It was once again Mister Garvin’s day to appear at the county court building. He arrived fifteen minutes early, dressed in his usual charcoal grey polo, pair of khaki pants clamped down around his thickened waist by a worn leather belt, hair combed and neatly parted. He was wholly aware of the importance of appearances. Scattered people sat in attendance; journalists and local columnists alike, some neighbors, a few friends, and generally anyone else eager to hear the outcome of the ridiculous case.
“Welcome back, Mister Garvin.” The county judge peered down at the defendant’s table. The judge removed her glasses, stroking her forehead as she shifted through the papers on her bench. She was clearly displeased to see him again. Gaunt in appearance like a skeleton and always speaking in a heavy, deliberate cadence, she had the tendency to come off as a brooding inquisitor. “Mister Garvin, you do understand that the ordinance, as it is currently written, permits the city to fine you, as deemed fit, and that you have been found to be in violation of the terms of the ordinance?”
“Yes, your honor, I understand, but that’s the strange part, isn’t it? Are my sunflowers a crop now?”
“By ordinance, yes, they are classified as such.”
Mister Garvin’s sunflowers had been an ongoing issue for some years now. Initially, he planned to place only a few in his backyard, thinking things would develop slowly; but soon he found it more and more fitting to spread the flowers all over, each year a greater number planted, until sunflowers covered the front and back of his home in a thick field of blooms. This, of course, drew the attention of neighbors and locals alike to come marvel at the spectacle year after year. But enough attention of this sort always seems to necessitate a particular ire from those who make the rules.
“Well, your honor, I guess that’s what I’m here to contest then, that ten percent.”
“And how do you seek to do that, Mister Garvin?”
“On two fronts, if I’m allowed: the first being on the grounds of how the percent is measured; and the second, if needed, on the grounds of what I consider the spirit of the law and how it’s been changed.”
The county judge closed her eyes for a moment. To all in court, it appeared to be a short preparation for an onslaught of meaningless drivel; but truthfully her interest in his possible defense piqued her curiosity.
After many years of growing up around many antics and quick-witted arguments, Mister Garvin built up a sort of gut for repeated blows, and as a result had the propensity to fall into all sorts of petty squabblings about definitions and things being reasonable to the average man. He also so happened to have an unfortunate garrulousness to his speech and an ability to waste a great deal of time mincing words.
“Thank you, your honor. Now,” began Mister Garvin, pulling out a comically large suitcase stowed beneath his chair. Apparently, no one had seen nor questioned the suitcase upon entering the courtroom. “Now, if it pleases the court, I’d like to say I’ve had enough encounters with city council members over the many years I’ve lived here. Fine people. Good people. Reasonable people, I think. I even voted for a few of them. What I don’t believe though, is that they’ve done their due diligence quite yet. Now...” Mister Garvin opened his oversized suitcase and from inside he pulled out four pictures of his home, printed on a thick canvas paper, vibrantly colored, large enough to see the details of individual sunflower seeds or the many yellow and orange flower petals placed the great green backdrop of his yard. The images were so fine you could nearly make out every blade of grass. “I don’t believe I’ll need to rely on my second argument, but I have it just in case, so I won’t waste time here, your honor.”
Mister Garvin raised the first picture in his hand, turning to both the judge and then those watching on.
“Ten percent is the defined value. A fairly low number—but being reasonable people, as we all are, standards need to be upheld in order to be met. So I ask: ten percent of what? Because interpretation itself is a tricky thing: an ordinance calls for something and some random arbiter goes out there and makes an educated guess; yet if I found someone to go out and inspect on my behalf, what if they were to go out, perform their own inspection, and disagree with the first conclusion made? I could be within the legal limits!”
A few people in attendance let out small whispers, pointing to his pictures, making jokes to one another.
“Mister Garvin,” said the judge. She was sitting more forward now, unentertained by his show. “Please get to your point.”
“Ope! My fault! I only wanted to cover all my bases, you honor. Can’t be forgetful of that! Now, my point is this: if simple observation is lax and prone to error, how can we, as lay people, ever possibly make sure we are accurate and precise in our measurements? Well, I’ve taken the liberty of taking some photographs of my yard, as you all can see, and ended up consulting a few local mathematicians—topologists to be specific—to weigh in on the matter (they couldn’t be here but be assured I’m retelling their words correctly on their behalf). So, let’s dissect this percentage deal. The ordinance says ten percent by land area. However, all the inspections have been done from ground level. I don’t know about you, your honor, but I hope to show through math and reasoning how this is a flawed means of measurement.”
Mister Garvin then held two images side by side: one a view of his home from the front, with Mister Garvin standing proudly by his sunflowers for scale, bees and hummingbirds fluttering about in the image; and the second, an overhead shot, again Mister Garvin standing present, arms folded and angry.
“As we all can clearly see, if you’re standing, looking right at the yard, it’s hard to disagree the sunflowers take up ten percent of the space—hell, it might even be something like, ninety percent; but, we are, as the topologists told me, not looking ‘normal’ to the plane,” (he then raised the photo from overhead slightly higher, moving it up and down for emphasis) “but from an overhead view, like something a surveyor or cartographer might map out, it’s a much different picture. More difficult to parse out whether it’s really ten percent, right? It’s definitely not the fifty percent as before, but that’s besides the point. I took the time to do the math: my yard is roughly forty-five by thirty-five—let's call it fifteen-fifty square feet. That means I can’t exceed an area of around a hundred and fifty square feet of crop. Alright, well let’s see: I planted around six hundred sunflowers last year, each budded flower is something like, I dunno, six inches in diameter, and—well, to be honest I let the whiz kids do the math for me here—that’s roughly a hundred and twenty square feet of sunflower coverage, which, by definition, is only about eight percent of the land area, projected normal to the plane of the projected surface, of course. Now…” Mister Garvin looked up for a moment; the judge was incredulous. “I did ask the topologists to consider accounting for the shadows cast by the flowers throughout the day in case that was cause for the change in classification to a crop, but that math sort of—”
“Mister Garvin!”
