by Andrew Gross
I had to move.
The hell with it, I said to myself, and pressed the accelerator, speeding up through the busy intersection.
My heart skipped a beat and I glanced around, hoping no one had spotted me. Bay Shore Springs had to be the next street down.
That was when a flashing light sprang up behind me, followed a second later by the jolting whoop, whoop, whoop of a police siren.
Damn.
A white police car came up on my tail, as if it had been waiting there, a voice over a speaker directing me to the side of the road.
I made my way through traffic to the curb, reminding myself that I was in North Florida, not Boca, and the police here were a totally different breed.
I watched through the side mirror as a cop in a dark blue uniform stepped out and started coming toward me. Aviator sunglasses, a hard jaw, and a thick mustache, not to mention the expression that seemed to convey: Not in my pond, buddy.
I rolled down my window, and as the cop stepped up, I met his eyes affably. “I’m really sorry, Officer. I know I cut that one a little close. It was just that I was looking for Bay Shore Springs Drive and got a little confused when I saw Bay Ridge West back there. I didn’t see the light turn.”
“License and proof of insurance,” was all he said back to me.
I sighed. “Look, here’s my license . . .” I dug into my wallet. “But the car’s a rental, Officer. I just picked it up at the airport. I don’t think I have proof of insurance. It’s part of the rental agreement, no . . . ?”
I was kind of hoping he would simply see the initials MD after my name and tell me to pay closer attention next time.
He didn’t.
Instead he said grudgingly, “Driving without proof of insurance is a state violation punishable by a five-hundred-dollar fine.”
“I know that, Officer, and of course I have proof of insurance on my own car . . .” I handed him my license. “But like I said, this one’s a rental. I just picked it up at the airport. I’m afraid you’re gonna have to take that one up with Hertz, Officer . . . Martinez.” I focused on his nameplate. “I just got a little confused back there looking for the Marriott. I’m up here for a medical conference . . .”
“The Marriott, huh?” the policeman said, lifting his shades and staring into my car.
“That’s right. I’m giving a speech there tonight. Look, I’m really sorry if I ran the light—I thought it was yellow. I just found myself trapped in no-man’s-land and thought it was better to speed up than to block traffic. Any chance you can just cut me a little slack on this . . . ?”
Traffic had backed up, rubbernecking, slowly passing by.
“You realize you were turning down a one-way street back there?” Martinez completely ignored my plea.
“I did realize it, Officer,” I said, exhaling, “and that’s why I didn’t turn, not to men—”
“There’s a turnoff two lights ahead,” the patrolman said, cutting me off. “I want you to make a right at the curve and pull over there.”
“Officer . . .” I pleaded one more time with fading hope, “can’t we just—”
“Two lights,” the cop said, holding on to my license. “Just pull over there.”
Chapter Two
I admit, I was a little peeved as I turned, as the cop had instructed me, onto a much-less-traveled street, the police car following close behind.
Through the rearview mirror I saw him pull up directly behind me and remain inside. Then he got on the radio, probably punching my car and license into the computer, verifying me. Whatever he would find would only show him I wasn’t exactly one of America’s Most Wanted. I couldn’t even recall the last time I’d gotten a parking ticket. I glanced back again and saw him writing on a pad.
The son of a bitch was actually writing me up.
It took maybe five, six minutes. A few cars went by, then disappeared around a curve a quarter mile or so in front of us. Finally, the cop’s door opened and he came back holding a summons pad.
A couple of them were filled out!
I sighed, frustrated. “What are you writing me up for, Officer?”
“Driving through a red light. Operating your vehicle without valid proof of insurance . . .” He flipped the page. “And driving down a one-way street.”
“Driving down a one-way street?” My blood surged and I looked up at him in astonishment. “What are you talking about, Officer?”
He just kept filling out the summons, occasionally eyeing my license, which still rested on his pad, and didn’t respond.
