I finally came to an exit, and pulled over in a Valero, on the corner of the feeder & the street for the exit I had to make. He gets out and comes up to the car, and for some reason I’m nervous as SHIT. Still shaking.
“License & registration, please.” Long pause as I’m shuffling through shit. “I pulled you over for failing to have a rear license plate light.”
“Oh…” I’ll be outta this in no time. Shouldn’t have even bothered wasting that shit. I had plenty more at home, but this was dumb, and I was laughing at myself for it, on the inside. I had my dome light on, because I’d just gotten new insurance, and wasn’t sure what paper he needed. Also, because I’m a pussy. I was shaking like a leaf!!! I remember having to rest the hand that was holding my license and insurance on the part of my window that was up about three inches, so it wasn’t obvious I was shaking. “I just got new insurance, and I’m not sure if this is the paper you need, because it’s different than my last insurance… but you can look it up anyway, can’t you?” I casually asked.
“I don’t know, we’ll see. Please step outta the car, ma’am.” Sounds cliché, but I’m pretty sure they have a script they go by. “Step to the rear, passenger side of your car for me.”
So there I am, standing in between my “Donkey Punch” (Houston band, pretty dope) bumper sticker, and my “Santa Cruz Skateboards” sticker.
Then, he looks at me, and straight up says, “I need you to tell me how much marijuana is in the car.”
Keep in mind, I’d eaten an In-N-Out burger, AND a big-ass bag of Cheetos (all in plain view, in the passenger seat… of course), and smoked like 4.5 hours earlier. I was fucking SOBER. So yes, I was caught off guard, and I’m a shitty liar, but there really was no “marijuana in the car,” so I said, “None….” in a ‘where the hell did that come from?’ tone. Partly because I really was wondering what I did wrong, in my fool-proof, obviously well-thought-out, plan.
“When I walked up to your car, it was all over your lap.” Almost like a reflex, I immediately looked down at my cotton t-shirt and cotton leggings. Nothing really stuck, but I did see one grain of something the possible size, and possible color of oregano. Just like Jay-Z had taught me, and out of habit, I brushed it off… which probably didn’t look “good,” but my lawyer had no reaction to it, when we watched the video together.
“You really wanna see your video?!” My lawyer asked, surprised.
“Hell yes!” I couldn’t figure out why he was so surprised. Maybe he didn’t know he was talking to the girl who brought a disposable camera to her bone marrow donation, and when they refused to take pictures of it, had to end up saying, “I will sign whatever you want me to sign, just please document this.” I literally signed a handwritten document, stating I wouldn’t sue if the pics traumatized me. I’ll attach pictures of it somewhere.
Anyway, when I ‘brush it off’, he says, “And it’s all over the car seat.” I’d just started using a grinder (life-changer, btw), so it really was the consistency of oregano or basil. Since I’d never broken a joint in half before, cuz… why the shit would I…? My theory is that the middle of the full joint crumbled into my lap when I broke it in half, and that’s what he saw. Right about now is where… if I had a time machine, I’d say to him, “Well you’d better go find the rest of it then, huh? Where would you like me to wait, precious?” But instead, when he gave me the whole “I promise you, if you cooperate, this is going to go a whole lot easier for both of us.”
I believed the prick (I don’t care how cool they seem – as soon as they ask, “So, have you ever been arrested or in trouble with the law before?” Tell them you don’t answer questions… LEARN FROM MY WHITE GIRL MISTAKE. Plus, I suck at lying anyway, and exactly two months later, I still can’t think of a reason I’d have oregano sprinkled in my lap for a three hour drive. The thing is, YOU DON’T HAVE TO ANSWER THEM, OR TALK TO THEM…EVER!!! Useful info that honestly never crossed my mind. I also thought any kind of brain throw-up you have started getting held against you after they started the whole “You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law…” rant, but nope. The whole damned thing was taped, audio and video, and coulda been “used against me in a court of law.” Instead, ugh, we’ll get to that later. Didn’t know that, but more useful info for future reference.
Not being able to think of a somewhat believable reason for the shake on my lap, I thought, “Fuckit.”
“I ate it.” I said, in an ‘ok, ya caught me, and I’m so ashamed’ tone, hanging my head. What’s the worst they’d do? Send me to the hospital to make sure I don’t “O.D.” on “the marijuanas”? In this county, it wouldn’t be that far-fetched, at all. I’d heard of it happening with other substances from various acquaintances and life-long friends, but never pot. So this should be interesting, at most, right?
“How much did you eat?”
“A joint.” I lied, but not by much. Besides, this asshole wouldn’t have cared if it were a roach or a pound. That’s my honest opinion.
Handcuffs go on, and shit got real. I asked, “Am I being arrested?!”
“You’re being detained.” As if it were an auto-response at this point.
He tells me to hang out on or by the hood of his car, while grilling me, steadily, every time he talked to me.
“Where ya comin’ from?”
“When did you go?”
“What was your reason?”
“Seeing a friend.” I didn’t wanna say that I was on a job, because you have to have special insurance to transport shit, but it’s cool if you don’t, but it’s not… Hell, idano – that’s what everyone tells me… Not one or the other, I just literally have never been able to get a straight answer from anyone, so I gave up.
“Where ya headed?”
“Are we going to find anything else in there?”
“No, sir. There’s nothing in there that I’m not supposed to have.”
“Have you ever been in trouble with the police before?”
“Yes sir. 13 years ago, but it was expunged.” Coulda just looked at him, and he’d still have no reason to arrest me. Granted, I didn’t know that, and if I were an ass, no telling how many charges I’d end up having. I’ll never know. Turns out, this is the kind of dickhead who, if provoked, would ask you why you were resisting, while you’re standing completely still, looking him in the eye, to remind you how “powerful and mighty” he is. His wife is a lucky gal. The fact I knew I was clean when he searched me, yet telling him all of these truths, felt good for some reason. Because I had an arsenal of medication in my car, but nothing was illegal.
“What was that for? The one that got expunged?”
“Vicodin, without the bottle.” I withheld the four other kinds of pills I had, and I only had a bottle, or prescription, for one of them (back then, anyway – I learn from my mistakes), but whatever.
“What medication are you on now?”
“It’s all in there. I’m on Percocet, Adderall, Klonopin, Baclofen, Phenergan, Seroquel, birth control, and a backpack full of random vitamins…” Okay, I get that may sound like overkill, but keep in mind, when I wake up each day, I never know where I’m going to be sleeping that night. Not necessarily because I’m a hussy, but because of my job. So I just have everything on me, at all times. Pretty much no matter what, when I leave the house. So pretty much ALL of this over-stuffed Brooklyn Industries backpack I’ve had since the first day of 2013. There’s also spray shine for my hair, dry shampoo, deodorant, sleep phones (you heard me), my chargers, noise-cancelling Bose earbuds, extra phone battery, and a few other very random things, but mostly vitamins. Something’s pretty much always wrong with me. I started seeing a psychiatrist in 7th grade, the same year I fucked up my shoulder for life, and had to quit gymnastics. 7th grade is the earliest I *remember* the pain. In science class, actually.
While I’m naming the shit off that he asked for, I swear… in between like the first 3 or 4 things I named off, I was interrupted by him saying the same words over, and over, and… “Is THAT in a bottle… with YOUR name on it?!”
“Yes, sir.” was my answer the first 3 or 4 times. After that, I was just annoyed. I said, “Yes, I learned my lesson on that 13 years ago, as I’ve said. Everything’s in the correct bottle. Some may be old as hell, but every one of them matches the description of it that’s printed on the label, there are only one kind of pill in each bottle, and they ALL have MY name on them.” Jesus…