Barbarella Sweeps the Beats with the Highway Patrol
pg.5

Throughout that afternoon I heard the dispatcher say "boy" several times. Shifts overlap, so when two officers are on the same beat, a simple code helps clarify things. Officers on A-watch are referred to as "Adam," on B-watch they're "Boy," and on C-watch, "Charles." A motorcycle officer is "Mary" in the morning and "Nora" in the evening. There are no motorcycle officers on the graveyard shift because officers have to ride in pairs in the wee hours.

We were called to another accident not a mile north of us. It was a fender bender involving two large vehicles, one with a trailer. John hopped out of the car while I stared at the dry, flame-ready brush reaching up to the window. I braced myself for a blast of superheated air and stepped out of the car to watch John and another officer question the drivers. Traffic was still backed up from the first wreck. Suddenly tired, I leaned against the patrol car, my arms clasped behind my back, until I noticed that many of the people I watched slowly driving by seemed in turn to be watching me. It occurred to me that it might appear as though I were handcuffed, and with reddening cheeks, I got back into the air-conditioned car to consult the Scrabble game I had going with my Treo.

John returned to the car and said that one of the drivers had been severely embellishing when giving his account of the incident. I asked him how he could tell, and John told me he couldn't really explain it, he just knew. After so many years on the force, officers develop a sixth sense about things.

Customer Service

Heading north to yet another accident (it seems that Friday afternoons are treacherous!), John noticed an SUV taking pains to stay behind us. He pulled off to the shoulder, and when the SUV passed us, John spotted the 2003 registration tag -- long expired -- and stopped the car at the top of the next off-ramp. He opened the door and removed his shades. "I always try to take off my glasses when I'm going to talk to someone," he said, "so as not to seem impersonal." As he walked away, I thought of how I've been less than diligent about the upkeep of the Barbmobile's paperwork. There was a time I earned a ticket every few days for my expired tags. By the time I had taken care of my shit, I owed over $1000 -- procrastination is pricey. I sat there, brimming with sympathetic dread, watching John talk to the poor sap.

John sauntered back to the patrol car. While the man in front of us waited, John showed me how to use the CHP computer to look up the perpetrator's DMV record. According to the screen that sat between us, this guy hadn't registered his car in years. I continued to search the system for information while John stepped out again to bring the guy up to speed (no pun intended). When he returned a second time to write the ticket, John explained that he could have had the car towed. The man was cooperative, though, so John spared him.

"I think of these people as clients," he said. "A sergeant once told me that on average a person has a total of only ten minutes' contact with law enforcement in their lifetime. I try to make those minutes the best experience possible. I give them the respect I would wish to have if I were in their place."

John invited me to come up and watch the next time he had to issue a ticket or question someone. I was eager to, but I said I'd hang back until he could gauge the situation. If I was getting a ticket, I couldn't bear the added humiliation of being studied by some random observer. But I admit that I found the idea of being a not-so-small fly on the shoulder of a CHiP in the midst of a lecture about the dangers of aggressive driving to be quite appealing. Over the officer's shoulder, I imagined, I would punctuate each sage sentence with "Yeah!" or "That's right, buddy, you heard the man!"

Lying to the Man

I once worked for a personal injury law firm where I learned up close how very common it is for people to lie to authority figures. I encountered one client who repeatedly contradicted himself, and I found it impossible to be polite to him. When it comes to saving our asses or getting more money, some of us are shameless. Many accidents end up in court, where both judges and cops stumble over the holes in people's stories all the time. John was about to fall right into a doozy of a ditch.

Two cars had crashed on the 805. We pulled up next to one of the cars, which had come to a stop in the center lane on the northbound side, and John got out to talk to the driver, Ms. L. When John returned, he started the car and we began to weave woozily back and forth across the lanes. We were doing a "traffic break," and with the help of a motorcycle officer it didn't take long for drivers on the freeway to get the idea and slow down. I relished the wandlike magic of the lights on our roof -- their unmatched ability to make people stop and go with a blink of red and blue. When we'd finished with the traffic break, Ms. L hopped in her van and scooted over to the shoulder next to Ms. S, just as John had instructed her.

Ms. L had told John that a third woman, who had since fled, had cut in front of her, causing her to swerve, and then "Ms. S hit me." John told Ms. L that it seemed odd that Ms. S could have "hit" her car, when Ms. L said she was the one who swerved in front of Ms. S. A mystery indeed.

We pulled up behind them, and the two officers interviewed the women while I played with the computer and lightly fondled the colorful buttons. When John returned, he told me that Ms. L had changed her story since he'd last spoken to her. Now she maintained that she never swerved at all, and she was demanding a traffic report. The damage to the vehicles supported her first story, as did Ms. S's account of the incident. It amazed me that the woman so clearly at fault, the one who had offered contradictory accounts, was the one especially adamant about having a report written.

Brad had once told me that getting used to people lying was one of the most difficult things about the job. "Nice soccer moms, brownie-baking AYSO moms will look me right in the eye and bald-faced lie. When it comes to self-preservation, some people will lie through their teeth." He eventually learned not to take the lies personally -- people are just trying to stay out of trouble -- and he came to appreciate the comic possibilities in such all-too-human foibles. Brad described the rhetorical acrobatics some lone riders perform trying to explain what they were doing in the carpool lane. "One person said with a straight face that he thought his dog counted because it was over 100 pounds." Another man repeatedly insisted that his wife was in the back of the camper until he finally admitted that he was hoping he could bullshit his way out of a ticket. Like many officers, Brad understands what causes people to lie so badly, but he appreciates honesty above all else. "It's unsettling to me how many people preach integrity and have none."

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