Never A Cop Around When You Need One

There's never a cop around when you need one; but there was last night.

About a year ago I had an opportunity to ride-along with my brother Patrick during one of his graveyard shifts as a police officer at the University of California, Santa Barbara. It was a slow, wintry night in late December and we were lucky to find a car on the road, let alone pull one over. About six months ago he changed police agencies and last night I had an opportunity to ride-along again. It was still a wintry night, but his duties as a Santa Barbara Deputy Sheriff proved a bit more eventful than life at the UC.

A few hours into our shift, we pulled up to a red light. We had just cleared a traffic stop on a vehicle with a burnt-out headlight. The car next to us rolled down the passenger side window and a young woman leaned over to say the car behind us was swerving quite a bit. This beat, like many, is no stranger to the over-reactive complaints of paranoid citizens and motorists, so we accepted her tip rather half-heartedly. Nevertheless, as the light turned green and we drove on, Patrick kept his eye on the rear-view mirror.

Sure enough, the car behind us did appear to be driving a little "funny". As my brother changed lanes to let the vehicle pass us, I turned around to get a look at the driver in question. As we slowed down, so did he. This was starting to look like more than a paranoid motorist's complaint. Patrick brought the squad car nearly to a halt in the middle of the number one traffic lane and the red pickup truck finally passed us on the right. For about a quarter of a mile we watched as the truck drifted from the number two lane to the number one lane to the shoulder and back. This driver was clearly impaired for one reason or another.

Patrick flipped on the red and blue and called in a traffic stop on the radio, "3536 code 9."

The driver continued without any indication of, well, anything. He just kept weaving back and forth across the road, occasionally accelerating but only to overcompensate with the brakes. We continued on for about a half mile or so at this sort of stuttered pace before my brother flipped on full lights and siren. If the solid red and blue light in his rear view mirror didn't get his attention before, the full array of super bright LED strobes and blaring sound surely would. Again, no change.

Now it was starting to get interesting.

Going on a ride-along is a fairly easy endeavor. You simply need to find an agency with a willing officer, an obliging sergeant, and fill out what I like to call the "in case shit" form. This is a straight-forward release of liability form that collects some personal information and a signature from you in case something should happen. It is typically shredded at the end of the ride-along, unless of course something bad happens to you. Along those lines, my brother chose this moment to let me know that "if I get in a pursuit I have to kick you out of the car".

I beg your pardon?

It's 9:30 at night and 50 degrees outside and you're going to just drop me off in the middle of downtown Goleta? Wasn't there another form I could have signed?

So now this was getting really interesting. With full lights and siren this guy still wasn't stopping, but he wasn't exactly fleeing either. We were still ho humming down the road at maybe 45 mph. After another half mile or so, my brother made a shrewd, last ditch effort to keep his passenger in the car. "3536, coming up on failure to yield". Had he said "in pursuit" instead, I was history. About the same time, the red truck made a right turn onto a residential street. It was starting to look like this driver was trying to make it home before succumbing to the law.

Almost immediately after making the turn, the truck stopped in kind of a half-assed attempt to pull over to the side. As my brother jumped out of the car and drew his gun, a second squad car screached to a halt next to him. The second officer ran around to my door, opened it, and with gun drawn and using my door as cover, told me to move to the back of the car. I did not hesitate.

Patrick ordered the driver out of the vehicle. The red truck started to move again. Now I was getting worried. At this point failure to yield was off the table. If my brother and his partner had to get back in their cars, this was a pursuit, and I would be hailing a cab. Fortunately, the truck was moving further towards the curb, and it was now blocked in front by a parked car. Concerned that a low speed collision might be next, Patrick and his partner decided to move in. At gunpoint, they ordered the sole occupant to shut off the ignition of his deadly weapon. The man turned and stared glassy eyed out the open driver's side window. At this point it was clear that he was unarmed and not all there. My brother holstered his weapon, opened the car door, dragged the suspect out of the car, and in almost the same motion, flipped him around and slapped on the handcuffs. Code four, and no cab for Sean.

