Spidey

For no apparent reason, I decided I have to have a Goliath Bird Eating Spider. I'm not sure why. But I like him. He's large, unusual, and quite aggressive. Definitely not the cute and cudley type. But he sure is fun to watch. Very fast.

Invincible

My buddy Rob and I are parked behind the Walmart on Glenwood Avenue doing the usual after a long night shift. Talking about nothing. Recalling funny events over the past twelve years. Rob says scientists need to study the homeless to find out why they are so resistant to sickness, injury, etc. But they should only be studied in their natural environment. Our stupid conversation leads me to recall several events of the amazing resiliency of the homeless.

"Shady" is an older black man with a friar tuck hair cut and a thick mustache. If he's drunk, he's nice. Otherwise he can be kind of an asshole. But most times he's drunk, so don't worry about it. Shady fell asleep in the private parking lot adjacent to the Wake County Courthouse, a place he's quite familiar with, having been arrested nearly a hundred times for public intoxication, trespassing, etc. Nothing serious. But on this day Shady fell asleep in a parking place between two cars. For no apparent reason he wedged his head underneath the back right tire of a full sized Ford Bronco. The lady driving the vehicle never saw Shady until she felt the bump, the bump being the entire weight of the Ford being balanced on Shady's forehead. In fact, the tires dug treads into his flesh that are still visible today, nearly three years later. The lady called 911 immediately. She couldn't have been more upset. But Shady was fine. A huge smile on his bleeding face he downed the last swig of a bottle of Dagger fortified wine. Who drinks Dagger? Is this a company whose sole customer base is comprised of homeless people? I've never been anywhere where they proudly announce, "Tonight's event is sponsored by Dagger Wine." Anyway, Shady was fine. He had a couple of stitches, and I believe the doctor gave him an MRI just to make sure his brain wasn't swelling, but he was fine. In fact, less than two months after this event I had to arrest Shady for breaking into a construction site to masturbate with a Penthouse magazine he'd lifted at the Peace Street Market. I guess his brain is just fine.

Another guy had broken into the abandoned Jones Supply Company. My other partner Gid caught him inside the fence. The guy took off running and scaled the west side of the building. Gid followed. Then, unprompted, the man ran off the other side of the building. Thirty five feet onto concrete. He broke both his legs and was unable to run farther. Gid casually climbed down and walked over to where the guy was laying. The guy pretended to be asleep. Thirty five feet and two broken legs and he pretends to be asleep. As if Gid had merely happened upon him in the parking lot. How did he live? Any normal person would have been dead on arrival at the hospital. But not these guys.

Saint Patrick's Day Drunk

She's overweight, visibly drunk, and her breath smells like horseradish. Stumbling from the car she tells me, "I haven't been drinking. I don't know why you pulled me over. I was trying to talk on the cell phone, so I guess that's why my driving wasn't too good." Her outfit is comical. White t-shirt with a huge four-leaf clover. Dark green short skirt. Knee-high black stockings and little black tap shoes. For some reason she has black marks all over her legs.

I give her the sobriety tests and she fails miserably. "I'm not blowing in anything. I haven't been drinking so I shouldn't have to blow." I wind up arresting her for driving while impaired.

"This is bullshit. I was talking on the phone. I'm not drunk. I haven't eaten anything in two days."

I'm intrigued by this comments. "Why haven't you eaten? And if you haven't been drinking, what does that have to do with anything?"

"Well," she slurs, "I did have a few drinks. But that was two hours ago. I'm not drunk. You had no reason to pull me over."

"You swerved over the lane divider four times. You were only going thirty five in a forty five mile per hour zone. I had every reason to pull you. What kind of drinks did you have?"

She pauses, a confused look on her face as if she knew better than to tell a cop what she'd been drinking. "I told the bartender to surprise me. He made me three drinks before I left."

I guess he did surprise her. She's only 21 and on her second DWI. Her car was seized by the state. Surprise, surprise!

Eve

I see one of the shit-sticks involved in the Eve Carson murder was on probation for a slew of other crimes, including murdering a Duke graduate student during another robbery. What an amazing turn of events? I never saw that coming. I wonder if he was in a gang? I wonder if he dropped out of school and reads at a third grade level? What I found even more amusing were the comments about his face being bruised at the time of his arrest. Oh no! How dare the police beat up the murderer. It's not his fault he's evil. It's everybody else's fault. Everybody failed him. His teachers. His parents. The system. They all failed this guy. He had no obligation to follow our rules. We had the obligation to take care of him from cradle to grave.

He should be set on fire and thrown down an elevator shaft.

Hypocrisy

Nothing makes me happier than when some pious ass gets a heaping dose of, "Your no better than anyone else," shoved in his mouth. The current story about Eliot Spitzer's fondness for prostitutes reminded me of several other political figures who've jettisoned their careers into the toilet. I believe Spitzer fancied himself akin to Eliot Nest as he used his authority in what some have called "the most egregious and unacceptable form of intimidation we've seen in this country in modern times." While I agree with some of the actions he took, especially sticking it to those swindlers at Enron, I have to think Spitzer's ego took over. Using an obscure New York statute, he decided to prosecute cases that technically fell within federal jurisdiction. Now, ironically, using a federal wire-tap law might allow the feds to prosecute Spitzer for using money to transport his high dollar hookers across state lines. At least Eliot thought enough of himself to pay for the "top shelf" prostitutes. The two dollar whores I see on Bragg Street look like they've crawled out from under a bridge.



