Hurricane Golf

Aaaaand we're off

Duh-ope #4... A tale of two Stoners

          In the Spring of 2006 our Narcotics Bureau initiated an Interdiction program (For those of you who don’t know, the platoon sized collection of SUV’s, souped-up interceptors and K-9 vehicles you see on the side of the interstate on your way to Disneyworld are Interdiction officers) and we were eager to show the rest of the Sheriff’s Office what hard work and good training could accomplish.  On our first official night out, we planned on proving this point and making a substantial dent in the Cali cartel’s inventory. With drugs headed East and money headed West, we planned on getting it all, or at least showing the traffickers that they would no longer have Carte Blanc on the section of I-10 running through St. John Parish.Unfortunately, as is often the case with my exploits, my expectations far exceeded the actual experience.

          I don’t remember the initial infraction off the top of my head, but whatever it was led to my initiating contact on a long stretch of I-10 near the western most point of the Parish. Bordered on both sides by miles and miles of swamp-lands with the closest on-ramp being miles away and on either side of two bridges spanning the muddy brown waterways snaking their ways between the dry spots, it was not the ideal spot for a traffic stop, but it was all I had to work with. The time was close to midnight, and the area where the vehicle pulled over was (and still is) unlit except for the lights from my unit and the headlights of passing interstate motorists cruising along at a respectable clip.

          From the point that I first observed the vehicle I could tell there were at least two occupants, both of which, I assumed,were male. And as the vehicle began to pull over, I watched as both the driver and passenger made furtive, backwards glances towards me before quickly rolling down their windows. I remember thinking, Hmm, that’s interesting. I mean, sure, I could see the driver rolling down his window in preparation for our inevitable window-side chat, but the passenger too? Not so much.    

        Thinking that maybe they planned to ditch something, I flipped on my spotlight and trained it on the backs of their heads. looking for any additional movements as we rolled to a stop. After confirming that my partner (notice I didn’t say squad or team...we were a fledgling operation) was en route to my location, I approached the vehicle and began my investigation.

          The first thing I observed were the tendrils of smoke seeping out the driver’s side window; then I was hit by the tell-tale odor that was more than familiar to me. Blading myself, I led with a flashlight in my left hand while unfastening my holster’s thumb-break as I eased up alongside the vehicle far enough to inspect the interior from the relative cover afforded by the door frame. What I saw was a bit unnerving. Both the driver and the passenger had their hands in plain view and were staring straight ahead, motionless except for the rise and fall of their chests.

         “Evening,” I offered the customary traffic-cop salutation. “License and registration papers please.”

          “Ain’t my car,” the driver stated quickly in a thick, New Orleanian tongue without taking his eyes off the road in front of him.

          The smell of weed aside, something caused the hairs on the back of my neck to tingle. There was definitely something “not right” about the situation at hand.

          “Do you have a driver’s license?” I asked the driver.

          “Just got out of jail,” he informed me. “trying to get out the city for awhile.”

          There it was, or part of it at least. I now knew that this guy was at least a semi-pro player. But there was still something I couldn’t put my finger on.

          “How about you?” I ducked down and asked the passenger. “You got ID?”

          “Uh-uh, we’re going to visit a friend,” the passenger stated a little too quickly.

          Visiting “a friend” at almost midnight? Really?

          “Step out of the vehicle,” I ordered the driver. Backing away towards the rear of the vehicle I watched what appeared to be a bear wearing a man costume climb out of the driver’s seat.

          Oh shit… where was my backup?

          “Step on back here,” I instructed, trying to maintain control of the situation and indicating the obvious path with the beam from my flashlight, “Sir,” I added as an afterthought. There was no sense in getting off on the wrong foot after all, especially when said foot is a size 24W.

          I indicated where I wanted the driver to stand, putting him between me and the car where the passenger was still seated so that I could watch them both.
          When the dread-locked Kodiak in front of me leaned against the trunk of the car with folded arms I figured I was about to be in for an exciting evening. So, I did what came naturally to me, I went on the offense.

          “How much weed you smoked tonight my man?” I asked, trying to sound as urban as I could manage with a bottom lip full of Skoal.

          “A blunt,” he answered... bluntly.

          “Who’s the car for?”

