Duh...ope (#2)- Psychic Cop

           The car blew by at a staggering twenty-five miles per hour, the “thumps” of window vibrating bass disrupting the natural harmony of the Spring day's ambiance in its wake. Looking up from the arrest report I was cramming on before shift change, I leaned over in the passenger’s seat and double-checked the speed limit on the road sign to my right.

          55 mph… that’s what I thought.

          Well, now what? Drumming my fingers on the steering wheel I checked my watch, torn on what to do. Granted, there was a clear violation of the loud noise ordinance; then again there was no one else around, so technically there was nobody’s peace to be disturbed. Still, I was parked right out there in the open, so you’d think the driver would at least have the common courtesy to turn down the radio when he passed. 

          Then there was the issue of the speed in which the vehicle had passed. A bit slow to say the least. So slow in fact that, even while partaking in my inner dialogue on the particulars of my dilemma, the vehicle had not yet left my line of sight… more-so, I was parked in a curve. Maybe it was an older driver on their way to church for an afternoon of bingo? I shook my head, With the amount of “ho’s” and “bitches” accompanying the bass I doubted very seriously the driver was tuned into the oldies station.

          “Damn,” I muttered under my breath. Putting my car in drive, I flipped around to follow the vehicle. “I’ll just check it out”, I assured myself, knowing better.

          As I gained on him, I could see the driver’s head bobbing convulsively as his hands fluctuated between smacking the steering wheel and waving around the cab erratically. At first I believed him to be in the throes of some medical crisis, then I let loose one of my patented, knowing smirks; this dude was jamming for sure. I doubted very seriously if he had even seen me earlier.

          That theory was confirmed when the guy looked into his rear-view, I assume to admiringly stroke the beginnings of his scraggly power-stache, and did a wide-eyed double-take upon spotting my vehicle. He then slammed down hard on the breaks; which, due to his slow speed, caused him to come to a complete stop in the middle of the highway.

          Hmm, now let’s see; slow speed, distracted driving, over-reaction upon seeing the police, possible power-stache… shit, I had a live one here.

          Flipping on my top-lights, I “chirped” the siren once and got on the PA.

          “Move to the right,” I instructed and followed up with a double take of my own at seeing the driver shift his body towards the passenger seat. “The vehicle,” I added, “pull your vehicle to the right side of the road.”

          Oh man Graham… you just couldn’t let it go, could you?

          After radioing in the stop, I warily approached the side of the vehicle. The driver, sitting with clenched fists around the steering wheel, looked straight ahead, his eyes fixed in an anxious thousand-meter stare. He had still not turned down the music and, from the looks of it, did not plan on making any moves to do so. Sweat beading on his forehead, his eyes snapped shut and squeezed together as if he were silently wishing that I would just go away. 

          Tapping on the driver’s side window with one knuckle, I assured him that I had not. I then indicated with one rotating finger for him to roll the window down. Which he did, lowering the glass approximately one and a half inches.

          Sucking at my teeth, I shook my head, looked to the heavens for support and then tapped on the glass again. The driver turned his head towards me with bulging eyes, smiled uncomfortably and through the crack in the window said, “It won’t go down all the way.”

          “My ass,” I sighed to myself. I could already smell the odor of burnt marijuana emanating from the vehicle’s interior. Oh, well, in for a penny; et cetera, et cetera. “Sir, can you to step out of the vehicle?”

          Apparently, he had not thought far enough ahead in his scheme to consider this demand a viable counter to his attempts at subterfuge. I determined this through my keen investigative skills and the fact that he muttered “Oh fuck” before rolling his head down to look at his lap.

          (Fun fact- This is the point in an encounter where a cop usually starts to get that “feeling” that the parameters of an event are about to shift dramatically. The next few seconds, when all parties involved run a myriad of scenarios through their heads and decide on their next course of action, are some of the most dangerous/unpredictable moments a cop will face in his or her career, second only to domestic disturbances. Unlike serving arrest warrants or searching for an armed suspect where cops are prepared for violence; the uncertainty as to exactly who they are dealing with on a traffic stop, is what causes the cop that just pulled you over to have the so-called “attitude” they are known for. Food for thought the next time you start to get irate with your local trooper for being short with you. But, as usual, I digress.)

          Seeing the driver’s hesitation, I felt it best to assist him with opening the door before stepping back to a point of cover at the rear of the vehicle; my right hand hovering expectantly near my holstered weapon. He was a big guy, probably a good four inches taller than me and just as wide. He was also wearing the universal uniform of a wanna-be thug; sagging jeans, sports jersey and a red bandanna stuffed in his back pocket. However, having said all that; I didn’t get a “bad-vibe” as he stood there looking at the ground with slumped shoulders, the smell of burnt Marijuana rolling out of the vehicle behind him.

