"Where the hell did he come from?" I say aloud and to nobody but myself as I see the flashing blue light just behind my car. The road had been completely devoid of any cars this late at night and consequentially I had let my foot become way too heavy on the accelerator. As I pull over into the decel lane that is the entrance to an apartment complex, my mind is troubled by the sobering question of just how many beers did I consume during the usual Friday night poker party with some buddies earlier. The fact that I had won some money is lost in the gravity of the situation. Even if the cop doesn't realize I am a bit high and slightly under the influence, a simple speeding ticket will give me too many points against my license.
Losing my license and the ability to drive is not an option I can consider. It will cost me my job and with my present financial situation, I can't afford to miss a single paycheck. What possible story, what excuse can I come up with I wonder as I watch the cop still seated on his motorcycle running a check on my license plate with his hand held radio. He is very ominous looking in his white helmet with shaded goggles, all black leather jacket, chaps and boots, revolver clearly visible on his waist. Thinking of nothing better maybe I can just tell him my situation and plead for mercy. But if he runs a check on my driver's license, he will see my many speeding tickets and my chance for any mercy is pretty slim.
As he dismounts and approaches my car, I can't help but notice he has his revolver in hand. Trying to put myself in his place, I would probably do the same when confronting an unknown entity. I try to convince myself it is just SOP for a stop, especially late at night. And as I lean over to get my registration out of the dash pocket, I hear a husky voice demand I immediately put both hands on the steering wheel and remain that way. I can almost swear it is a feminine voice.
As the cop reaches my door, I don't look to see what sex the cop is, all I can see is the barrel of the gun pointing directly at me. "Get out of the car and keep your hands totally visible to me at all times," she demands. The cop is indeed a female. It is only a moment before she has me facing the car, leaning forward, my hands on its roof, my legs spread wide. I can feel the gun pressed into my back between my shoulder blades. "Don't make the slightest move if you value your life," she advises as her free hand frisks me, taking complete liberty of my body including my inner thighs and crotch.
With the gun still in my back, she asks, "Where you headed this late at night?"
"I am just headed home officer. Been playing cards with some friends and on my way back home." I reply. "I can give you the host's phone number and he will confirm my story," I offer.
"You were in a hellava hurry to get home. Did you think it was on fire or something? Didn't you realize this is a residential street and that the speed limit here is only 25 mph?"
"Yes ma'am, I was aware of it but it is late at night and the street was deserted," I explain.
"So you think the speed limit only applies at times you chose to think it applicable? You were doing twice that when I clocked you on my radar. And if I am not mistaken you have had a few beers judging by the smell of your breath."
"No ma'am; that is not what I think at all. I just made a mistake and I am sincerely sorry about it." I plead.
"I imagine the only thing you are sorry about is that you got caught. Where is your driver's license?"
"It's in my wallet in my left rear pocket, ma'am."
With the gun still pressed into my back she removes it and advises, "I will just hang on to this until I decide just what I want to do with you. Do you have any objection to submitting to a breathalyzer test?"
Remembering that I have always heard to never take such a test when having been drinking, I reply, "I'd rather not, ma'am."