“Wait a minute, Officer, please . . . !” I tried to get his attention. I wasn’t exactly the type who lost his cool in front of authority. I mean, I was a surgeon, for God’s sake, trained to control my emotions. Not having proof of insurance was one thing—a completely minor offense in a rented car. And driving through a red light? Okay . . . Maybe I had sped up through a yellow.
But driving down a one-way street? Who needed that on their record? Not to mention I hadn’t driven down a one-way street.
I’d never even started the turn.
“Officer, c’mon, please, that’s just not right,” I pleaded. “I didn’t drive down a one-way street. I know I stopped . . . I may have even contemplated it for a second before realizing that the street sign had me all confused. But I never got into the turn. Not to mention, I’m also pretty sure I don’t need proof of insurance if the car’s a rental. Which it is! It’s all in the boilerplate somewhere . . .”
“I don’t need an argument on this, sir,” Martinez replied. I could have said anything and he was just going to continue writing on his pad, ignoring me. “If you want to challenge the charges, there are instructions on how to do that on the back of the summons. It’s your right to—”
“I don’t want to challenge the charges!” I said, maybe a little angrily. “I don’t think you’re being fair. Look . . .” I tried to dial it back. “I’m a doctor. I’m on my way to play a little golf. I don’t need ‘driving down a one-way street’ on my record. It makes it sound like I was impaired or something . . .”
“I thought you said you were on your way to a medical conference,” the cop replied, barely lifting his eyes.
“Yes, I did, after . . . Look, Officer, I acknowledge I may have sped up through the light. And I’m really sorry. But please, can’t you cut me a little slack on the ‘one-way street’ thing? You’ve already checked out my record, so you know I don’t have a history of this sort of thing. And, look, regarding the insurance . . .”
“This is now the second time I’ve had to give you a warning,” Martinez said, finding my eyes, his voice taking on that I’m-the-one-wearing-the-uniform here tone. “Don’t make me ask you again. If you do, I promise it will not go well . . .”
I sat back and blew out a long exhale, knowing I had taken it about as far as I could. It was true, if there was one thing that did irk me, it was the arbitrary use of authority, just because someone had a uniform on. I’d seen that kind of thing enough in Central America, governmentales and useless bureaucrats, and usually for no one’s good but their own.
“Go ahead,” I said, sinking back into the seat, “write me up if you have to. But I didn’t drive down a one-way street. And I do have a right to state my innocence. It’s not fair to just keep telling me—”
“That’s it! I warned you!” Martinez took a step back. “Get out of the car!”
“What?” I looked at him in disbelief.
“I said get out of the car, sir! Now!” There was no negotiation in his hard, gray eyes. It all just escalated in seconds. Later, I couldn’t even recall who had actually opened the door, him or me. But the next thing I knew I was out on the street, spun face-first against my car and roughly, with my hands twisted behind me.
“Hey . . .”
“Sir, you are under arrest, and your vehicle is being impounded,” Martinez barked from behind me.
“Under arrest?” I twisted around, jerking my arm back. “Unde
r arrest for what?”
“For obstructing an officer in the act of performing his job,” he said, yanking back my arm and squeezing the cuffs tightly over my wrists. “And now for resisting arrest!”
“Resisting arrest?” I spun again. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. “Officer, please, this is crazy!” I pleaded. “Can’t we take a step back here? I’m not some thug. I’m a respected surgeon. I’m speaking at a medical conference in a couple of hours . . .”
He turned me back around, shooting me an indifferent smirk. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to work out that little detail from jail.”
The next thing I knew, I was thrown into the back of Martinez’s police car, my knees squeezed at a sharp angle against the front, unable to comprehend how this had happened. Maybe the cop had told me to shut up, but I was only protesting my innocence. I was never threatening. I wasn’t sure what I should do, or whom I should call. They were expecting me to give a speech at the conference. I’d have to let them know. My stomach sank. And Mike—I looked at my watch. I was supposed to meet him at Atlantic Pines in an hour! I needed a lawyer. I didn’t even have a fucking lawyer! Not that kind of lawyer. There was Sy, who looked over my business stuff. Or Mitch Sperling, who had handled my divorce. Oh God, I could only imagine Liz’s reaction when she found out. “You always think you know all the answers, don’t you, Henry . . . ?” she would say, smirking with that gloating eye roll of hers.