          “It’s a friend’s.”

          “By friend do you mean the guy in the car with you?”

          “No,” he answered.

          Ding. That was something.

          “What were you arrested for?” I asked.

          “Weed,” he admitted.

          “You on paper?”

          “Man, I did fourteen months. I’m on Parole.”

          Ding. This was going much better than I had expected.

          “So, who’s that in the car with you?”

          “My cousin.”

          “Where you headed?”

          “Baton Rouge.”

          “Got any more weed in the car?”

          “Bout a blunt.”

          Ding.

          This went on for about five more minutes until my partner finally showed up. Having gleaned a good bit of information from the preliminary interview, I proceeded to explain the gist of situation and then moved on to the next phase of my investigation. After having the driver sit on the side on the road where he would “be safe”, I moved back to the car.

          “Evening,” I said to the passenger who was about as big around as his partner was tall. “Where’s the rest of the weed?”

          “Ain’t got no weed,” the passenger wheezed and looked up toward me with bloodshot eyes.

           Of course, I didn't believe him. But it wasn't so much because the driver had already admitted to having “bout a Blunt” as it was the remains of said blunt covering the front of the passenger’s white "Biggie Smalls" T-shirt.

          “Um hmm,” I said, not letting on as to my observations. “So, where you guys headed tonight?”

          “Um,” the passenger supplied, "Houston?"
          "Are you asking me or telling me?"
          With a big grin he said, "Houston."

          “Really?" I asked, "You sure you’re not going to Baton Rouge?”

         “Oh," the big grin vanishing, "uh, yeah, I mean we’re going to Baton Rouge first. We’re going to a party.”

          “I thought you were visiting a friend?”

          “Well, yeah, I mean, the friend is at the party.”

          “I see,” I said. “So, who’s the guy driving?”

          “My homeboy,” he said.
          "You guys aren't related?"
          "Um," more confusion, "No?"

          “Really? He said you guys were cousins.”

          “He did?” the passenger asked, “Oh, I mean, yeah. We good friends so we call each other cousins, on account a we so tight.”

          “I hear ya,” I said. “You sure you guys don’t have any more weed?”

          “I swear to God,” he professed.

           I shined my light onto the pot crumbs. “Check your shirt,” I instructed him.

          “Oh, man…” he groaned.

          “Get out,” I told him. My patience was already growing thin by this point so I gave him two sets of shiny bracelets...one pair for each wrist (he was a big guy).
          “Have a seat,” I said after leading Tubby to the rear of the car.

          Seeing his buddy in cuffs the driver started to get up.

          “Nuh, uh,” I told him. “Don’t move big boy.”

          “Man, we ain’t done nothing,” the driver griped.

         I then went on to explain that they had, in fact, already done quite a bit. Especially the driver who, based on his own admission, was in violation of several terms and or conditions of his parole. 

          “So, I’m going to ask you both again. Before I search your vehicle, is there anything in the car I need to know about?”

          They looked at each other for a second and the driver asked the passenger, “Is there anything in the car?”

          The “cousin” looked directly at the driver. “No, not in the car,” he assured his partner.

          The driver then looked at me and said, “No, ain’t nothing in the car.”

          Wait a second…did you catch the passenger’s strange inflection on the word in? No? Well I did. I mean, it was like Costello reacting to Abbott's straight line.

          Scrunching up my brow in thought I began walking over to the passenger side door where I did a cursory search while shining my torch around the area in and directly outside of it. I then closed the door, turned and took about four steps towards the edge of the swamp where I located a dry, clear plastic sandwich bag stuffed full with an ass-load of MDMA (or Ecstasy as it’s commonly known) lying on the damp ground.

          Retrieving the bag of narcotics I brought it back to the two suspects and showed it to them, noticing the glare the driver shot the passenger who simply shrugged apologetically.

          Needless to say, they both went to jail that night and, as it turns out, they had both lied about their names (go figure) and were wanted on outstanding warrants. Looking back, the song and dance the driver provided for my entertainment while his buddy dealt with the dope was really quite amusing and had the second half of this dynamic duo been a little more slick (or less high) they might have slipped one past me. But I have to hand it to them, while their stories didn't quite jibe, at least they agreed on one thing, there wasn't anything in the car.