From the moment we're born, we're all guilty of something.
As infants we were guilty of waking up our parents at night, vomiting on their clothes and forcing them to dispose of our feces. Like drunk roommates.
Over time, guilt evolves. This summer, for example, I worked as an intern for my hometown's state attorney. After spending a few months herding society into two groups - "guilty" and "not [yet] guilty" - some of the guilt rubbed off on me.
My job was to track down people who had written worthless checks and scare them into paying them. I had to read from a script full of vaguely threatening words like "capias."
Capiases are the hall monitors of legal citations: their bark is worse than their bite.
Attorneys, much like the street gangs they prosecute, wield words as weapons. Though while one group sprays their lexicon in paint on railroad cars, the other group's medium is an intern with severe phone anxiety.
"Ma'am, I know the check was for only $3.72," stuttered the arthritic arm of the law, "but it's still a misdemeanor in the state of Florida. Please stop laughing."
As casual tourists to the criminal underworld, worthless check writers belong to a rich cornucopia of society. These people enter battle armed with a variety of excuses, sharing their personal drama with me as if I were their manicurist.
"Sir, I strongly doubt the mailman has been stealing our letters to you because he hates your Chihuahua."
"No ma'am, we haven't found the man who made you write him a check at gunpoint."
"You probably shouldn't tell the state attorney's office you needed money for marijuana."
Of course, many of the offenders were good people who faced tough times and needed cash for groceries or rent, but it wasn't my job to discriminate - only intimidate.
"We're gonna throw you behind bars, Grandpa! Try sending your granddaughter birthday checks while Big Bruce is checking your prostate in the showers!"
In reality, I never worked up the courage to call elderly offenders, worried the discussion would result in another addition to the "deceased" bin. I left those files untouched, knowing they would later be discovered by a more ambitious and blood-thirsty intern who would gladly yank the walker from that poor old grandpa.
Maybe I should just write him a bad check. At least then I'd feel less guilty.
