PRIVACY OF THE PRIVILEGED

At first blush, the opposition of Virginia state legislators from largely rural areas to automated cameras at traffic signals is perplexing. Why do they care? When at home, they have relatively few traffic signals to contend with, so the personal burden would not seem substantial. Moreover, their argument that the cameras are an invasion of privacy makes little sense. What is private about operating a motor vehicle on a public road? Only the most wild-eyed libertarians are opposed to government’s regulation of driving.

Recently our neighborhood poker group in a little corner of Alexandria considered the question, partly as a break from the depressing topic of property taxes. We came up with the following thought. What state legislators are really afraid of is the possible negative impact on their own privileged positions that might result from a spread of red light cameras.

State legislators have a notorious reputation as habitual violators of traffic laws. Many of them appear to believe that a pass on traffic violations is a perk of the job. And indeed, their work does involve much time on the road. Campaign events, meetings with constituents, attendance at legislative sessions, all entail substantial travel, usually in a vehicle with prominent license plates.

Local law enforcement officials have been known to treat legislators as a privileged group, according them considerable slack. When the big shiny car with those prominent license plates runs a red light, the conversation can go something like this:

“Senator, didn’t you see that red light?”
“I thought I had a yellow. Guess I was a little preoccupied. How’s the wife and kids, anyway?”
“Oh, they’re doing fine, thank you Senator. You need to be a bit more careful. I’ll just give you a warning this time, but please, take it easy.”
“I will, I truly will. And be sure to vote for me come November.”
“You can count on it. And Senator, I know that you boys in the Legislature say it’s okay to drive with an open can of beer, but it’s really not a good idea.”
“Ha, Ha, you’re right Officer. I won’t open another.”

In the unlikely event that a ticket is issued, a phone call to his or her buddy, the local judge, usually suffices:

“Charlie, Howya doin’? How’s Florrie and the kids?”
“Oh, they’re doing good, Roy. How’s Betty Sue?”
“She’s good, real good. Look Charlie, I’ve got this darn ticket for runnin’ that red light over by the feed store. I’m supposed to be in your court next week but I need to be up in Richmond. Anything we can do ‘bout this?”
“I guess we might. Don’t worry about it. But you should be more careful, Roy. This is the third time this year, right?”
“Yeah, I know, Charlie. And I will. You got my word. Give my regards to Florrie.”
“Will do, Roy. And you give my regards to Betty Sue.”

The impersonal automated camera sharply curtails the legislator’s ability to talk his or her way out of a ticket. The legislator no longer enjoys a privileged position. The camera is not a forgiving constituent or a sympathetic fellow member of the local power structure. Instead, an unforgiving, unmovable, inanimate object is now the authority, an authority that gives the big shiny car with the prominent license plates no respect. In other words, the legislator has lost power and privilege, and that hurts. Yes, cameras at traffic signals are indeed an invasion of privacy: the privacy of the privileged.

DSH