[DeTomaso] Pandora's Perils part IX: "Your sins will find you out." Ain't that the truth...

Tue May 1 02:11:56 EDT 2012

In yesterday's entry, I made mention of a quote my mother likes to use, "Your sins will find you out."  I was chastised by the two most important women in my life (my wife and my mom) for failing to mention the quote is actually from the book of Numbers, in the Bible.  Of course, I knew that, but the last thing I wanted to do was start quoting Bible versus and have people get the idea I have a "holier-than-thou" attitude.  Well, if anyone ever had that misconception, I have now done my best to eliminate that problem:  Today, my sins, indeed, found me out.

For the first time while driving my Pantera, I GOT A TICKET!!!  I can't tell you all of the details yet, because according to officer Grumpy (not his real name) the form I signed today was not an admission of guilt.  That's good, because there is at least one accusation that is patently false.  Granted, I was making very good time on the roads prior to my alleged transgression, so I can't complain too much, but let me explain a portion of what happened, since I love to write so many details!

But first, let me start at the beginning.

I awoke this morning in a good mood after a good sleep--no migraines to be found anywhere.  I enjoyed the complimentary breakfast at the same Las Vegas Comfort Inn at which I stayed on the way to the Rally, however, this time I had a waffle that was so enormous, when I had finished consuming it along with the scrambled egg (actually, it was a kind of flying-saucer scrambled egg; just one, round disc of egg--aliens probably would really like those), a yogurt, a glass of apple juice, and three glasses of milk (to go with the enormous waffle), I was forced to forego the Froot Loops.  I should have known that was a foreboding sign.

I left the hotel about 11:20 AM and headed toward Ely, Nevada.  I planned to stop there for lunch, but it was too far to make in one trip so I stopped at another, rather nondescript spot to fill up the tank.  While there I received several favorable comments about Pandora, which is always fun, including one young man's desire to take a couple of pictures.  I asked if he would like to have me take a picture of him in the car. He happily agreed, and handed me what looked like a combination game controller/portable TV/phone/Star Trek communicator.  Oh, I forgot to mention "camera."  he showed me which button to push, and the pictures turned out well.  I had a momentary flashback of achieving the high score at Donkey Kong sometime in the mid-eighties.

When I arrived at Ely (pronounce "eelee," although I didn't see any evidence of an aquarium), I drove through a couple of the neighborhoods to get a feel for the place.  It's kind of a quaint little town, and proud of its heritage.  I took a picture of the big sign posted at the entrance of the city so I could remember just what, exactly, was that heritage.    

I filled up at a local Shell station while explaining to several people what a "Pantera" is, and from whence it came.  One lady thought it was a Lamborghini.  Another kid asked if it cost $200,000.00.  I replied to him that it depends if you include the cost of moving violations (alleged, moving violations at this point).  Even the 70-something-year-old attendant took a break from ringing up pop and potato chips to come outside and inquire about it.  Everyone seemed so friendly, I thought I'd stay for lunch.  I drove to the city park and did just what the name suggests, found a picnic table, and settled down to read the latest issue of Road & Track while munching on two blueberry muffins, two yogurts (those items I pilfered from the complimentary breakfast that morning--hey, I didn't get to eat my Froot Loops, so it's a break-even for the hotel chain), a bottle of some exotic mix of fruit juices (have you noticed that the big thing now is for companies to blend multiple juices together and offer the end result as some new, never-before-considered beverage?  "Hey Martha, look--they took the apple juice and mixed it with the cranberry juice!  Can you believe it?  Genius!  What do you think they'll call it?"), several chocolate digestive biscuits (for those of you who may not be English biscuit aficionados, "Digestive Biscuits" are not some sort of medically-prescribed heartburn remedy.  They are cookies with chocolate on the top and are delicious), and of course--wait; I'm going to make you guess.  What do you think I would be drinking with chocolate-covered biscuits?  If you guessed milk--you're correct.  Unfortunately, I had no cups with me, so I had no choice but to drink right from the carton.  Since I was the only person in the park, though, it really didn't matter. Come to think of it, I believe I was the only person in about a ten-block radius.

Following lunch I hit the road.  And here's where things went terribly wrong.

At first, I was enjoying long, straight roads with no traffic.  You can guess how I was enjoying them.  I was always careful to slow way down when any other traffic was extant, since if there's one, overriding theme in the Pantera Owners Club of America, it's safety...  

About 60 miles outside of Twin Falls, Idaho, I called Clarke and Wilma to see if they had arrived at the hotel yet (they had).  I used the hands-free speaker phone built into my GPS system, for safety reasons, of course (plus the fact that the stupid thing connects to my phone automatically, and I don't know how to override it, even if I wanted to).  The hands-free system works pretty well, as long as you can decipher "Hey Clrk, Ime llkjhjs efoiu ertppisw conbpe erlo ejtopj OK?"  Actually, it wasn't that bad, and I told Clarke I'd be there in 45 minutes, unless (note; here comes the foreshadowing), "I get pulled over (yuk yuk)"

Five minutes later...well I think you know what happened.