Not to mention how she would play this out with Hallie.
As if in seconds, several other police cars showed up on the scene, their lights flashing. Six or so cops jumped out, diverting traffic at the intersection behind me, conferring with Martinez, radioing in. I couldn’t believe this was happening.
Who the hell did they think they actually had here—Timothy McVeigh?
As I watched, Martinez and several cops talked outside their vehicles. I twisted against my restraints for a little legroom, which, like I’d always heard, only tightened them further. I sucked in a few deep breaths, trying to calm myself and figure out what I was going to say: that this was all just some crazy misunderstanding. That I was a doctor, on my way to a medical conference. To be honored tonight. That I didn’t have as much as a parking ticket on my record. Things had simply escalated out of control. For my contribution to which, I was truly sorry.
But nothing I had done merited being cuffed and carted off to jail!
A second cop—this one muscular and bald, with a thick mustache and his short sleeves rolled up—came over and opened the rear door.
“Sir, we have a couple of questions to ask you. And as you’re already in enough trouble as it is, my advice is to be very careful how you answer.”
Already in enough trouble? This was growing crazier by the second. But I wasn’t about to exacerbate it further now.
“Okay.” I nodded back to him.
He knelt so that his eyes were level with me. “Where is your wife?”
“My wife?” It took me a second to respond, blinking back in total surprise. “You mean my ex-wife? I’m divorced. And I don’t know where she is. And what the hell does she have to do with this anyway?”
“I’m talking about the woman you were seen driving around with earlier this morning.” His iron-like gaze never wavered from me.
“What woman? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, almost stammering. “There was no other woman with me. I just flew in to the airport. I drove straight here until the officer over there stopped me.”
“Sir . . .” The officer’s look had the kind of intensity he might use on a felon or something. “I’m going to repeat my instructions, about answering carefully . . . You say you didn’t have a woman in your car? Approximately one hour ago? Downtown?” The question was starting to make me just a little afraid. And it seemed he already knew the answer he was looking for.
“I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about!” I shook my head. “And I appreciate it, but I don’t need to be cautioned on how to reply. I haven’t done anything wrong, other than to go through a yellow light.”
The cop blew out a snort, with a thin smirk that was quickly followed by a cynical glare. Then he slowly stood up, shut the door, and went back over to his crew. A group of seven or eight of them conferred again for some time. Traffic was stopped in both directions; six or seven officers standing around, looking my way. I felt my heart race and I realized I may need someone to get me out of this situation. Who the hell could I call?
A few minutes passed, and Martinez and the bald cop came back over. They slid into the front seat and looked at me through the glass.
The next question got a lot more serious.
“Sir, when was the last time you were stopped by the Jacksonville police?” Martinez asked, staring into my eyes.
Huh? I laughed a nervous, back-of-the-throat chortle. “Stopped by the police?” I uttered, my mouth completely dry. “I’ve never been stopped by the police. Listen, I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but—”
“You’re saying you weren’t pulled over in downtown Jacksonville earlier this morning?” Martinez asked me again. “Around nine A.M. With a woman in this car?”
I was shaken by the total seriousness in his eyes.
“No. No! I have no idea what you’re talking about. Nine A.M. I had just gotten off a plane! You can check my itinerary. I think it’s in my briefcase in the car. Or in the rental agreement. Look, I don’t know who the hell you guys think I am, but you’ve obviously mixed me up with . . .”
Martinez removed his sunglasses. “Sir, what were you doing in a federal office building in downtown Jacksonville an hour ago?”
My heart stopped. As did just about everything inside me. I just sat, with my hands bound, realizing just how serious this was. Being stopped for a traffic violation was one thing . . . But having 9/11-like kinds of questions thrown at you—in cuffs; in the back of a police car . . .
