Unless his attitude called for it, there was no reason for me to take out my piss-poor mood on this guy. Most people respected the badge and the blue, but you always have to be on the watch for those who didn’t. You had to treat each person and each incident with attention to detail, compassion, and above all else, integrity.
After radioing my position, I opened my door and switched on my body cam, walking slowly to the sedan with my clipboard in hand. My boots crunched on the asphalt, and I unclipped my taser, calming my breaths like I always did before a stop. I touched the back bumper above the taillight and kept my hands by my side as I approached the driver’s side door, taking in every detail.
The backseat and passenger seat were spotless, giving no indication he was driving under the influence, and the driver matched the description dispatch gave me. His hands were resting loosely on the steering wheel, and his posture was straight and confidant. I leaned forward and nodded my head in greeting, noticing the smell of the car’s interior and the dilation of his pupils.
“Good afternoon, Sir. My name is Officer Hansen with the North Charleston Police Force. May I see your license, registration, and proof of insurance, please?”
“Yes, Sir, Officer Hansen,” he said, meeting my eyes with a nod and reaching into his back pocket.
I followed his movements, my hand automatically moving to my gun and resting lightly on top of the holster. No matter the situation or how polite someone was, things could turn sour in the blink of an eye, and you always had to be prepared. Always had to be aware. He passed over the cards without issue, and I took them, clipping them onto my board and quickly scanning over the expiration and issue dates.
“I take it you know why I pulled you over.”
“Yeah,” he said, shaking his head and gripping the steering wheel. I could tell he was pissed, but I couldn’t discern if it was because he was caught or because it was an honest mistake. “I have a date with my wife tonight and was stuck at work. I’m already on thin ice for my hours lately, and I was speeding to get home. You were right to pull me over.”
He said the last part, gritting his teeth, then looked at me with a sheepish smile.
I grinned and nodded. “I understand, and I’ll be right back, Mr. Parkinson.”
By the time I was back in my cruiser, I’d decided to reduce the ticket to only five over the limit. The guy admitted he was speeding, and even if he was lying, he owned up to it. Muscle memory took over as I followed procedure and completed my requirements.
It felt good.
Well, not writing this guy a ticket when he was only trying to get back to his wife, but rules, policies, procedures, plans. They steadied me, grounded me. This last month with Jenna, and really since I got Phoebe, my life had been one massive disruption. I needed to find my bearing, give my life a hard reset, get back to what I knew.
Jenna was what I knew, wasn’t she? Was I ready to lose her?
I shook my head and finished writing up everything, then got back out, still keeping my guard up. I touched a different spot higher on the back bumper, greeting Mr. Parkinson again and handing him his information.
Hell, I should try for a bit of humor. This was probably my last stop of the day, so I might as well try to snap myself out of this funk. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?
“Alright, sir. Thanks for cooperating with me this afternoon, and I apologize for holding you up even later for date night. I guess the only other thing I need is your pilot’s license for flying that fast. Then you can be on your way.”
I said it with a smile and leaned in closer, not expecting the color to drain from Mr. Parkinson’s face.
“Seriously? Does my license say my occupation? How did you know my last flight was delayed? Or was that just a seriously lucky guess?”
He reached over to where he’d laid his wallet on top of his center console and opened it up, passing over his pilot’s license with a smile. I reached out and took it, barking out a laugh and shaking my head.
This guy was legitimately a commercial pilot.
“Seriously lucky guess, and it’s your lucky day. I’m tearing up this ticket. Get out of here and get home to your wife. Just slow down. If I pull you over again, I will not go easy on you.”
“Rest assured, Officer Hansen, I will drive two under the limit all the way home.”
“Good to hear. Have a nice evening.”
“You do the same.”
I tipped my campaign cover and walked back to my cruiser, feeling like I was doing some weird walk of shame. I slammed the door and tore up the ticket, stuffing the scraps in the cupholder.
Good thing I hadn’t inputted it into the laptop.
Mr. Commercial Pilot Parkinson pulled back onto the highway, and I took off my hat, checking the time and typing a warning into the laptop instead before radioing that I was heading back to drop off my cruiser and pick up my Tahoe.
Mom: Are you almost home? Phoebe seems off, and Jenna’s not answering her phone.
Me: I have to drop off the Ford. What’s going on?