Unconsciously Mister Garvin had been slowly turning away on his heel, from the judge during his spiel, directing all of his words to those watching on. His later excuse was that it was in effort to remember the words. When he turned back around, the judge’s face shown red with a fierce contempt. She even subdued a mocking smile from appearing on his lips.
“I understand your display of words and pictures and your math may come to a different conclusion than what has already been decided, but without submitting any of this for review before your appeal, we can’t fully take these things into account.”
“Yes, your honor, but let me—”
“Furthermore, Mister Garvin, it is in keeping with the standards and intent of the ordinance, as I understand them, for the general public interest and the general standards of the city to be upheld.”
The county judged stole a glance out at someone in the crowd, barely noticeable before returning to Mister Garvin, breathing slowly out of her nose like a dragon sending out smoke to intimidate. Mister Garvin laid down his overly large photos on the table in front of him. He grimaced at the judge’s sudden turn.
“So the spirit of the ordinance, your honor?”
“If that’s how you wish to conceive of it, then yes.”
Mister Garvin sat down, blinked a few times and rubbed his forehead, his hands now clammy. Having hoped his first argument would be sufficient, he hadn’t rehearsed his words for the second, nor did he have any displays to compound on his point. Frankly, he was more worried his point would become lost in the mire of his previous display, making it easier to dismiss him entirely. He gathered himself, clearing his thoughts, looked to the ceiling for a moment, scrunching his face, then walked towards the judge’s bench.
“Do you... do you recall the original ordinance in violation, your honor? You weren't presiding then, but I assume you read about it.”
The judge looked slightly puzzled. Her eyes flashed when the words came to her. “Yes, the ordinance asked for… fifty percent of the front lawn to have some form of grass or turf.”
“For aesthetic reasons, or more generally to prevent excess barren spots, correct?”
The judge nodded in agreement. She gestured for him to continue.
“And I’m all for that. I don’t like an ugly lawn myself. But then it was revised to a fifty percent sunflower limit, and the charges from that ordinance were withdrawn before we ever met in court, correct?”
The judge nodded again, curious to understand.
“So then how do we go from fifty percent grass coverage for looks to sunflowers now being a crop? I mean first off, being wrong by a factor of five anywhere else gets your killed or fired, but in law making that just something of a standard deviation of justice. But moreover—and judge, your honor, respectfully I know this is the county courthouse—but moreover, if this is about city beautification, how the hell do they get away with removing and repurposing that old farm land along Mexico Road over the years, right across from the city hall, just to build the same old dog tired, generically slapped together apartment buildings you see built everywhere? Where’s the beauty in that? Where’s the community? I get they’re trying to make housing, but it used to be miles of orchards and farmland, and now it’s the same—and excuse my French—the same bullshit as anywhere else you go. All the other apartments around got more expensive by proxy just because those ones were put in (not to mention those complex owners have all been colluding on prices, but I repeat myself in vain). I guess... well, I suppose I just want to see the point where it’s less about just me and my yard. Nobody came out to help when someone came out and cut something like a third of them. The people who want to come and visit and see something somebody worked hard on told me about it before I ever saw it myself. So where’s the intent here now? What even is the intent now? Help me see it, your honor.”
He sat back down, dejected and ready to be dismissed and led out. The judge sat quietly for a moment, contemplating his words. The crowd was hushed, sharing in the same expectancy as Mister Garvin. She placed her glasses back on her nose, slid the papers on her bench to the side, adjusted herself and leaned forward onto the bench. Mister Garvin swallowed down a lump in his throat.
“Mister Garvin, I see that you are very, very passionate about this. I wanted to be fair and give a ruling on this today, but in light of what you have provided today, I believe it should be postponed. Please submit the images you have, formally, and I will look over the claims you’ve made.”
The courtroom adjourned, setting another date for the appeal. Many whispers spread about the room before anyone ever let. Mister Garvin exited the county courthouse relieved, simply happy to be heard.
But there was one fault made by Mister Garvin in court that day. A common one, one made by reasonable people all over, every day and at every hour—the sort of fault a man makes when in the heat of passion and roused in a defensive position: he spoke too much and was simply too honest. Somehow, he had not considered bad intentions when speaking in public. It turned out that the person the judge looked toward during the appeal was none other than the woman who wrote for and pushed for the ordinance in the first place; why she had such a grudge, one can only guess; but Mister Garvin inadvertently gave her a precise number, the eight percent figure he presented in his appeal. Seeing as he had already caused enough issues and fuss about something so small and easy to change, stirring up the local media against the council members and sending vitriol toward those trying to maintain a city properly, the ordinance was amended again, tailored and spitefully hemmed down to a measly four percent. When Mister Garvin received his revised fine, him simply laughed to himself.
But Mister Garvin was not swayed in the least. He did exactly what he had done before. He appealed and waited for his next day in court.
For anyone interested, this is based off of a currently ongoing case between a man battling a city for the right to plant sunflowers in his yard.