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I Got Stopped By A Cop

Yesterday I drove into The City (San Francisco) to see my favorite group (that you've never heard of): Bela Fleck & the Flecktones. The concert was excellent, of course. As usual, the four guys in the band hung around after the show, talking to fans, signing autographs (got all four autographs on the booklet of their newest CD).

I left The City for the drive home at about 11 PM. There was construction work on the Golden Gate Bridge that impeded traffic, so that added perhaps forty-five minutes to what would have normally been a drive of about an hour.

I was, as usual, exceeding the posted speed limit as I was coming through rural Sonoma County, the county next door to Napa County, where I live. I was going a little bit over 60 miles per hour along a stretch posted for 50 MPH. As I passed by an auto parked on the other side of, I saw his headlights come on, and in my rear-view mirror, saw him whip around and start coming up the road behind me. The thought that it might be a cop crossed my mind, and I eased my speed a little bit as I went through a wide turn and lost sight of him.

Within seconds, I saw him in my rear-view mirror, coming around the turn, closing rapidly on me. At that moment, there was no doubt in my mind that it was a cop, and I was going to be stopped for speeding. And at the same moment, the red and blue flashing lights on the top of his vehicle came on. I used my turn indicator to signal I was pulling over, slowing, and looking for a wide spot on the narrow country road. I turned onto a side road, and pulled over onto a wide spot.

I've watched cops on television ( mostly the show "Cops" ) enough to know what agitates a cop that's pulling you over, so I carefully went through the routine to minimize his concern, driving very slow, signaling my turn and signaling again as I pulled over, turning off my engine, rolling down the window, turning on the overhead light to illuminate the inside of my car, keeping both hands in plain view on the top of the steering wheel, and after doing that, remaining motionless, basically giving him an exaggerated display of compliance with the car-stop. I eyed him in my side mirror, and I wasn't surprised to see him in his headlights, cautiously approaching my car with his flashlight shining on me, held in his left hand, and his right hand resting on his holstered firearm. This was a standard, normal car-stop on a dark country road, so I wasn't too concerned about anything other than the fact that I was probably going to receive an expensive citation. As he approached my opened window, shining his flashlight down into my car, I kept my hands on the wheel.

"Good evening," he said firmly, but seemingly without any malice or anger. I answered in kind. I could see that he was an officer of the California Highway Patrol.

"You were driving pretty fast back there, 62 in a 50 MPH zone."

"Fifty?!?," I lied, "I thought the speed limit was fifty-five." I was quite aware of the posted 50 MPH limit on that stretch of the highway.

That lie was calculated. Most of that highway is posted at 55. That stretch of a couple miles is posted at 50.

He laughed with a slightly derisive tone. "Well, still, you were going 62."

"Sorry," I said meekly, continuing my Oscar-Award winning act, and purposefully demonstrating contrition, pointedly showing him I wasn't trying to argue. "I guess I was fudging a little bit, but I didn't realize I was going that fast."

The interrogation began. Again, this is standard operating procedure in the situation. While the cop is doing this, he's sizing up his subject, looking for any signs of excessive nervousness or other suspicious behavior, and looking for signs of intoxication.

"Where are you heading to?"

"Napa."

"And where are you coming from?"

"San Francisco."

"What was happening in San Francisco?"

"A concert."

"Who was playing?"

"Bela Fleck & the Flecktones."

"Never heard of 'em. What kind of music do they play?"

I realized that this question was one I could sort of work to my own favor, to let my answer take on a tone of conversation, rather than interrogation, to demonstrate that I wasn't too concerned with having been stopped.

"Well, it's hard to define or categorize. It's sort of a blend of several kinds of music, bluegrass, jazz and rock. I'm not surprised you haven't heard of them. Not many people have even though they're world-class musicians."

But the interrogation continued.

"Have you had anything to drink tonight?"

I knew that I needed to be truthful with this question. I knew I couldn't bullshit here, but I could continue to demonstrate cooperation, understanding, and continue to remain unconcerned.

"Yes sir. I had a glass of red wine, Cabernet. I got that one glass of wine just before the show started at 8 o'clock, and sipped it until the show finished at about 10:30."

