So I’m driving the mile home from a local pub after a mere pittance of beer when at the end of 29th Street, I theoretically stopped before turning for my final hundred yards.
Pulling into my parking lot, I noticed a light show in my rear-view mirror and thought, “Hmmm, that’s beautiful, but surely it’s not Christmas already?” Further glances revealed a police cruiser, apparently tailing someone in close proximity. I pulled into my parking space and my dog and I got out, eager to watch some perp get handcuffed.
Suddenly I hear, “Driver, get back in your vehicle … now!” The skittish officer approached and barked, “Why did you exit your vehicle?” I says, “Well, this is where I live. I always get out here.”
Inquisitive, he asked, “Have you been drinking?”
“Why yes,” I replied. “I just left Brewgards after a couple cold ones.”
Since it was only three at most, over a period of hours, I moved confidently when he decided he now wanted me out of my truck. I resisted my instinct to say, “Make up your mind for God’s sake.”
This temporarily stern cop wanted to observe me walking slowly back to his vehicle — lights still illuminating the sky as a courtesy to my gossipy neighbors — and then requested I stand perfectly still while following a tiny flashlight with my peepers.
Possibly stunned by the blue brilliance of my eyes, he was convinced I was sober as a judge. (And that’s not to imply there aren’t some alcoholic judges out there.)
After a few jokes I keep in reserve for these situations, his mood lightened while voicing his firm belief I had drifted through that stop sign. Whether I did or not isn’t the issue; my question is: Why do they prefer we remain in our vehicles rather than walking towards them with hands raised in an extremely vulnerable suspect walk of shame?
Nearly every police-ambush footage I’ve watched shows officers shot as they blindly approach a vehicle. “Excuse me, sir … ‘Officer down!’” I’d much sooner have my eyes trained on a stranger walking towards me with raised hands than a guy I can’t see, hopefully with empty hands. Similarly, I’d choose a rattlesnake slithering my direction than to blindly approach a rock with a hopefully defanged rattler behind it.
• Another mystery assaulting my sensibilities is why serial killer documentaries often conclude with, “The victim’s family would get no justice. He was discovered hanging in his cell.” Personally, I’m fine with these animals (forgive me, liberal activists) accelerating the reunion with the devil, but victims’ families aren’t.
“He cut up his bedsheets to fashion a makeshift noose.” Well DUH! Why did the dipstick need sheets, or at the risk of sounding insensitive, pillowcases, shoelaces or extension cords accommodating color TVs, radios and George Foreman grills? Dare I trample the rights of murderers by suggesting inconvenience? I googled a top-10 list of infamous killers who escaped justice via quick suicide and it was truly a den of vipers.
• I wish I had at least a quarter for every “Convicted killer serving life without parole received an extra 80 years for murdering a fellow inmate and a correction officer” I’ve heard. That should convince the psychopath to change his evil ways.
What part of “prison is no deterrent” don’t anti-death penalty zealots understand?
Conversely, a demon named Javed Iqbal confessed to strangling, dismembering and dispensing the bodies of 100 young boys in acid. The Pakistani judge chose not to grant room and board, sentencing him to be “strangled to death with the same length of chain you used on the boys. Your body shall be cut into 100 pieces and deposited into a vat of acid.”
Don’t tell me those hundreds of parents didn’t find closure. Good on the Pakistanis for dispensing fair and equal justice. If I hear of one more serial killer ordered to eat well, sleep late and watch TV for the rest of his life, I might just relocate to the Mideast. I’d be hard-pressed to find any downside to their near-perfect set of values.