RUNNING FROM – I MEAN, WITH – THE LAW

I have been arrested twice in my life. Both times were when I’d been stopped for a minor traffic violation and there was a warrant out for me for Failure To Appear. Both times, the FTA’s were for tickets I had completely forgotten about. Both times, the notices the Court sent out never found me because I’d changed addresses. The first time was in 1991. The second time was in 2004.

This is the story about the first time.

It was the last day of spring break, which I had spent in my hometown of Duncan, Oklahoma. I was a second year law student at the University of Houston and had a class scheduled for the next morning at 8 a.m. It was 4 pm and I was not yet on the road.

One reason for my delay – and probably the only one with any legitimacy – was I realized, around 3 pm, that I needed to buy a replacement lamp for my right headlight. I’d been driving around with just one headlight for weeks, but I was going to be driving mostly at night on this particular day, so I thought it prudent to be, as they say, “in compliance.”

It probably would have been even more prudent if I had remembered to actually install the new lamp.

I discovered this oversight about two hours into the trip, when I stopped behind a pickup at a traffic light and saw just one headlight reflected in the tailgate. That was when I looked over in the passenger seat of my car and saw the plastic Auto Zone bag. Only then did I remember that the reason I’d stopped by my dad’s house before leaving was to borrow a screwdriver for ten freaking minutes and swap out the bad bulb for the new one. I don’t remember now what I did instead of that vital task, but I do know it wasn’t worth it.

“Oh, well,” I thought. “It’ll be okay. I’ll take care of it when I get home.”

(Cue “Jaws”-like impending-doom music.)

For some reason, I thought it was a wise “strategy” to keep my lights on high beam when I was on the open highway and then switch them to one-eyed low beam when I passed through towns. I guess I thought I was being polite, but that would be giving me credit for thinking anything at all and I don’t see any reason to assume such a thing at this point.

I entered the tiny town of Calvert around 9 pm and switched over to one-eyed low beam. Ten seconds later, a passing cop whipped a U-turn, flipped on his lights, and pulled me over. I knew immediately what it was for and thus had no worries when he walked up to my window. The officer was extremely polite, and when I showed him the new headlamp and did my best “I’m such a nincompoop” routine, he seemed sincerely eager to get me back on the road.

He just had to run my driver’s license through the system first.

(Cue hair-raising choir from “The Omen.”)

After about the five-minute mark, I figured something was amiss. I just kept staring in my side mirror and waiting for him to walk back to my car, hand me back my license, and send me on my way. Instead, I saw him step out of his car, unsnap his holster, and loudly ask that I step out of the vehicle.

I complied and he patted me down, explaining there was a warrant out for my arrest issued out of Armstrong County, Texas. I was just about to go all Law School Student Badass on this hillbilly about “false arrest” and “harassment” and “I’ve never even been in Armstrong County” and then I remembered I’d gotten a ticket in Claude, Texas, (seatbelt violation) the year before and wondered if maybe Claude, Texas, was in Armstrong County, so I asked him if it was.

“Yes, sir. It is.”

“Oh. Crap. You got me.”

“Mr. Weaver, I’m placing you under arrest. I’m going to take you to go see the judge, so he can decide what to do with you.”

I want to emphasize, again, the Calvert Police Officer was completely professional and polite, but even those positive attributes could not explain what happened next.

Now, maybe I’ve just watched too much TV, but prior to this encounter, I had a certain idea as to what happens when a person got arrested – and it did not include the arrested person being asked to get back in his car and follow the cop down to the judge’s chambers.

I was so shocked, not to mention nervous, it didn’t even occur to me the cop was trying to do a nice thing and let me keep my car with me throughout what he anticipated would be a brief bond-posting process. My mind was reeling as I followed him into the heart of Calvert to see the judge.

Again, it’s possible I’ve been brainwashed by Hollywood’s depiction of courthouses and police stations and jails and whatnot, but I still don’t think it’s unreasonable that I thought I was being led to an official government building of some sort.

Not even close.

The judge’s “chambers” were in the rear of a Main Street-type business. I think it might have been a barber shop. I shit you not.

The judge was not there yet – the cop told me he was on his way over from “Sunday services” – so the cop told me to sit on a bench in the hall until the judge arrived.

And then the cop left.

Now, I have never been blessed with a tremendous amount of self-control. And having already resisted one opportunity to flee, it was patently unfair for this man to tempt me again. Left unsupervised, I will almost always do the wrong thing. Ask anyone.

But I guess my true nature was not apparent to the Calvert PD, so he left me there alone. Twenty-two years later, it still kinda blows my mind.

Anyway, the judge showed up about 15 minutes later. And, boy, was he in a mood.

He brusquely summoned me into his office – I refuse to refer to any room containing a gumball machine as “chambers” – and opened up a folder, which I presumed was my file. He perused it, then looked up at me.

“Son, the folks up in Armstrong County have been looking for you.”

“It seems they have, Judge.”

“It’s going to take some money to resolve this matter.”

“I understand, Judge.”

“Four hundred and fifty dollars, to be exact. Do you have that kind of money?”

“Not four hundred and fifty dollars. No, sir.”

“Do you have any money?”

His tone suggested he might be willing to work out some sort of payment plan. I was encouraged.

“Yes, sir. I do.”

He looked genuinely relieved. I was very encouraged.

“How much do you have?”

“I have four dollars, Judge.”

My opening bid was not taken seriously. And apparently the process of sending no-account offenders to jail was not something the judge took any pleasure in doing – or maybe he just hated being dragged out of church – but in any event, he left in a huff.

I’m serious. He just left. Okay, first he rolled his eyes and slammed the folder shut, but then he left. This time, I wasn’t even locked out in the hallway. I was still sitting in his “chambers”! With all that unattended gum!! What was happening??

Ten insane minutes later, Officer Friendly showed up again. This time, certainly, he’d do the responsible thing and lock me up and throw away the key. Or at least handcuff me and lock me in the back seat of his patrol car. You know, like on TV!! But this was not a day for certainty or responsibility or emulating pop cultural depictions of the American criminal justice system. Heavens no!

This was Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride Through Robertson County, Texas, Day! And this time, the two-car parade was going on the road! Specifically Farm-to-Market Road 1644, twelve miles of unlit, shoulder-less, two-lane, drag strip connecting Calvert to Franklin, the county seat.

I barely had time to buckle my seatbelt (Sorry, copper! No dice!)  before the officer pretty much burned rubber on Main Street and pointed his cruiser toward the badlands of Robertson County. Once clear of Calvert proper, he really opened things up. The speed limit then was still just 55, yet we were doing way over 75.

I was conflicted, to say the least. Was it okay for me to speed? Was I being entrapped? If I refused to speed, fell behind, and got lost, would I be committing a crime? Is it really evading arrest when the arrestor is evading you?? Was I still in America????

Finally, I made it safely to jail, where I was fingerprinted, photographed, and asked to sign in to a motel-type registry. I saw that the previous signature was from over two weeks before and wondered if I had, in fact, been a fool to keep pace with Officer Lead Foot. Maybe you only went to jail in Robertson County if you really, really worked at it.

(Cue doofus-gets-a-pie-in-the-face “WAH-wah” sound effect.)

Fortunately, even while I was still being booked, my one alotted phone call was reaping dividends and I received word from the dispatcher via the jail’s PA system that my bond had been paid in another county and I would be released as soon as they received confirmation of somethignsomethingsomething.

I don’t remember what else the dispatcher said. I was too busy asking the jailer if he had a screwdriver I could borrow.

© 2014 Lee B. Weaver