Another jackass caught up in a sex scandal was good old "Pastor Ted," or Ted Haggard. You might remember his cameo in "Jesus Camp," the most horrifying documentary on brainwashing I've ever seen. Ted was considered one of the top 25 most influential evangelicals in America. He was a staunch supporter of George W. Bush and rallied christians to the voting booth to promote family values. What he failed to mention in his sermons was his affinity for gay prostitutes. A gay hooker outed Haggard after seeing the minister lambaste homosexuals at a rally. Evidently Haggard even bought methamphetamine to use during their sexual exploits in a hotel room. Then, when confronted on camera, he denied the entire allegation stating, "I got massages from him. But I'm not gay. And I had him buy methamphetamine to try it, but I decided against it and poured it down the toilet." Let me get this straight. You met a gay prostitute in a hotel room and didn't bang him? You had him buy meth but didn't use it? C'mon Pastor Ted.



Finally, one of my favorite deniers, Senator Larry Craig, from Idaho. This Republican gem was the second-longest serving member of the United States Congress. He was a staunch conservative who rallied his constituents to the cause of promoting family values. Then, in a Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport bathroom, he solicited gay sex from an undercover police officer in an adjacent stall. Of all the places I can think of to have sex, I can't fathom this one. How one gets aroused in a men's bathroom stall where it is common to have a pool of urine on the floor and track marks on the seat is beyond me. Then, of course, like everyone else who is caught in the act, he denied doing anything wrong.



We work prostitution projects all the time. The signals Mr. Craig used are very specific and in order. One wouldn't accidently signal by first tapping his foot on the floor. Then tapping his foot into the other stall, eventually touching the other man's foot. Then running his opposite hand under the stall door several times for no apparent reason. These actions are user specific. Mr. Craig's outright denial of homosexuality should be taken as an admission of guilt.



If you're going to have sex with a prostitute, don't fly her across state lines. And certainly don't engage in illegal activity if you've made your entire career screwing other people to the wall. If you are going to smoke meth and bang a gay prostitute, don't give speeches denouncing homosexuals. And if you're going to solicit a stranger for gay sex in a bathroom, make sure it's not a cop.

I saw that guy ...

The calls have started. Ever since Eve Carson was murdered, everyone has seen the suspect. "Officer, I saw that guy that murdered that girl, you know, the one in Chapel Hill. Yeah, he was eating a chili-dog over at the Stop Quick. I'm pretty sure it was him."

"Really? Where is he now?" I ask.

"Uh, well, that was about forty five minutes ago. I had to go to work, you know. But as soon as I finished checking my voice mail I called you guys. Isn't there a reward or something?"

The reward should be me smashing his face in with a brick!

Can I Get Directions?

It never ceases to amaze me how lost people will accost an officer for directions no matter what he is doing. Take last Thursday for example. A coworker and I had a car stopped on Glenwood Avenue, right in front of Crabtree Valley Mall, when we discovered one of the vehicle occupants had a warrant for his arrest. The driver's license was suspended. We had to deal with this in the middle of rush hour traffic, two packed adjacent lanes full of rubber-necking "lookies" who almost always cause accidents because they forget you actually have to look where you're going.

So we take out the passenger, handcuff and search him, and we're walking him back to my partner's car. The driver is still behind the wheel and I'm trying to keep an eye on him just in case he decides to murder us and free his amigo. Now, it was at this point in time a car stops behind mine, in the middle of the lane with no lights on or anything, practically begging to be rear-ended. The driver, an elderly man, gets out (without so much as looking back at the traffic passing him no more than three feet to his left at 45 MPH) and screams up to us, "Officers, can you tell me where Glenwood Manor is?"

I immediately yell to him, "Sir, we don't have time. Get back into your car and move out of the travel lane."

"But I need to know where I'm going," he begins. I cut him off. "Get in your car and leave."

He furrows his brow and purses his lips. Then he squeals his tires and tears off down the road, shaking his gnarled fist at me.

We continue with the arrest and search of the car as if the buffoon had never stopped. It always amazes me that people are so concerned with their own little business they don't even care about our survival. Making an arrest is a dangerous time, especially in traffic, where so much can go wrong. But how dare I not tell the criminal, "Hey, don't do anything right now. I gotta give this old guy directions."

It reminds me of an incident many years ago on Hammond Road. I had five Hispanic individuals stopped on the roadside after someone reported one of them had a pistol. Four were sitting down and I was searching one with my back to the road. All of a sudden I heard squealing tires, as if someone was braking to avoid slamming into the car in front of them. I tried not to look, focusing on the men, just in case one of them actually had a gun. The screeching stopped and was replaced by some jackass screaming, "Officer! Officer!" I had no choice but to look. I could only assume at this point someone had to be dying. Maybe some sort of medical trauma I'd have to deal with, so I turned around.

What I see is a middle aged black man driving an SUV. He calmly asks, "Is there a Walmart around here?" It was all I could do to keep myself from raising my middle finger.