From Parking Ticket to Triumph: How I Beat a Parking Ticket

The Ticket That Should Never Have Been Written

It all started like many great injustices do: I parked legally, paid for parking, and then received a parking ticket. A $115 dollar parking ticket.

The alleged crime?
Parking in violation of a temporary restriction.

At first, I was in disbelief. That disbelief quickly turned into irritation because I knew it will take time and energy to fight the ticket. As you know, when there’s an injustice, I feel compelled to challenge it—no matter how big or small. While taking on an injustice can be a passion of mine, it’s also incredibly time-consuming, and as an adult already stretched thin by countless commitments, I had to ask myself whether this fight would be worth it. In the end, I decided that fighting this parking ticket was absolutely worth the time, energy, and effort.

The Ticket

On September 15, 2025, I arrived at work and decided to park on the street instead of in the garage since I was planning to leave early. I parked in a familiar spot—the fifth available parking space between 175—199 Larkin St. As I parked, I noticed a temporary restriction sign posted directly in front of my space, along with several other temporary restriction signs on nearby poles. All of the signs were identical and clearly listed a restriction date of 09/13/2025—the City had simply failed to remove them in a timely manner. Although the restriction date had passed, something in my gut didn’t sit right. I pulled out my phone and took a photo of the sign directly in front of my car. I then fed the meter, went to work, and later renewed the parking session through the mobile app.

When I returned to my car, there was a ticket on the windshield. I couldn’t understand why I had been cited. I stood there, staring at my car and scanning the street, trying to figure out what had happened. All of the temporary restriction signs for September 13, 2025 had been removed. I kept looking around, increasingly confused about why I had been ticketed.

Then a sheriff’s deputy approached me and sternly instructed me to move my car. I ignored him while I kept trying to determine why I had been ticketed. About thirty seconds later, he returned and again told me to move the vehicle. I looked at him and said, “I’m trying to understand why I received a parking ticket.”

He glanced around, then pointed to a portable orange cone roughly 40 to 50 feet away. He explained that there was a private event in the area and that a temporary restriction sign was posted there. I walked over to the cone and read the sign. It stated that parking was restricted on September 15, 2025, from 9:00 a.m. to 11:00 p.m.

There was a slight chance that sign had been in that location when I parked that morning. However, I would never have any reason to walk 40 -50 feet away from where I parked to check the sign. It was barely visible from where I was parked. Additionally, all the parking restriction signs in my area of vision were for September 13, 2025. Immediately, it clicked: most likely when the outdated September 13, 2025 signs were removed, the September 15, 2025 restriction sign must have been placed there afterward. I knew my argument was solid—but the question was, how was I going to prove it?

The Appeal

SFMTA allows motorists to contest a parking citation within 21 days of receiving it. That meant I had to act quickly. I began by submitting Public Records Act requests to determine whether I could obtain any useful information related to the temporary parking restriction signs. I sent requests to multiple City departments, with one clear goal: to uncover any and all information about the temporary restriction signs placed on Larkin Street on September 15, 2025. Without getting into too much detail, I submitted numerous requests seeking documents, schematics, and any available video evidence related to the placement, timing, and location of those signs.

SFMTA did produce some responsive records, and they turned out to be extremely helpful. What I learned was that a private event was scheduled in the plaza adjacent to Larkin Street on September 15, 2025 and that six temporary parking restriction signs were supposed to be posted between 175—199 Larkin Street. According to the SFMTA temporary sign cover sheet, those signs were to be placed at parking spaces numbered 19, 21, 23, 25, 27, and 29.

When I cross-referenced the cover sheet instructions with the parking schematic provided by SFMTA, it became clear that the signs had not been placed as directed. Based on the records, it appeared that the City employee responsible for installing the restriction signs failed to follow the placement requirements. I also suspected that the same individual who installed the September 15 restriction signs had removed the outdated September 13 signs—leading me to believe that the September 15 sign was installed only after I had already parked my vehicle.

Appeal Process

Armed with timestamps, photos, maps, payment proof, and the patience of a man who’s been to T.J. Maxx (TJ Maxx: 10 Things I Hate About You – DADS DOING DISHES) one too many times, I prepared my appeal. I laid out exactly why the ticket made no sense:

Confusing signage – all the temporary restriction signs near my car were outdated
The valid restriction signs were placed outside of reasonable visibility
I parked in a section that wasn’t restricted

In short: no notice, no clarity, no due process.

For the first level of protest, I began with the online appeal process. On October 23, 2025, I submitted my citation protest. Unfortunately, I was constrained by strict character limits and a cap on the number of photos—argh. As a result, I had to drastically cut down my five-page statement and fourteen exhibits to fit within the system’s restrictions.

Weeks passed without any response. Then, on November 7, 2025, I received a notice informing me that my appeal had been denied. Undeterred, I moved on to the second level of protest: an administrative hearing, which must be requested within 25 days of the appeal denial. I contemplated doing additional public record requests, but I paused.

One particularly irritating issue arose: in order to move forward with the administrative appeal, I was required to pay the full amount of the ticket upfront – SFMTA refers to it as an hearing deposit. The California Vehicle Code [CVC 40215(b)] and Public Utilities Code requires a deposit equal to the amount of the fine in order to request a hearing. I begrudgingly paid it and proceeded with the appeal process.

One day at work, shortly before Thanksgiving, I used my lunch break to go down to SFMTA and request a date for an administrative hearing. The clerk told me that a hearing could be scheduled as soon as the next hearing officer became available. Armed with my packet of documents, I agreed to proceed with the hearing immediately.

I went into the meeting with the hearing officer determined to be as polite as possible and carefully laid out my argument. I was somewhat annoyed—and a bit surprised—that he wasn’t taking any notes as I spoke. He asked where I had obtained my documentation and appeared to understand my position, even while making it clear that he almost never approves protests.

He cautioned me that I should always be mindful of my surroundings when parking, but then added that he was leaning in my favor and inclined to grant my protest. He told me I would receive notice of his decision within 48 hours.

More than a month passed with no word. I took that silence as a bad sign and assumed I would soon be preparing for the next step: a hearing at Superior Court. During the Christmas break, I reminded myself that I needed to go back down to SFMTA to check on the status of my protest. Ultimately, I decided I would deal with it after the new year.

The Outcome

Then, on January 2, 2026, it happened. I opened the mail. There was no identifying fanfare on the envelope—no bold announcement, no declaration that I had defeated the bureaucratic monster. Just a $115 reimbursement check, casually labeled as an “overpayment.”

That check was anything but an overpayment. It carried far greater significance.

Just a clean, official acknowledgment that the ticket never should have existed.

I won.