Early in 1996, on the way back from Lea’s one clear night with little traffic, I jumped on I-565 in my little red Integra and scanned behind me for Crown Vic and Caprice lighting signatures. Seeing none, I redlined in third, then fourth, and then briefly gave it a bit in fifth before I started coasting down for my exit. Just as I noticed a car coming up very fast behind me, it sprouted roof lights. Blues and no reds all the way across; that means State Trooper ’round these parts. I hadn’t detected him because he was in a previous-generation Caprice: the squarish job, not the turdmobile I’d looked for.
Oh, shit.
I stopped on the shoulder of my off-ramp, turned my dome light on, rolled my window down, and put my hands on the top of the steering wheel. I’d never even gotten a ticket before, much less gotten caught doing anything like this. I was absolutely certain I was going to jail. I wasn’t getting “license and registration, please”; I was getting “get out and put your hands on your head” with a loaded 9mm or .357 pointed at me. I remember being thankful I didn’t have my nice watch on, so I didn’t have to worry about the handcuffs scratching it.
I also remember hoping I didn’t piss myself thinking about the gun, because I was going to have to sit in a cell in these clothes.
To my deep, deep surprise, “may I see your driver’s license, please?” is exactly what I got. I handed it to him.
He looked my license over, then got a little closer–not in my personal space, but at a good make-the-point distance. “I just paced you at one hundred and seventeen miles per hour. You’re in a big hurry tonight, aren’t you?”
I mumbled something about just having my wheels balanced and wanting to check it out. (I was scared to death; give me a break.)
“Have you been drinking tonight?”
“No, officer.”
“Have you been cited for speeding recently?”
“No, officer.”
He took my license back to the cruiser. I briefly allowed myself the hope that he was going to cite me for aggravated speeding, which would be a steep fine (double a normal speeding ticket), but not a night in jail with God-knows-who. (Contrary to popular belief, a certain amount over the speed limit is not automatically reckless driving in most states. If you’re not doing anything else stupid, like weaving, drinking, or pulling the stunt at rush hour, there’s a charge called aggravated speeding that exists nearly everywhere.)
After approximately fourteen hours, he stepped back to my window, handed me a citation on a clipboard, and showed me where to sign.
“Traffic’s light, you haven’t been drinking, and you didn’t lie to me about not being cited for speeding recently. So I’m citing you for 75 in a 55 instead of taking you to jail. Okay?” (Back then I-565 was 55, not 70, until you got west of the airport.) Then he said some other stuff about court date, blah blah blah. I was just happy to be going home to bed instead of to be Big Zeke’s bitch at the lockup, so I didn’t really listen past “75 in a 55.”
“Thank you, officer.”
“You’re welcome. Be careful.”
Court? Yeah, right. I paid the ticket the next day.
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Sheeee-iiit, son! Short of wearing a miniskirt and showing 5 solid inches of cleavage, I don’t think I’ve heard of someone getting white gloved like that for that kind of speed.
I have some of my own speed stories, but I think I’ll save those for a moderately lengthy post over at my blog sometime…
Oh, ah, well, I did forget to mention what I was wearing.
Yeah, I couldn’t believe it. It was just my night, I guess. It was a very, very nice thing the trooper did. For all I know he just didn’t want to mess with it; whatever the reason, I’ll take it.
I’ve had to do the “hands on the side of the car thing” OMG. Not for speeding either.
And have you Saintseester Saysed this story before? If not, such should be forthcoming, don’t you think?
No I haven’t sayed it, but now that you’ve reminded me of it, I probably should…
Now are we going to run around the internet tagging people to make them tell their most embarrassing run-ins with the po-lice?
Cool, I’ll watch for that.
But what makes you think I’ve told my most embarrassing one? 😉
You know, I have heard that story before but, it is still funny! I wish I had a great story like that for my first ticket. Mine was a 45 in a 25…..I am fearless!
Your sister
Agreed, it’s funny now. I didn’t think so on that chilly night 11 years ago when I was contemplating all of the ways the rest of the night could go, though. 🙂
I don’t remember I-565 ever being 55. But that’s good, cause
I can’t drive….55.