Saturday, May 30, 2009

Let That Be A Lesson To Me

I first posted this several years ago, in 2005 I believe. The blog site and the story are long gone but the story is still pertinent, so once again:

Let that be a lesson to me!

 

The New York City Police Department and its parking bureau have severely damaged my faith in the value of technology.

 

When it fails, it fails completely. And it recently turned me into Kafka’s Cockroach.

If you have the time, hear my tale. I feel better having written it. Perhaps it will teach you something important

This past weekend, I was careless. I’d dropped wife, family and friends at the Brooklyn Heights Prominade so the guests could enjoy it for the first time, and my wife could continue guiding their tour of our historic neighborhood.

They walked while I navigated the narrow Brooklyn Heights streets, looking for that most cherished momentary possession; a parking space. Preferably one I could use for the whole week. I drove my usual hunt route (a trade secret, sorry) traveling virtually every street in the North Heights, scouting orthogonal routes to parking nirvana. Sadly the spaces were filled by tourists and neighbors who, being smarter than me had not driven that day.

After several circumnavigations I’d not found a space so I went toward my secondary parking resources –down Columbia Heights toward the old Ferry docks, past the Watchtower factories and the emerging neighborhood of DUMBO.

As usual there were several spots on the hill, adjacent to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway and the park I like to call “Dog Hill,” where the neighborhood canines cavort under the adoring gaze of their humans and the wistful smiles of passersby. I selected the parking space closest to my home.

This was my big mistake.

The rest of the weekend proceeded according to plan. Early Tuesday morning I trekked back to my space, carrying drycleaning and a full shoulder bag for my weekly reading hour – the wait in a Tuesday space for the clock to make it legal. No car.

I walked up the hill again: still no car. Drats! (or words to that effect) it must have been towed. But why?  I finally saw a single sign pointing out that there was one 20 or 25 foot wide space on the block where parking was illegal – there was a driveway across the way. I must not have noticed it in my joy at finding a spot so close to my destination. ((I must note that New York City gets a lot of money through the collection of parking fines It is a labyrinth of regulations whose complexity would give Milo Minderbinder pause.)

Of course, I thought, the city’s labyrinth would meet its match in me. I am an experienced hand with a mouse, a formidable hand on a phone, a patient and kindly customer, uber-New Yorker.

Little did I know.

I knew just what to do first: Go home, boot up and log in and see whether the NYPD and City had the car. I went here. There was no record. Could it be the City had cruelly let me slide until Tuesday; and the car hadn’t made it into the system yet?. Being an experienced parker, I knew, and the web site reminded me, that my local precinct would have the most up-to-date information.

So I went to the official NYPD web site, expertly wandered about until I found the precinct list and the link to my local precinct. I selected the best number for my needs and called. The officer checked computers for parking and local activities. She asked where I’d been parked, and asked if I thought I’d been in an illegal space.

Finally my car appeared on the screen – it had been towed. In April 2002.

Was it a Mercury Tracer? No, it’s a Ford Taurus, but the plates are the same, I got a new used car to replace the Tracer. Ahh! Then perhaps the Marshal has it because, though the change was six months old, the vehicle registration database didn’t have it and came to the obvious conclusion that the vehicle might be stolen. I was given several phone numbers – the parking impound lot at the Navy Yard, the NYC Marshal’s office, the NYC Department of Finance (they handle the tickets).

It was now about 7:30 AM. The Marshal’s office didn’t open until 8:00. The pound wasn’t open either, but they offered a telephone search system which I navigated. But no car with my plates was impounded. The NYC Department of Finance wasn’t open either, and their web site showed no tickets for my car.

At 8 AM I started to call the Marshals. They have an interesting auto-attendant. Instead of putting you into a queue with bad music, they provide a minute’s worth of semi-useful information and alternative numbers for other city agencies who might have towed your car. I already had these other numbers so I waited until the end of the message to hear instructions: Press “0” to reach an operator. The phone was picked up by another auto attendant computer that told me, “All operators are busy helping other customers and please call back at another time. Thank you. Goodbye”. Then it hung up!

I dialed again, went through the same process, got the same result. I dialed again. This time I pressed “0” before the message finished, and was switched to: the second auto attendant.

For the next hour I played their game. It seemed the program went something like this:

Auto attendant A

answer on three rings

Play message

If “0”, connect to queue

If queue is busy, connect to

Auto attendant B

Hang up

Or

If queue is busy

Auto attendant C answer

Hang up

Or

If queue is busy,

Auto attendant B answers and hangs up.

It was now nearly 9:30 AM. I began searching for other ways of accessing databases which might contain information on my missing car. Though I found three sources, they all failed me. I phoned the 84th Precinct again.

The office let me repeat my story, now much embellished with the details of failed research. After a short pause, he suggested I call 911 and report the car as stolen, since there was no record of it being in NYPD or other NYC custodies.

