long time? Old people kind of have that smell because technically they are slowly dying a little bit every day at a cellular level? There’s a staleness to it, you know?

He smells like that. He just smells like old person home.

He doesn’t smell like old person. He smells like the shoe box in the back of an old person’s house. Specifically.

MAX WINTER: Did you ever find out anything else about him?

AUDREY: I think he walks to work somehow. Or maybe he takes public transportation. That makes sense. I’m pretty sure he takes public transportation and walks to the courthouse. He’s the only person in L.A. without a car!

I’m walking outside, and I have seen him before, walking outside the courthouse, where it looks like he knows where he’s going, but I’m telling you right now, he does not give me the vibe of someone who was willingly paying LA prices in downtown to like, go to a cafe or something like that.

You know what I mean? That is absolutely not his vibe. He’s going to the Metro to pay $1.25 to go home — wherever that is. Some part of L.A. off the Metro nobody’s ever heard of.

Also, how do I say this? He has just these ice blue eyes, like scary ice blue eyes, and it’s like all of the rest of him is incredibly, incredibly disheveled, but those eyes are absolutely piercing. You can tell that he’s as sharp as he ever was. I think with him —it’s not a matter of him being dumb by any means. It’s a matter of him absolutely not giving a fuck.

He’s like, “Why? Why would I apply myself?”

So, that’s why he’s not an important lawyer and he’s a public defender. But he probably has a nice little garden.

His tiny studio apartment, out on the patio? Is a little garden. And 10 cats.

MAX WINTER: All right, so let’s talk about the last day of this ordeal. You finally gathered up all the money and you were gonna pay it all off. So, you go to court one last time…

AUDREY: Yeah. Well, it really starts the day before, because I reach out to my public defender. I haven’t heard from him since the last time I went to court and I’m pretty sure he’s supposed to be giving me a warning. Like, your court date is coming up in a week! But of course he didn’t. So, I reach out to him and he tells me that my case is going to be at a different courthouse that’s like a mile away from the original courthouse, but to make the payment I still have to go to the original courthouse and I’m just finding all this out the day before, which is ridiculous.

So, I go to the original courthouse first, and as I’m walking in, they have the metal detectors and everything to make sure that you’re not bringing in weapons, and the security guy hits on me.

He just keeps me standing there, standing there, standing there, before waving me through. And then he says, “I just wanted to keep you here a little longer.” And he’s like, “So how you been?” and he says it that tone of voice where you can hear that he wanted to end it with “How you been girl?” but he felt like he had to restrain himself a little bit because he’s at work, at the courthouse, in public. But he definitely had that tone.

So right off the bat, weird. Which is classic courthouse. You never know what to expect when you walk through those doors.

I go up to the 12th floor to make payment. This is the first time that I have ever made payment in person. I’ve always been doing it online, even though my public defender is always saying: “Do not pay the tax collector! Do not pay online!” But this time I’m just trying to get it done with so I get it dismissed that day. I knock on the door, and the guy that answers is Ramon — who originally sent me the letter saying:

“You’re being charged with felony welfare fraud, blah, blah, blah.”

So, this is the first time I’m ever seeing this guy, and that, in of itself, was a weird experience. He has a really severe cleft palate, and he talks really mumbled. He’s kind of a very shy guy. He’s 60-ish. Sweater vest — with a really ugly pattern on it. So he’s not doing himself any favors. He’s already an awkward guy. He works behind this thick steel door with a keypad entry. I’m assuming because everybody hates Ramon — he’s the one sending out the letters telling people that they’re being charged with a felony. So we all hate him.

So I knock, knock, knock on the door, and he answers, and I say, “I’m here to pay $2,300. I have court later this morning.” All that he really needs to do is take my name and my case number and the amount that I’m paying, but I’m just sitting, waiting, waiting, waiting for sooo long for him to type this in. And I’m sitting in this hallway, and there’s nobody else up here. Everybody’s case is being moved around for whatever reason, probably the LA wildfires. It looks like I’m just sitting in some creepy, deserted hallway in Soviet Russia.

Finally he comes back out, and he says, “Okay, follow me.” He leads me behind this huge door that goes from floor to ceiling, and the courthouse has high ceilings, down this dark, dimly lit hallway into this back room. And he’s like, “You’ll pay the ladies in here.” I step in. There’s cardboard boxes up to the ceiling everywhere. It smells like a nursing home. And there’s two women behind a glass separator, who are decrepit in different ways. There’s like a younger decrepit lady who’s maybe like 35 and then there’s like an old decrepit woman.

Ramon gives them the form that they have to fill out. I hand them the money the 35-year-old decrepit woman counts, counts, counts, counts, counts the money. The older woman then counts, counts, counts, counts, counts the money, because checks and balances right? And then the woman stands up to go get some paperwork off of the printer. And she just looks over and she says, “Do you feel that earthquake!?!”

And the other lady looks at me. I just look at her, like, “What the hell are you talking about?”

And the younger lady says: “I don’t feel anything.”

And she says me: “Do you feel anything?”

I say: “I don’t feel anything.”

And old lady’s like, “You didn’t feel the building shake!?!”

And I’m like: Okay, great. She’s nuts.

Every step of the way in this whole process, all the people have just been like barely functional human beings. It just doesn’t give you a lot of faith in the way that this whole bureaucracy works!

I pay the ladies. I say to them, “My public defender told me that I need to get a balance sheet to take to him, to give the judge.”

And they say, “Oh! We can’t give that to you!”

It’s just bureaucracy for bureaucracy sake. You know what I mean?

It’s sick.

So, I have to go back down the Soviet hallway, and Ramon comes the door and he acts like: “Oh, why are you back?”

Well, you should know why I’m back. Surely, everybody does this!

Why is this the system?

