Messing With Law Enforcement

At lunch today, I sat in the company break room and watched portions of President Bush’s press conference. Then I switched the channel to a different car-wreck: The Most Amazing Police Chases.

It’s a show that takes absolutely no attention span or sentient intelligence to watch: basically hicks get their pick-up trucks flipped by harassed looking law enforcement for an hour at a time. Still, I guess it shocks me that so many people think that trying to outrun the cops is a good idea. I mean, how inbred do you have to be to turn to Cousin Merle who’s riding shotgun and say, “You know, even though I’ve been drinking all night and we’re being chased by 5 cruisers and a helicopter, I have a really good feeling about how this is going to end.”

But it led me to an interesting hypothetical. Let’s say I was out drinking all night and, while weaving home, a cop pulled me over. If, before he came up to the window, I jumped out of the car and in full view of the headlights, downed a fifth of a bottle of Vodka, and then lay face down on the pavement with my hands up, is there anything the cop could do?

Now, I’m sure he would be none too pleased. In fact, it’d be a miracle if he didn’t drop me with his gun the second I opened the door. But other than searching my vehicle and giving me a ticket for an open container, it seems like he would have to let me off relatively under-prosecuted. After all, it’d be hard to prove that I was drunk before I downed the vodka, right?

Look, it’s not the wisest of decisions. And this is coming from a dude not known for his easy dealings with law-enforcement. I’d probably wind up with a night in jail…but considering that I was probably facing that before my vodka stunt, it doesn’t seem like a bad trade-off. Just something to consider.

One night, a friend and I were driving back from a baseball game. Two of our friends smoked a joint in the back as we drove them home. We dropped them off and proceeded on our way when we saw a cop car coming up behind us. My friend was driving, so he reflexively checked his speed: 50 in a 45. No problem. Needless to say we were both shocked when the cop started riding our tail.

Fuck, we’re getting pulled over.

In my experience there are two different types of cops: cops that are sort of cool, and cops whose entire life is dedicated into compensating for a devastatingly small penis. On this night, we drew the later.

There we were: two white boys, stone cold sober, and, ironically, completely straight-edge when it came to drugs. Neither one of us had ever so much done a puff of weed in the course of our lives. A story that, considering the odor emerging from the back-seat, seemed exceedingly unlikely to the office.

“Look kid” he said after he’d locked my friend in the back of his car. “Just tell me where the drugs are and maybe we can cut a deal where you won’t go to prison.”

This is one of the times where I really love looking so youthful. Even though the cop had my license, he was treating me like an 18 year-old who was pissing his pants. I looked at him like he was out of his mind.

“Sir, there are no drugs in this car. Neither of us smokes.”

“That’s how you want to play it, huh? I’m arresting your friend for driving under the influence of drugs. And I’m impounding this car. We’re going to take the entire thing apart and when we find your stash, you’re going down”

I mean, really. Who the fuck talks like that? Were two 25 year-olds and an alleged joint really worth this much effort? There was zero chance of either one of us seeing the inside of a jail-cell. We both knew that.

“Sir, I don’t believe that you administered a field sobriety test to either me or my friend. I’m sorry if you believe that you smell marijuana. But there’s nothing in this car to give you.”

“Empty your pockets and put your hands behind your head.”

I couldn’t honestly believe that this douche bag was going to haul us down to the holding cell, so I decided to fuck with him. It was a calculated risk. I emptied my pockets for all items—save one.

The dude patted me down while telling me how sorry I was going to be. Then he came to my back pocket.

“What do we have here, hot shot?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, feigning innocence.

“There’s a little bag in your back pocket. Looks like there’s something you didn’t want me to find. You know what this means? You’re going downtown, you little punk. You should have come clean when I gave you the chance.”

His voice dripped with smug self-satisfaction.

“What do we have here?” He crowed triumphantly as he whipped the item out of my pocket and slammed it on the hood of the car in front of me.

His face fell.

“That.” I answered in a calm, level voice. “Appears to be a condom, sir.”