It was a smooth, curvy road (that sounds like that old campfire story, "It was a dark and stormy night...") and there was this car in front of me that I thought would appreciate not having me bringing up the rear, so to speak.  Next thing you know, an innocent-looking SUV appears out of nowhere coming the other way, and I couldn't help but notice that his turn signals weren't the usual orange, but instead blue and red.  And they were all blinking at the same time.
As I mentioned, I won't go into detail about the alleged infraction, only to say the officer claimed to have issues with what he thought I did.  The whole situation probably could have been less financially painful, but here's the problem, when he asked for my license and registration, I gave him the required documents.  He seemed fairly reasonable at that point.  However, after spending a few minutes in his portable pokey (as I tried not to think about all the gloating going on by the drivers of all the cars I had passed who were now driving past me as I sat, humiliated by the side of the road--that's actually worse than getting the ticket, you know), he approached me full of bluster and indignation.  I think I also detected a hint of pensiveness.  The reason for his hyperventilation was that according to his "official" records, "[my] car hasn't been registered since 2007!!!!"  I tried to explain to him that in Washington State, collector car plates are exempt from annual registration and tags.  He didn't believe me.  In fact, with a mix of bravado and nervousness (after all, for all he knew, I could be a convicted criminal!) he asked me to get out of the car and look at my license plate.  He asked, "Do you see a place on that plate for tags?"  What I should have said was, "No, officer oblivious, I can't see anything--in fact, I'm legally blind!"  Instead, I simply said, "Yes, but I never received tags for this car because it is a collector vehicle..."  He would have none of it.  He told me that this wasn't Washington (thanks again, officer--maybe I should have started clicking my heels together and chanting, "There's no place like home...") and that I'd have to take it up with the court.

I then remembered all those cops and robber shows I watched as a kid, and it reminded me that the accused always got to make a phone call.  Realizing this guy was nowhere near old enough to remember great shows such as "The Streets of San Fransico," I almost abandoned the idea of asking him if I could call one of my friends at the Lakewood Police Department, but then it occurred to me that he probably had watched "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?" once or twice.  "May I phone a friend?" I asked.  I told him I could get verification of the tag question from one of my connections with the Lakewood PD.  He told me I could call anyone I wanted, but it wouldn't make any difference.

I have a tremendous amount of respect for officers of the law.  Except this one--he is an idiot.  While he was back in his paddy wagon filling out all the devilish paperwork, I phoned the same person I always call when I'm in some sort of self-imposed trouble; my wife.  Since I was trying to use the ridiculous hands-free device while talking a mile-a-minute (I'm surprised officer dorky didn't give me a ticket for that, too), Vicki had great difficulty figuring out what was going on.  I finally was able to convey to her that I needed the phone number for the LPD, which she found.  I called the number and had just reached woman who could help me, when officer bloviate came back and stuck his head in the car.  Before I could say anything, he informed me I could finish my call later, once he was done with me.  I told the lady on the phone I needed to go, hung up, and then listened to officer neverwrong begin to read me all the various infractions.  I said, "Aren't you going to let me call the LPD back so they can tell you about the tags?"  Proving that his powers of jerkiness were exceeded only by his inability to pay attention to anyone except himself, he replied, "What did they say?"  Rather than bursting out in laughter and saying something I might regret, I said, "That's who was on the line--you asked me to hang up."

He again said it would make no difference, and pointed to a phone number on the citation he gave me.  "Call that number if (he actually said, "if") you can prove you don't need tags for your car.  They'll work it out with you."  He also said although he usually lowers the speed he lists on tickets below what the driver was actually driving because, "I hate giving out big-dollar tickets," in my case he was giving me "the full boat" with no reduction whatsoever.

The moral is, that one is never to argue with a grumpy police officer.  The problem is, however, when they are completely wrong, what is one supposed to do?

Just to show him I had no hard feelings, after he handed me the $850.00 ticket, I asked him if he'd like to take the Pantera for a quick drive.  Surprisingly, he declined.  In retrospect, despite that my offer was after the citation had been issued, he'll probably try to get me for some trumped-up attempting to bribe an officer charge...

I have a number of attorney clients, and I'll be checking with them on the best way to proceed.  It sure is annoying, though.

By the way, "Hey, officer bullheaded, check this out--from the Washington State Licensing website:
License plate requirementsCollector license plates:May be assigned to currently registered passenger vehicles, motorcycles, or trucks.Are good for the life of vehicle.Aren’t required to display month/year tab.Aren’t renewed annually.

Too bad I didn't have David or Donny (my sons) with me--they could have pulled that info up on their phone right in front of officer technoboob.

The day had a happy ending, though.  Clarke and Wilma, the wonderful people they are, waited to go to dinner until 8:00 PM when I arrived at the hotel.  We made a beeline for our favorite corral, that's right, "The Golden Corral" and gorged ourselves silly.

I was in such a mood that I ate four different desserts first.

Tomorrow, Google maps says my trip to Hermiston, Oregon should last 6 1/2 hours.  Sadly, now it probably will...

Sincerely,
Chris