Jun 04 What Can We Learn from This?

There's actually some lessons to be learned from this; I'm figuring that Kevin Ecker will be first to point them out . . . after all, he's got a head start.  He's heard the story.

Maybe you can, too, but I gotta tell you the story, first.

I was running over to meet a guy to buy a gun. Private sale. Since he's not an idiot, he wanted a copy of my DL and permit, just to adhere to the forms.

Perfectly reasonable.

So I had a xerox of both in my front shirt pocket, wrapped around $400 in cash. I got a call from my younger daughter's school about some... issues that are going on.  Some other time.

I was so distracted by that phone call that I didn't notice that I'd let my speed creep up to a tad over the legal limit, until I noticed the flashing lights.

Shit.

So I promptly found a safe place to pull over, and did just that. T

he cop -- never mind quite which agency; I've got my reasons -- comes up to the window, and asks for my D/L, proof of insurance and... "...do you have any firearms on you?"

I answered, as I read somewhere that a guy should, "My carry permit and drivers license are in my left hip pocket, Officer; and, yes, I'm carrying today." Oh.

"And where is the firearm?"

This is embarrassing, but I do have an excuse. Some other time. "Shoulder holster."

"Do me a favor, sir, and step out of the car." He didn't sound like it was really a favor, so I did, and pocketed the keys, closing and locking the door behind me quite appropriately.

He didn't ask about that.

Instead. "I need to see your license and carry permit." Which was just as well, for reasons I'm not going to go into, about where some people put their insurance cards. 

What I should have said: "Sure. It's in my left hip pocket. Would you like me to take it out?"

What I said. "Sure. I've got a copy of both in my shirt pocket. Would you like to see that?"

I think he liked the idea that I wasn't going to be reaching anywhere, so he said that that would do, and I took out the piece of paper, and started to hand to him.

You see where this is going?

Well, so did I.

I was just about to hand a cop a piece of paper wrapped around twenty twenty-dollar bills, and it was a bit too late to withdraw the offer.

So I explained, with a fair amount of stuttering, I think, that, yes, there was some money in there, but I wasn't offering him either a bribe or a tip, just so there wasn't going to be any misunderstanding.

"And where were you going with a copy of your permit wrapped around $400?"

The gun store, I said, more or less accurately.

Well, when he took the piece of paper either I let go too soon or he grabbed at it too late, and the money started flying all over the place . . .

So, with the money flying all around, he dashes for it, and after a couple of seconds, I figure that it's okay if I help -- if he was worried I was going to, like shoot him in the back or go all stabbity, he probably wouldn't have turned his back to me -- and since it's not all that windy, he and I (mainly him; he's younger and moves faster) quickly gather it up and hands what he's got to me, and no guns, knives, tasers, nor clubs come out.

"Better count it, and make sure we didn't miss any." He glances down at the piece of paper, and frowns. "...Mr. Rosenberg. I wouldn't want you, of all people, to think that some money's missing."

Just as I'm thinking this is about to get bad, he smiles, and it's a friendly smile.

So we both count out the money -- and it's all there, and we're in front of his cruiser, so if there's a camera running, it's all on the record, and we both announce the amount, and it's the same $400 that it should be-- and he hands it back to me and suggests that I tuck it away, which I do.

"Just wait here a minute, while I run this," he says, waving the paper. He sort of glances at me, as though he was going to ask me to produce the DL --  they can swipe them, rather than type stuff in -- but then he goes back to his car, and I just wait over to the side of the road, smoking a cigarette.

Very intently.

A couple of minutes (which didn't feel like minutes, but the cigarette timed them), he comes back, and we move around to the side of the car.

"You're fine, Mr. Rosenberg," he says, and then smiles. "Guess if you had any warrants on you, the Gang Strike Force would have kicked in your door yesterday, after all."

Oh, goodie.  I think that was a figure of speech.  Really.

"I'm just going to give you an 'advisory', Mr. Rosenberg. Watch the phone stuff when you're speeding."

Yes, he said, watch the phone stuff when you're speeding.

And he sort of cocked his head to one side, and was clearly making a decision, and then he made it, and he said, "you know, there's some of us jackbooted thugs," this is a phrase I use, but to describe a certain kind of bad cop, not as a generic, "who believe in all ten of the Amendments -- "

I did not correct him and point out that there's more; that's just the Bill of Rights. Didn't even think of it until later, and I'm not always a stickler for details.

" -- to the US Constitution. You seem to," he said, handing the paper back to me, "work the First and Second pretty hard, and that's just fine."  There are ways to say it that mean and there's nothing I can do about it, but I'd like to.  He said it the other way.

I didn't quite know what to say, but I think something like thank you came out of my mouth.

"You drive safe, Joel," he said. 

And he stuck out a hand, and I shook it, and he went his way, and I went mine.

---

Afterthought:  I guess it's possible that he knew who I was when he pulled me over, but I was driving SWMBO's car; the War Wagon was getting its a/c worked on that day.

As a friend pointed out to me, a bit later, when we were discussing this, the reason that I didn't find it offensive for him to first-name me is that he was doing it as a human sort of thing -- he'd already been formal, and was saying that as one guy to another, not a cop talking down to a "civilian," as he wasn't.

Yeah, I like cops. Some cops. I like this guy.

Not vouching for him on other stuff, but, hey, yeah, I've got a soft spot in my heart and head for cops who cut a guy a break when they don't have to. 

He could have written me, and he didn't, and I'm not about to don tactical kneepads, and all, but, hey, I like the guy.  And if the story ends a bit anticlimactically, hey, I didn't write the script, and don't mind that at all.

What can we learn from this? 

A lot, I think.  Over to you.

[Crossposted at WindyPundit, comments welcome]