This guy was so drunk, he couldn't stand up on his own. He was 43, Mexican, and English was optional. What followed was comedic, setting aside the fact that this knucklehead was driving and nearly got shot. Patrick do-si-do'd him to the curb and, in an awkward, unchoregraphed two-step (with a little help from his partner), sat him down. He was too drunk for any field sobriety tests--he could barely tell us his name (which I will omit to protect the dumbass). He was even too drunk to blow into a breathalyser. Legally this posed a bit of a challenge as, up to this point, there was no objective evidence that this idiot was drunk. My brother looked at me and said "what do you think I should do with him?" The answer was obvious, but I appreciated the predicament. Ironically it's a lot easier administratively if you fail sobriety tests rather than be too drunk to even take them.

As we discussed the nuances of the law, and Patrick's partner got the knucklehead to admit to drinking "ten or five" beers, the sergeant rolled up in his SUV. A tall, clean cut, middle-aged man with gray hair, the sarge sounds eerily like John Wayne when he speaks and, like the Duke, he's a little more straight forward about the law. Patrick quickly brought him up to speed, explaining that field sobriety tests were not going to be an option. The sergeant sauntered up to the curb, took one look at the knucklehead and said with John Wayne cadence, "well he's drunk!".

"Hey!" the sergeant addressed the suspect for the first time. "How much have you had to drink tonight?"

He replied, in broken English, "I already tell him".

The sergeant came right back with "well I wasn't here yet, so tell me again".

The suspect: "ten or five beers".

Sarge: "Ten or five? Man, I'd be drunk! I don't think I could stand up after ten beers. You want to blow into a machine for me?"

Suspect, smiling: "Oh no no no."

Sarge: "Well then do you want to walk a straight line for me? Stand up, let me see you walk along this line here."

It was clear as my brother helped the knucklehead up, that his coy smile and mild protests were more about his inability to do much of anything and not a desire to be uncooperative. This guy just wanted to curl up and go to sleep. And that's exactly what he did after my brother patted him down and placed him in the back of our squad car. But that wasn't before Sarge asked one more question, just the way The Duke might have asked it: "Hey, so what were you drinking? Don't tell me it was Budweiser".

The knucklehead, smiling, his eyes barely staying open: "Bud Light".

The sergeant shook his head and rolled his eyes in feigned disgust, "oh no, Bud Light?"

We drove to the hospital where they drew the knucklehead's blood and then we dropped him off at the county lockup where, because of his record (guess what lurks in the past on his rap sheet?) his bail was set at $10,000. Of course, the small baggie of cocaine the jailer found hidden in his pocket didn't help his case. Unfortunately, the results of the blood draw will take several days, so I will probably never know officially just how drunk this idiot was. The best guess amongst the officers was somewhere between .15 and .20. The legal "limit" in California to be driving is .08. My brother did comment that this was the drunkest driver he'd ever arrested. I guess that should be some kind of consolation; along with that on this particular night, for that woman at the stoplight, there was a cop around when she needed one.

Olympia

Throughout my travels, I've had the opportunity to visit several centers of government, both state and national, in our country and others. In Olympia, the capitol of Washington, I found myself comparing everything to the Lone Star State's capitol in Austin. So we're all on the same page, let me first share a few thoughts about Austin.

I've visited the Texas State Capitol many times since living in Texas and have helped myself to both self-guided and guided tours of the building. The grounds sit amidst a bustling college-town metropolis and are beautifully manicured. Around the perimeter sit highly visible Texas State Troopers in patrol cars. They also roam the hallways on foot of the capitol building itself.

Whether playing Frisbee on the massive front lawn amidst state relics or rambling the halls of the building itself, there are always people at the Texas capitol. The building is clean, modern, and functional, housing all of the state's business offices either in the main rotunda or the underground expansion. Tour guides offer free guided tours during the week and are typically political science students at the University of Texas, which is within walking distance of the Capitol grounds.

Olympia, in contrast, is a quiet little city about 5% the size (in population) of Austin. While the Texas state capitol is an imposing edifice visible for miles, the Washington State Capitol is off the beaten path and definitely requires directions (or Vicki) to find. Luca and I made the trek from Renton in about an hour, and once we found it, the place was dead. There was so much available parking, we were a little apprehensive about where to park for fear there was some kind of prohibition about parking on the grounds. Driving right up to a point of interest and parking for free at the front door is not usually how I roll. Paying twenty bucks to park a mile away and be bused in is typically more my speed.