"Do you have a driver's license with you?"

"Yes sir."

"Can I see it please?"

"Sure."

I took my left hand off the steering wheel, and with a questioning expression in my face, pointed down at my left pocked, which was somewhat out of his view between my hip and the car door, gesturing in a way that was asking permission to go to my pocket. That was another little demonstration I was performing, an acknowledgment that I was aware that cops are always concerned about where a subjects' hands are. He nodded, and as I reached for my wallet, he leaned forward with his flashlight to watch my hand carefully as I extracted my wallet from my pocket, and then extracted my license from the wallet and handed it to him, and truthfully told him that it had been many years since I'd been pulled over in a car stop. That was another calculated act on my part. I knew that if he ran a computer check on my license, he'd find no sign of any citations or other concerns. If he ran that check, I wanted it to confirm that I was truthfully describing myself, more or less, as a good driver that doesn't get stopped. (The truth is, I'm a good driver with a habit of speeding a little bit, but that doesn't get stopped ... usually.)

He examined my license.

"Do you still live at [he read off my address]?"

"Yes sir."

"How long have you had that beard?" he asked as he examined the picture on the license, and my face.

I chuckled. "Forever. A long time."

He pocketed my license, and began the procedure I knew was coming, an assessment to determine if I was sober or intoxicated. First, he had me remove my eyeglasses. Shining his flashlight directly into my eyes, he held his finger up about a foot in front of my face, and instructed me to hold my head still, but to keep my eyes on his finger, to track it as he moved it from side to side. I'd seen this test performed by cops on television many times, and understood that part of that test is how well the subject understands the instructions. Intuitively, one tends to turn one's head while following the finger. Part of the test is to see if the person understands that they are to keep their head motionless, and to use only the eyes to follow the moving finger. I understood that, and complied perfectly, demonstrating that I was able to overcome that intuitive reaction and follow the verbal instruction.

This test has another aspect, one more important. Years ago I learned what this test was about when I was talking to a guy I knew to be an off-duty cop, and asked him about the test. The cop is watching the eyes. When one is sober, the eyes will track the moving finger with a smooth continuous motion. If one is intoxicated, on either alcohol or drugs, the eyes will tend to move in a discernable jerky fashion as they follow the finger, rather than smoothly. I knew what this test was about, and since I knew I was quite sober, I wasn't concerned.

However, for the first time during this stop, I did get a little concerned as he asked me to step from my car and repeat the test while standing in front of him, rather than while sitting in my car. It was obvious that he wanted a better look, face to face. I showed no concern as I complied, but the simple fact that the car-stop had escalated a notch was not comforting. Again, from watching television, I was well aware that before the handcuffs can go onto the wrists, the subject has to get out of the car. But I also knew that I was sober, and I knew that the likelihood that this would escalate beyond another repetition of the test was small.

Again, the eyeball-tracking test was performed, apparently to his satisfaction. Seeing that he no longer seemed concerned with my eyes, I asked with a tone of contrition:

"So, Officer, am I going to get a speeding ticket? I sure hope not. I haven't gotten a speeding ticket in twenty five or thirty years." (A truthful statement) "Any possibility you might show me a little mercy and let me keep this streak going?"

"Well, Mr. [name redacted], you were going pretty fast back there."

"Yeah, I guess I was pushing it a little bit," I improvised. "They were doing some work on the bridge, and I got backed up in traffic for the better part of an hour. It's pretty late, and I guess I was just anxious to get home."

I shrugged, conveying that I knew I was at his mercy, and was resigned to whatever he was going to, or not going to do next. It was yet another demonstration of contrition and cooperation.

After a thoughtful, semi-dramatic pause, he handed my license back to me, and said, "No, I'm gonna just let you go on your way. Don't be speeding like that, okay?"

"Yes sir. Thanks, I appreciate that. I'll slow down."

"Good night, Mr. [name redacted]."

"Good night, Officer. Be safe."

He turned his cruiser around and drove off, presumably to return to his ambush spot to await his next victim. I resumed my drive home, continuing to speed a little bit.

But only just a little.