a computer’s inability to distinguish certain characters in
a vehicle identification number can lead to a DMV nightmare
B. A. Nilsson
the end, she decided to blame me. After all, it was I who
suggested to my wife that she not surrender the license plates
before she had the new ones in hand. I’m going to go out on
the sexist limb a bit and suggest that men spend much more
time in the Department of Motor Vehicles offices than do women,
experiencing that unique frustration of long lines and incorrect
forms. It’s horse trading in the modern world: It toughens
But Susan had researched her mission, found the proper forms
on the DMV’s Web site, switched the insurance, signed the
paperwork—she was ready to transfer ownership to us of the
two cars we drove, cars formerly owned by a business run by
So confident was she in the ease of this transaction that
she began it by handing over the four license plates. And
the trouble began.
record for this plate shows that there was no insurance on
the vehicle from January to October 2001,” said the clerk,
indicating a freshly printed page of green. It was almost
as an afterthought that she also noted that both vehicle title
certificates had been altered with Wite-Out by an unthinking
secretary, completely invalidating the purpose of our visit.
Because of the insurance lapse, the clerk explained, Susan
would have to wait an equivalent amount of months to reregister
the car. In other words, it was off the road until November—sitting,
license-plate-free, in the DMV parking lot.
This was the only time I’ve seen my wife grow hysterical without
my provocation. It was a hysteria that grew slowly, feeding
on the frequent trips the clerk made to a back room to consult
with an unseen superior. By the time the total futility of
this venture was clear, Susan was sputtering and shouting
as the clerk intoned that No. 1 bureaucratic catchphrase,
“I only work here.”
And then the cop walked in. Sauntered in, I should say, taking
a seat in the rear of the DMV office, well behind the clerk.
And he murmured to one of the other clerks, “It’s just that
when you see Wite-Out on a document like that, you have to
wonder what kind of criminal activity is going on.”
Susan stammered. “This!? This is how you, how you handle
me!? You call the police!?”
The clerk registered genuine surprise: “What? No! Not at all!”
I believed her. I also took the opportunity to hustle Susan
out of the room and out of the building. I’d gotten my own
license plates back and, once outside, calmed her slightly
by explaining that we at least could get her car back to the
One plate went back on the back of my car; as I screwed the
other to the back of hers, feeling a unique thrill of criminal
freedom, I saw that same cop approaching us. “You deal
with him,” Susan insisted.
Obviously, there was no explaining my way out of this one.
But the Gods of Folly smiled: They’d sent him only to assure
us that his presence in that office was purely coincidental
and he didn’t want us to think, etc.
Back home, we learned that the vehicle had, in fact, been
insured all along. It’s not enough, however, for the insurance
company to explain this to DMV. It has to go into their computer
system and wait for the system to update, which can take days.
While we waited, I tried to find out why there had been this
to our records,” a DMV insurance department clerk explained,
“a notice of insurance cancellation was submitted on Jan.
14, 2001. On March 15, that cancellation was reinstated.”
when we resubmitted the insurance policy,” the agency agent
told me. “DMV put in a new computer system that month, and
we had to submit it electronically. It must have been rejected
for some reason. In March, we renewed the policy and submitted
it again. And it was rejected again.”
As a vehicle owner, you’re supposed to get a letter when this
happens; no letter ever arrived, according to the person who
handles such things at the business we were buying the cars
from. They’ve had personnel turnover since then, though, so
nobody’s going to the mat to swear this is true.
But what’s with this DMV computer system? “We put that in
as a way to cover after the estimated 800,000 motorists in
New York who don’t carry insurance coverage,” said DMV spokesman
Matt Burns. “Now we can have immediate notification to narrow
down and identify individuals without insurance, and take
steps to remove them from the road.”
When the insurance agent called back, the reason for Susan’s
dilemma began to emerge. “I’m looking at the vehicle identification
number,” the agent said. “You see where there’s a zero in
it? On some forms, that’s written as a zero; on others, it’s
an ‘O.’ DMV thinks it’s supposed to be a zero, so it probably
had the wrong character in that spot when it was submitted.”
I checked the car’s VIN plate to see which character was correct.
There was no way of telling. So I called Chrysler and spoke
with Heather May in the public relations division. “It’s a
zero,” she told me. “Part 565 of a federal law mandates that
no vehicle identification numbers can contain an ‘O,’ ‘I,’
or ‘Q’. So we haven’t used any of those characters in the
last 15 years.”
Now I saw a likely scenario. For years, DMV paperwork has
been processed by hand. Should any of those VIN characters
look like an ‘O’ or ‘Q,’ it was understood to be a zero. Likewise
with ‘I’ and one. Which meant that those who filled out such
forms never really had to worry about getting it right—until
the computer system arrived. Computers don’t make that distinction.
They can be programmed to do so, but somebody first has to
decide that it’s important enough to warrant the expense.
Susan’s problem couldn’t have been unique. I asked Matt Burns
about the procedure for dealing with an incorrect VIN. “There
certainly should be some kind of response,” he said. “We would
let the insurance company know that we can’t process it, and
ask for new information. I hope your problem was solved in
a timely manner.” He apologized for our inconvenience, and
suggested that the eventual savings in insurance costs would
more than make up for occasional glitches.
Insurance info was resubmitted. The lapse penalty was rescinded.
Embarrassed by her earlier display, Susan took her paperwork
to a DMV office in a different county and had a problem-free
With a fresh, Wite-Out-less title in hand, I returned to our
local office and submitted paperwork. Beside me, a harried-looking
woman asked a clerk if the rescind notice had come through
yet. “Insurance troubles?” I inquired.
She groaned. “My son changed insurance companies last year
and they think he’s not insured. It’s been a nightmare.”