The first thing I immediately noticed (aside from the lack of any other people) was the absence of any police or security: no rent-a-cops, no state troopers, no local police. I guess if a crime is committed and no one is around to notice, it isn't really a crime in Olympia.

The second thing I noticed was the layout of the grounds. Unlike Austin, the Washington capitol grounds are like a compound. The main building sits in the middle of a cloister of other buildings that makes the area feel more like a college campus than a government site. We later found out on the tour that very little business actually takes place inside the main capitol building. In addition to the obligatory rotunda, there are four offices (one for the Governor, Lieutenant Governor, Treasurer, and Secretary of State), a Reception Room, and chambers for the Senate and House. That's it. All the other business takes place in surrounding buildings.

What Olympia may lack in bustle, it makes up for in the quality of the tour. Our guide was excellent. He didn't recite from a memorized script, he simply walked us to the three rooms on the tour and started talking about them. If anyone had a question, he answered it in detail. It was like he was giving us a tour of his own home. Here are the highlights:

1. State Reception Room
   This is where foreign dignitaries are received, constituent groups interact with their representatives, and the post-election ball is held when a new governor is elected. But the crown jewel of the room is the rare 42-star flag hanging in a case on the wall. The flag is rare because there never was an official 42-star U.S. flag in use. Washington became a state in November of 1889. The star is not officially added to the flag until July 4th following a state's admittance to the Union. Flag makers began preparing 42 star flags so they would be ready for July 4th, 1890. On July 3rd of that year, Idaho was admitted to the Union and the 43 star flag became the official U.S. flag the next day.
   
   
2. Bust of George Washington
   This brass bust was presented to the state in 1984 by the Mother Joseph Foundation. It is noteworthy because over the years his nose has been worn by students rubbing it for good luck. Hal got in on that action (as did Luca and I)
   
   
3. The Rotunda
   The entire rotunda is covered in beautiful Alaskan Tokeen marble, which has a bluish white color. All the light fixtures in the capitol were created by Tiffany and the contract was his last major effort before his death. Hanging from the cupola is the world's largest Tiffany chandelier. It weighs 10,000 pounds.

No excursion in the Pacific Northwest is complete without the f-word, so we left the capitol grounds and let Vicki be our guide. The neighborhood she guided us to looked a little sketchy but we did find our destination. As we drove by the establishment we could see plenty of folks getting head inside, so we decided to give it a go.

When I say sketchy, I mean there were train tracks literally running down the center of the street. This gave way to a slew of puns, as you might imagine, and ultimately we concluded the tracks must be abandoned as the street was about the width of four cars. With parking allowed on both sides of the street, we just couldn't see how the logistics of a train coming down the street would work with vehicle traffic. It turns out we were wrong. As we got our fermentation on (that f-word staple of the Pacific Northwest), we asked our waitress at the Fish Tale Brew Pub about the tracks. She actually had to ask a coworker, but it turns out the tracks are still active and freight trains come down the street daily. This is one place where double parking is definitely out of the question.

The beer at Fish Tale is all organic and overall, not bad, although the pulled-pork sandwich I had was better. The walls are adorned with overpriced for-sale artwork, presumably from a local artist. It's good stuff, but not triple digit good, especially for the size. What did impress us was the rows of shelves along a wall holding people's personal beer mugs. I guess sometimes you wanna' go to the side of the tracks where everyone knows your mug.

Sorry, I just couldn't resist.

Check out all the pictures from my trip by clicking a gallery below:

From Everett

From Eugene

Why The Hell It's Taking So Long To Write About Olympia

I've been back home in Texas now for over a week. It's always good to be home. Having said that, let me share with you what I've come home to, and why it's taken so long to tell you about my trip to Olympia, which I did finally take. If you'd rather just read about that, wait until the next update and just skip this one. Understand that you'll miss a near-death experience story if you do.

The story begins with me trying to be smart. In favorable traffic conditions, Everett is about an hour away from SEA-TAC airport. My flight home was scheduled to depart at 7:30AM Thursday morning, so to avoid waking up at o'dark hundred, I switched hotels Wednesday night. For those of you that don't travel that often, let me break down the hierarchy of Marriott properties for you.