“Look.” I stared back, sure that my voice was shaking. “I don’t know who you think I am, or what you think I’ve done, but look in my eyes: I’m a doctor. I’m on my way to the Marriott for a medical conference at which I am delivering a speech later. I sped up through a traffic light because I was confused about the area trying to find the damn hotel. Actually, I’m not even sure I did go through the light . . . And I surely didn’t drive down a one-way street, which in any event, all seems kind of trivial now in light of what you’ve been asking me.
“But that’s it! I wasn’t stopped earlier by the police. I didn’t have a woman in the car. And I damn well wasn’t in a federal office building in downtown Jacksonville! I don’t know whether you have the wrong car, or the wrong information, the wrong whatever—but you definitely, definitely have the wrong guy!”
I steadied my gaze as best I could, my heart pounding in my chest.
“You just better hope you’re right,” the bald cop finally said with an icy smirk, “ ’cause if it turns out you’re screwing with us in any way, you have my promise I’ll put a fat one up your ass so deep you’ll be shitting lead for the rest of your life. Which, I assure you, no one will be betting will be very long. You getting me, sir?”
“Yeah, I’m getting you,” I said back to him, my gaze heated too.
The cops got out again, Martinez asking for my Social Security number. Then he and another older trooper who seemed to be in charge stood talking for a bit, and out of the blue, I thought I saw Martinez smile.
Smile?
Martinez patted him on the arm, and a short while later the senior cop got back in his car and headed off. As did the others. Even Baldy, who tossed me a final glare that to me said, Don’t let me meet up with you again.
I started to think this seemed like a positive sign. If they were transporting a dangerous suspect to jail, they wouldn’t all be driving off. I even let out a hopeful breath. Maybe I would get out of this with only a ticket. A ticket I didn’t deserve maybe, but it damn well beat jail!
Finally, Martinez came around and opened the rear door again. This time his tone was different. Softer. “I’m not going to apologize,” he said. “I told you several times to keep your mouth shut, didn’t I?”
This time I wasn’t looking for any moral victories. “Yes, you did, Officer, and I guess I—”
“And I haven’t violated any of your civil rights . . .” He stared at me. “Isn’t that correct . . . ?”
Sitting there, unfairly, in the backseat of a police car, my wrists aching from the cuffs, I took a chance and smiled back at him. “That part, I’m not sure the jury isn’t still out on . . .”
He gave me a bit of a chuckle in return. “Turn around. I’ll get you out of there. Truth is, I suppose the streets are kind of confusing back there. Bay Shore West is only a couple of lights down the road. We do try to be friendly here . . .” He took off the cuffs and a wave of relief ran through me.
“Your sidekick back there . . . I assume he’s just the friendly type too?”
“Rowley?” Martinez snorted. “Me, I’m a teddy bear.” He slapped me amicably on the shoulder. “Him? Guess he’s just a little embarrassed by the misunderstanding. Let’s just say, better you don’t run into him again, if you know what I mean?”
“No worries,” I said, wringing my hands free.
He said, “I’m going to write you up a warning. For speeding up through a yellow light. No proof of insurance required. That sound okay?” Martinez winked, like the whole episode was just some kind of a shared joke between us. “Just take a seat back in your car.”
A warning? If the guy had said up front that all he was doing was writing me up a warning, we could have avoided the whole mess . . .
I got back in the front seat of the Caddie, glancing back once or twice through the rearview mirror, as Martinez, back in his car, wrote on his pad.
And suddenly it all began to make sense to me—how they were all just standing around grinning, like it was some kind of joke . . . How, what if there never was any other person in a federal office building? Or someone who had been stopped earlier. With a woman in the car. How what if they were all just covering Martinez’s ass for totally overreacting. He’d probably told them that he had this rich, out-of-town doctor in cuffs, and they all stared back at him, like: Are you out of your mind? You’re arresting him for that, protesting a traffic violation . . . ?