I dialed 911. The operator took down my information, received my location, and told me officers would be there shortly to discuss my case. I intercomed the doorman, let him know that the police were coming to talk to me about my stolen car, and asked him to send them up. Less than thirty minutes passed and two officers were at my door. We went over the case. I showed all my papers, (including an older registration ticket for the Tracer) my driver’s license, my insurance. One of the officers whipped out his cell phone and called the precinct on his “special” number. He had the desk officer check the computers for the car. It wasn’t there.

Because people forget where they’ve parked and for other reasons, the police don’t want to make a stolen vehicle report unless absolutely necessary. As they noted, if the car was reported stolen and then found, the “stolen car” report would stay in the system despite the “found” disposition, meaning I might be arrested for driving my own (stolen) car. This might even happen out-of-state. The officers thus performed a preliminary investigation to determine whether the car was, in fact, stolen.

So they returned to the precinct. They accessed the department computers, called the pound, marshals and their other resources, and could not come up with the car. They phoned me to say they would be back shortly to have me fill out “stolen car” paperwork, and finalize their investigation. It was now about 10:30 AM.

The officers returned around noon. We filled out forms. The lead officer, a woman, was attracted to my cats, petting them and heading my warning that the marmalade one would get cat hair all over her uniform. I filled out several pages of questions to aid a detective in the search.

There was one final step required: we must return to the scene of the crime –to where I had parked the car. After all, it was early in the morning when I’d gone out, maybe I’d missed it? Maybe I’d forgotten where I’d actually parked it. Or, we’d discover that I’d parked in an illegal spot and the car had been towed after all.

Of course the truth was the latter -- I’d parked in what was now obviously an illegal spot. The second officer called the precinct yet again, this time, using the license plate as written on the new form instead of from his earlier notes from which they may have made an error. This time, the desk cop said; yes. The car was in the impound lot. Relieved to have closed the case, the officers dropped me at home, I went to my apartment and called the number for the impound again.

Yes, they said, a car with my license plate had been towed: on April 26, 2002 and redeemed on April 27th. That car was a Mercury Tracer. Not a Ford Taurus. No there was no record of a Ford Taurus with that license plate number being towed or ticketed in the past week.

I was starting to lose patience.

I called the precinct. I breathed deeply and repeated my story. Fortunately I was cut short by the officer, who had brought up on his screen the morning’s activities. I was told that my officers would be in touch with me shortly.

In less than an hour they returned. We filled out more paperwork, including a new form covering grand larceny property descriptions. The officers once again admonished me about making this report and the probable complications. I suggested that if the car had actually been towed, the theft claim might enable a more thorough investigation. And if the car had actually been stolen, my insurance company and their investigation would both benefit from an early report.

The officers left. A detective would be in touch in a day or two. It was now about 3 PM on Tuesday. I spent the rest of the day working from home, exhausted.

I took the subway to work Wednesday. At about 5 PM I got a call here from the 84th Precinct. A detective told me the car had been found! It was in the Brooklyn Navy Yard impound lot! And here was the inventory number. Call this number, or if they don’t answer, this other number, or if that fails this other, other number and I’ll be able to get the details.

I asked, “Why hadn’t either the officers been able to succeed in finding the car the previous day?” She said, “They hadn’t tried hard enough to find the car” and the folks at the pound were probably unmotivated to look more deeply into their records. I was surprised but relieved. My car was not stolen, and though I’d owe money for a tow and ticket, at least the situation was resolved.

I thought.

This was late on Wednesday. I had fresh food from the Union Square Farmer’s Market including fish fresh caught by the Blue Moon folks.  I couldn’t schlep all the way to the Navy yard, in the pouring rain, while my fish rotted. Let it go until tomorrow, I thought

Thursday morning I go to work and at about 9 AM I call the impound lot. I say, “I’m Barry Cohen and I’m calling about my car which was towed”.

I’m asked for and give my license plate number and am told “We have a Mercury Tracer that was towed on April 26, 2002 and redeemed on April 27, 2002. We don’t have a newer incident”.

I retort, “Yes you do have my car. Here’s the inventory number”. I give the agent the inventory number, repeatedly. There’s a pause of a minute or two. A sigh. I’m put on hold.

“We do have your car. It was towed on Monday.” I am told.

“How much do I owe?” I ask, needing to steel myself for the horrifying news.

“Well”, says the agent, “the car was towed on Monday, and today is Thursday so that’s three days of storage, plus the $185 tow: you owe us $245.”

“You don’t seriously expect me to pay for storage when you’ve been unable to find my car in your system? Do You?” My voice was rising at this point, blood rushing to my head and my breathing restricted.

“One moment, please”. I was put on hold. “My supervisor says that ‘the computer has the right information’, we’ll have to charge you for the storage”.

This was where my natural patience and good nature was overcome by the crushing pressure of the absurdity of the situation. Leaving out some choice modifiers I said “You’ve got to be kidding. I’m supposed to pay for the incompetence of your system and department. You yourself couldn’t find the car without the help of a detective who’d given me additional information!!!”

“Please don’t use such harsh language sir’, said the hapless agent. I, sputtering apologies and too incensed to continue, hung up.