Up at the top of the Marriott food chain are Marriott-branded properties (places that actually have "Marriott" in their name) and the Ritz-Carlton. Below that are places like the Renaissance where you've dropped the Marriott name, but you're still in luxury vacation mode. The next level down is for the business traveler. Topping that list I'd say is the Residence Inn. Geared for the extended stay traveler, RI's have separate sleeping and working/lounging rooms and full kitchens. Below that is the Springhill Suites brand, a notch below the RI. Then we get to the Towneplace Suites. This is where I stayed in Everett and it's a mini-version of what the RI and SS offer. Unfortunately none of those brands had vacancy near the airport for Wednesday night and I was thus demoted to Courtyard. This is the Motel 6 of the Marriott chain--not that there's anything wrong with that. Marriott just opened a brand spanking new Courtyard here in San Antonio by Sea World where we used to live. It looks like a great place to stay. Unfortunately, the Courtyard Southcenter in Tukwila is in desperate need of renovation (read: avoid this hotel if at all possible). So much for brand loyalty.

I made it to my airplane without incident, except for the minor annoyance of not being able to use the self-serve check in kiosk. I figured the computer just didn't like me that day since, as I boarded the aircraft, the gate agent had to key in my ticket manually. I was flying Alaska Airlines for this leg of my trip and my aircraft was a new 737 featuring Alaska livery from 75 years ago, in celebration of Alaska Airline's 75th anniversary. I thought this was pretty cool and as I settled in for takeoff I took notice of the very creative Alaska Airlines timeline painted on the overhead storage bins and stretching the length of the aircraft. Suddenly I became aware of some activity about ten rows in front of me. A passenger vomited. That's always a nice way to start a flight, puking before you even leave the gate. For the next thirty minutes our departure was delayed while flight attendants took a full medical history from the man right there in the aisle. I thought this was a bit ironic considering I can't get into a private room with a doctor without signing what seems like half a dozen HIPAA forms. The attendants relayed the information to a doctor on the phone and finally removed the man and his wife from the aircraft for further examination.

The delay ended up only costing us about fifteen minutes by the time we arrived in Dallas. I had plenty of time to get to my new gate and wait for my American Airlines departure to San Antonio. I don't usually fly trip segments on multiple airlines, but this is what came up as the "least cost option" to the company that met my "business requirements"--which of course is the guidance we're admonished to follow by the travel accounting gods in corporate America. That's the last time I pay attention to that advice, and now I have the receipts to prove it. When I tried to board the aircraft with my "boarding pass" I was told it wasn't actually a boarding pass. Apparently three weeks prior when I changed my flight from Friday to Thursday, my good friends at the travel company changed my Alaska segment but never completed the change for my American trip from Dallas to San Antonio. I had to fork over an extra two hundred bucks to get them to let me on the plane and now I was "that guy" that you see rushing to his seat after holding up the entire airplane because he didn't have his shit together. For the record, the flight was already boarding late. By the time all was said and done, I could have flown two round trips to Seattle with what I--that is, what the company--spent on airfare.

The damage to my kitchen ceiling was not as severe as I feared and I decided the repair, mostly cosmetic, could wait. Instead, on late Monday afternoon I undertook the task of mowing the now very scraggly lawn. After my first pass with the tractor, I noticed a more pungent than usual odor of gasoline. I usually spill a few drops when refueling, as I'd just done, but this was really strong. As I started the second pass, I looked down and noticed some fluid by my foot. I thought this was odd, so I stopped the mower, left the engine running, and climbed off the seat to see where the liquid was coming from. As I bent down, I noticed a small leak on the very bottom of the fuel tank.

My first thought was environmental: "Great, a fuel spill. This is going to kill my grass."

My second thought was financial: "Crap, I just filled the tank, how am I going to save the rest of the fuel so it doesn't all go to waste?"

My third thought was more practical, and it overcame the first three: "Holy shit, that's dripping down onto the hot, running engine! EVERYONE PANIC, WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!"

I shut off the engine and ran like a madman to get the hose. My wife was across the street talking to the neighbor. I must have looked pretty funny because now I had their attention and they shouted at me to find out what was wrong.

"No problem, just a small fuel leak!" I shouted back as I ran back with the hose to wash down the tractor.

To think, I could have been killed! At least the beer break came early that night.

So while it's always good to be home, it's not always great to come home.

Post Script: This update would have gone out yesterday, August 23rd, but as I was preparing to publish, my wife called from the parking lot of Barnes & Noble to tell me the car wouldn't start--dead battery.