To give my detractors a break from all my alleged slanderous, myth promoting, Trump lovin’, comments full of hogwash, let me allude to a few police stories and hope these recollections don’t fall into their category of conjured fables and leg-pulling, and if so, let their blood boil and eyes bleed in angst.
Criminal suspects have the darndest time wrestling with the truth, and in their struggles, say and do the craziest things.
I arrested a guy from south of the border one time for D.U.I. and took him to Grady Detention for a blood test, which he surprisingly submitted to without a hiccup. Once the vile of blood was drawn and labeled he asked me, in broken English, “When am I going to get my blood back?”
I told him he was not going to get it back, but not to worry. He said, “No, you don’t understand, if I don’t get my blood back I’m going to be low on blood.” It took four detention officers and myself to wrestle him to the ground and hold him there while I attempted to explain the biology of how the body reproduces blood. Still I believe something was lost in translation.
I made a traffic stop on another fellow late one night after picking-up a known prostitute. Once stopped, I leaned in and asked him who the young lady was and he said, “That’s my girlfriend.” I grinned and quickly asked, “What’s her name?” He turned to the hooker and asked, “What’s your name.” Ahh, love in its earliest stages.
An officer and myself responded to a noise complaint at an elder women’s house. We began walking up a few stairs to her front porch and stopped about half way up noticing two big marijuana plants growing out of two Greek concrete planters positioned on either side of the staircase. We asked the lady what she knew about the plants in the planters and she said, “Oh, my son planted those things a few weeks ago and has been watering and taking care of what looks to me like the ugliest weeds I’ve ever seen.” We turned them ugly weeds into Police Property for proper disposal.
I busted a guy for possession of cocaine when, subsequent to a lawful arrest (disorderly while intoxicated), I found several crack rocks in a bag in his right front pants pocket. When I told him, “well looky what I found”, he said “that’s not my crack.” After reminding him I found it in "his" pants pocket he said, “these are not my pants.” He went on to explain how he woke-up, grabbed the first pair of pants in the room that just happened to belong to his friend, but he couldn’t remember his name. Nice try…off to jail you go.
While working a traffic accident, I asked one of the drivers for her driver’s license. She said it was deep in her purse and asked me to hold items as she removed them one-by-one in search of the license. I rolled my eyes and reluctantly held out both hands as she handed me her lipstick, makeup mirror, cell phone, bag of marijuana, hair brush, wallet…oh, and there’s the license. With a dumb look on my face I couldn’t help but ask, “did you just hand me a bag of marijuana?” Her lips rolled inward and tight as she nodded in the affirmative.
I swear I might write a book one day entitled, “I can’t make this stuff up, folks.”
The Precinct Press is authored by W.J. Butcher, a retired 26-year veteran of the Atlanta Police Department. Send comments, kudos, and criticism to: email@example.com