          “How we doing today?” I asked in my most conversational tone, while eyeing him skeptically from behind my sunglasses.

          The big guy shrugged once and looked up at me with blood-shot eyes.

          “You, uh, headed somewhere special?” I asked.

          Again he shrugged.

          This wasn’t going to be as easy as I thought; so I tried a different approach.

          “Been smoking a little weed today?” I asked.

          That got his attention. His head went straight up and back in such a way that I half expected to hear the snapping of vertebrae. His face screwed up in a look that spoke volumes. But instead of aggression, what I saw on his face was pure, unadulterated “Duh”.

          More than likely you’ve witnessed this expression at least once. For you parents out there, it’s when your kid (or room-mate for you unmarried types) is searching for an answer to your, “Did you eat the last of the Oreo’s?” question. They know that if they answer “yes” they’re probably in trouble; but answering “no” means they’re lying and the thought of getting caught in a fib is even worse. But for whatever reason, the temptation of possibly getting-over on you causes their logic to fly out the window and they lie anyway…through chocolate cookie coated teeth.

          That’s the “duh”. 

          The driver was still staring at me in full on “duh” mode when I said, “I’ll make it easy on you my man. I smell it coming out of the car.”

          This caused him to slump again and I almost felt sorry for him when he said, “Yeah,” in a deep baritone.

          “So, I guess this is kind of a buzz-kill huh?” I asked with a little chuckle.

          His head nodded between his slouched shoulders.

          “Look,” I began, “As long as you’re straight up with me, I’m willing to work with you on this. But I've got to ask; you don’t have any more Marijuana, do you?”

          In response to my inquiry, the driver mumbled, “Nuh-uh”, while shifting his weight onto his right foot, raising his left slightly and looking down at the raised member as he gave it a little shake. Hmm, that was odd, he answered negatively, but his actions indicated something else… Ah.

          They say that the subconscious mind can’t lie. The theory being that when we do attempt to deceive, our conscious, intellect and physical elements end up getting into a three way tug-o-war; the ticks, twitches and involuntary spasms resulting from that inner struggle are what “tells on us”. There are several schools out there that teach kinesiology to cops for just that reason, but, in the case of the stoned driver I was interviewing, a blind man could have seen the signs.

          Trying to hide the smile I asked, “Let’s try this again. Weed, you got any?”

          Once again my suspect shifted his weight to his right foot, raised his left slightly and looked at the raised member as he gave it a little shake.

          Oh my God… he didn’t just really do that did he?  I considered moving to another investigative techniques to corroborate my suspicions…  Oh, what the Hell, there was no doubt this guy had dope on him; and he was blasted to boot.

          Which meant, it was now play time for me.

          I shook my head like I was suddenly disoriented and took on a wide stance, raising my hands up in front of me in a startled gesture before pressing the fingertips of my left hand against my temple. “Hold on,” I said aloud, “I’m getting a vision.”

          This declaration had an even more unnerving effect on the driver than our initial meeting. “W-w-what?” he asked.

          Exaggerating an exhale, I shook my head again and said, “Yeah, it’s weird. I never know when they’re going to happen. It’s like everything’s cool one minute then BANG! It’s like someone’s in my head telling me stuff,” At the word “BANG!” the driver jumped back about a foot.

          “Hold on a second,” I said, taking a step towards him and pressing my hand to my forehead, “I’m having another one… my God, make it stop.”

          “Are you Okay?” the driver asked with actual concern as he moved in to support me by the arm.

          “Ignoring” him, I tapped into my high-school drama class experience and emoted even further, sounding, in my opinion, a little more like Captain Kirk than Othello, “It… it’s saying that…you have something hidden in your right…no, your left shoe…no, your sock.” I looked up into his face and with a mixture of disappointment and startled realization said, “You have marijuana hidden in your left sock.”

          “How…I mean…what,” the driver stammered. He then clamped his mouth shut and nodded in agreement.

          He looked faint at that point, so I assisted him to the shoulder of the road where he sat down and I recovered the small baggie of Marijuana from his left sock. After finding he had no criminal history, I didn’t have the heart to take him to jail. So, I wrote him a misdemeanor summons and, even though he was in his early twenties, allowed him to call his “momma” to come pick him and his car up. Which, after reading "momma’s" not so subtle body language, was probably the most unkind thing I could have done.