Fortunately my co-workers didn’t arrive for another half hour, so I was able to cool down to a simmer or they’d have had their heads chewed off too.

That evening I masochistically revisited the parking violations web site again. There was still no ticket recorded for my vehicle, nor was the vehicle listed as towed. (It’s Saturday as I write this, and there is still no ticket listed for my license plate.) When I left the office, I called the pound, and got an auto attendant. The system offered me two useful options. The first one I followed, in a fit of further stupidity, allowed me to check if my car was impounded by pressing phone buttons to search for my car. The car wasn’t there according to the system. I then navigated to the other useful feature – directions to the Navy yard. Since it was pouring, I wanted to have as short a walk as possible, and wanted to double check.

The choice was clear. Take the F train to York Street, walk four blocks to the Navy Yard. When I got to Brooklyn, exiting from the station, I was fortunate to see two police officers whom I asked for direction confirmation. (I know, men don’t ask for directions, but I was wet and had promised to be on my best behavior – no screaming at cops! I was practicing.) A block later, I came upon a NYPD tow truck, one of those that had started this whole journey, the operator reading the paper and listening to hip hop in anticipation no doubt of ending their shift. It was now about ten to 6. I confirmed directions yet again as it was raining so hard I could barely see a block ahead of me.

I arrived at the lot. I zigged and zagged through barriers, stepping over broken pavement and unfathomly deep puddles. I climbed the rain slick steel steps to the redemption office. I dutifully stood on the “T” as instructed while a lone clerk, behind bullet proof Plexiglas, tended to another forlorn parker. A second clerk was doing paperwork behind her counter. Two other clerks were at desks in the back of the room performing other tasks and talking with pound drivers.

The second clerk finished her paperwork. She beckoned me. I approached, handed her my registration and driver’s license, and intoned: “My name is Barry Cohen and I’m here to get my car”.

The clerk went to her computer, typed in the license plate and a report appeared on the screen: On April 26, 2002 a Mercury Tracer, was towed and redeemed on April 27th. “We don’t have your car, sir”, she said.

“Yes you do”, said I. “Here’s the inventory number”. I handed over my very neatly written information. She typed some commands at the terminal, typed a few more, and entered the number. A screen came up. She doubted the response and went through the routine once again. This time the information appeared on the screen – a Ford Taurus, license plate number so and so, VID, etc. Towed on Monday, November 3, 2003.

She walked away.

She went to a file cabinet and pulled out some papers. I was in for it now. Having been rude to a previous clerk, I was about to be sent to purgatory. Or perhaps hell, as this building at the gates of the impound lot was purgatory already.

Instead my clerk went over to the adjacent clerk, who stood before a man whose tale of woe made mine pale in significance. This poor schlub had spent the previous two days dealing with the fact that some six months previously he’d been the victim of “Identity Theft” resulting in warrants filed against him. These had been satisfied with a criminal fraud determination and affidavits of his innocence. He’d spent one day waiting in an office, after the first visit to the pound, only to be told he was in the wrong office and had to go to another location. There he’d spent another day waiting to have forms filled out, questions asked and answered. (I must point out that these offices are a half mile apart, with no practical connecting public transportation, and the only way to get between them is walking, in the steady downpour that had been going on for several days.) The poor man has come to the pound with the paperwork he was given as the last office shut for the day. His clerk says, yes, that’s the right form but “he needs the white copy” of the form. Not the blue one. They kept the white copy, he replies. You’ll have to go back and get the white copy, says the clerk… I stop here as my clerk comes back to me, and I’m feeling so much better. Proportion has been restored. I’m not in the 7th circle of hell. This is only the 5th, maybe even the 4th.

The clerk asks me for $185. There’s no mention of the storage. I say nothing. Pay, and go get my car. The parking ticket, soaked through and dissolving on my windshield, is now totally illegible.

The title of this piece is “Let that be a lesson to me” and I opened with the statement that my faith in technology had been hurt by this incident. Why? Because no matter the efforts to utilize computer technology to provide New Yorkers with better access to information and thus better services, no matter the good intentions of the workers and police officers who serve us, no system is fool proof, and we’re all, at one time or another, fools.

If this tale is not one of compounded foolishness, human error and poor system design, I don’t know what else it is. Were I asked, I’d want to improve many aspects of the computer systems involved. I’d want to make sure that data was gathered more quickly and accurately, that the systems communicated better, software routines dealt with anomalies like two cars with the same license plate separated by time, that clerks and web site visitors could do more of their own searching, finding and self servicing.

But I’m not being asked. I just have this tale to remind us that the systems we design for data acquisition, analysis and reporting have to be used by real people, people with incomplete knowledge, with mixed skills and intelligence. We must pay attention to these human elements, and be prepared to listen to screams of frustration caused by decisions made out of technical or financial necessity.

Here is the lesson.

There is no such thing as a finished program. Upgrades are not just a way to generate additional revenue. They exist to continue the modification of our tools so that we can make the best use possible of them.