And I say, “I need my balance sheet for my public defender.”

And he says, “Okay…” as if this is a big ask.

I’m assuming everybody has to do this! So then I’m like, “Do you need my sheet again? With my name and my court number and stuff?”

“No, I remember.”

“Yeah, okay that makes sense, because I was literally just here, like five minutes ago.”

He goes back into the room, and I’m sitting in the hallway, and he takes soooo long, and I’m wondering what could he possibly be doing? All he has to do is pull me up again and hit print. It’s so simple.

He finally gives me the thing. I’m like, okay, great.

I ride down to the new courthouse that I’ve never been to before. And as as I’m pulling up to this new courthouse, I wonder if I’m even in the right place. As you are pulling up, you look out the window, and it says: The Men’s Correctional Facility right there. And I’m like, hmmm is this the right place?

Well, it is the right place.

And there’s a bunch of degenerates just hanging out on the street.

And when I finally go in, I realize my balance is off. I paid $2,300 and I now I have a remaining balance of $8.72.

Surely, the government doesn’t desperately need $8.72 from me.

Surely, it’s going to be fine.

Eight dollars and seventy-two cents!

But no. It’s not fine.

Inside the courthouse, there’s always other degenerates such as myself. But this time there’s a girl who’s wearing booty shorts made out of cotton T-shirt material, just straight up cheeks out in the courthouse! Oh, my God. Also, it’s fucking freezing in the courthouse, and she’s just cheeks out sitting on the bench outside the courtroom.

Just – Wow!

So, I’m waiting. My public defender isn’t there today because he’s sick, so I have a substitute teacher public defender, you know. And I’ve never met this person before in my life. Their name is Leslie. I don’t know if it’s a man or a woman. I don’t know anything about this person. And so I’m waiting, waiting, waiting, and finally, at a certain point, it’s like 10:30 and check-in started at 8:30. So, I email my public defender, “What does Leslie look like?” And he writes back, “She’s probably in the courtroom.” And I’m like, oh, at least I know it’s a woman.

As soon as I walk in, immediately the guy calls out, “This is case, whatever, whatever, whatever, name of the defendant.” And it’s me!

Oh my god. I haven’t even talked to the substitute public defender. I just stand up, and Leslie, obviously, she’s like, “Oh, come over here!” And so I come over, and she asks me, “Did you pay?”

And I say: “Well, I paid $2,300 this morning.” And I give her the balance sheet.

She says, “But you have $8.72 remaining!” And she says, “Do you have nine bucks on you?”

“No!”

“Okay, great. Well, I’m gonna call the DA right now and see if they’ll dismiss it. If you promise that you go back to the original courthouse *right now* and pay the $8.72 okay?”

“Right now?”

I don’t have nine bucks and you can only pay with cash or money order or whatever. So, I ask the bailiff. “Hey, you got nine bucks?” And he’s like, “Yeah, I got nine dollars,” and he whips out $9 cash on the spot and hands it to me.

MAX WINTER: The privilege of being an attractive woman…

AUDREY: I guess. So, they go through the whole thing. They’ve got the DA on the phone, you know, they’re like, blah blah, blah, blah, blah.

So the judge is saying “Case blah blah blah. Audrey…” And then he asks me, “How do you say your last name?”

This has been an ongoing issue. My name.

Then the DA, she’s like: “Actually, it’s da, da, da.” And she absolutely mangles it. Pronounces it like, I don’t know, some off-the-wall thing.

And the judge says, “I think she knows how to pronounce her own name!”

What a fucking circus.

And suddenly just like that, they say: “Okay, dismissed!”

MAX WINTER: Boom! That’s it?

AUDREY: Yeah, but of course I promise I’m gonna go back to the other courthouse to pay. I go back up. I have to knock on Ramon’s door again.

“I’m back.”

And he’s like, “How much you paying now?”

“$8.72”

As usual, he takes forever. Takes me to the back room with the decrepit ladies. And as and I’m standing there, and I say to the ladies, “Here’s $9.” And they’re like: “It has to be exact change.”

Exact change? Are you fucking kidding me? It’s crazy!

What? Am I supposed to pull 72 cents out of my ass?

At this point I realize they have this big sign on the glass with stuff highlighted by hand, that says, MUST BE EXACT CHANGE!

I thought the government would take the extra 23 cents.

But *no*.

Also, the sign is like, NO MORE THAN $10 IN ROLLED COINS!

So, I guess that must be a big problem. People trying to pay with rolls and rolls of coins. Amazing.

So, I have to go get exact change from the Armenian snack lady downstairs, and ride back up in that busted elevator and pay them the exact fucking change.

And now I’m done. I am finally done.

MAX WINTER: After the $8.72 is paid. How did it feel? You feel the government used the money wisely?

AUDREY: Ha. No, because I guaran-fucking-tee you *way* more money was spent getting this meager amount off me.

MAX WINTER: You’re finally done. Walking out of the courthouse. How do you feel?

AUDREY: I guess relieved. Yeah, extremely relieved that I will never have to go back.

MAX WINTER: And you have no felony? They dismissed your felony, right?

AUDREY: Yeah, exactly. But to be completely honest with you, I don’t even know exactly what that means. They don’t explain anything to you ever at any point during the process, including your public defender, who I’m pretty sure is the person who’s supposed to be explaining this to you. So I’m not exactly sure, but yeah, felony dismissed.

Apparently.

God bless America.

MAX WINTER: What do you remember most from this whole thing?

AUDREY: I often find myself thinking about Baker Ostrin. My public defender. Dealing with cases like mine. Day in and day out. If he hasn’t keeled over and croaked. He deals with like 100 of me a day. I often think that he’s shuffling around and yelling at people right now. Hunched over. Yelling at them “Do NOT to pay the Treasurer and Tax Collector’s office!”

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