Barbarella Sweeps the Beats with the Highway Patrol
pg.6

Little Guy in a Big Truck

Once the pertinent information was recorded -- "If she wants a report, I'll give her one," John said, "though it won't be what she's hoping for" -- we got on the freeway in time to see, speeding by, a truck whose body was lifted so high above its wheels you'd need a grappling hook to get into the driver's seat. Other drivers on the road looked at John and pointed their fingers as it flew past -- concerned citizens, I'm sure. That truck had to be going over 90. We caught up to him with lights flashing (John let me push the button -- this must have been my karmic reward for being so patient in Jenny Panfil's patrol car earlier that day), and the driver stopped on the shoulder before the Mission Valley exit.

Confession: I hate high-riding trucks. They're in the way, they obstruct my vision, they look ugly, and there's no good reason for them to be that high. And why is it that the shorter the man the higher the truck? I was glad that this smarmy little Napoleon got pulled over. Now, I can understand why if you are a 5´2´´ man you might want to experience the pleasure of a higher vantage point, but climbing ten feet into a big truck does not make you taller, it does not mean you've got a big dick, and it does not make you more attractive than you would be if you simply accepted your height, as I've accepted my weight, as God's gift to personality enhancement.

John asked Napoleon, who was in his mid-twenties, for photo identification. Napoleon said he didn't have any on him. John told him that without picture ID, he'd have to take him in to find out who he was. The kid suddenly "found" his passport. I ran the plates through the computer and discovered several priors: accidents he'd caused (in the same truck, naturally), failures to appear, speeding tickets, and more. No wonder he couldn't find his license, he was probably afraid we'd run it, unaware that license plates provide enough information to go on. John could have taken him to jail, but he chose to write Napoleon a ticket after giving him a stern lecture.

Cracked Out

All those hours on the road were taking a toll on me, and I was fading fast. I let John know, in no uncertain terms, that if I didn't get caffeine soon, I was going to pass out on the shotgun I had been mistaking for an armrest between us. All of those accidents meant hours of paperwork for John; he was happy to get the basics down on his laptop while I refreshed myself. I offered to type up his reports but he politely refused. When I told him I could type more than 90 words per minute, he rethought his position and politely accepted.

Having worked as a paralegal, I was already familiar with traffic collision reports, and with my data-entry experience I quickly figured out the software. We blazed through the reports -- every officer should have a secretary to take care of his administrative duties. "If you don't see us on the roads," John said, "it's because we're in the office writing reports."

I have to admit I got off on sharing a coffee break with the man in uniform -- I felt as though I had breached some sort of social barrier by making light with the arm of the law. Not long after we'd finished the skeleton reports, we were called to another accident. I licked the straw clean of the last of my Java Chip Frappuccino, and off we went.

I was on my fourth or fifth caffeine-powered wind when we pulled up to the scene of the accident, which had already nearly been cleared. The sun was no longer visible, but the sky was still light. I hopped out of the car and walked toward three young blondes (two girls and a guy) milling about while a tow truck hoisted one of the two sedans at the scene. I approached a tall brunette who was standing apart from the rest, and I asked if she was okay. It turned out she hadn't been in the accident but had arrived in a patrol car.

Her name was Mindy Wilson, a dispatcher on a routine ride-along. It's common for new dispatchers to accompany officers on the beat in order to familiarize themselves with the areas they'll be dispatching for. We spoke for a while, but the Frappuccino really wouldn't let go -- I was talking a mile a minute and rubbing my head like an itchy crack whore, but I managed to get in a few practical questions, like: why did she choose this profession? I discovered for the umpteenth time that it's a very small world and an even smaller city. Months ago, Brad was on KUSI with Mike Turko of the "Turko Files." Mindy watched the brief ride-along and thought that working for the CHP might be fulfilling.

I struggled to stay with her, distracted as I was by the buzzing of my overworked brain, but I gathered that soon she'd be heading to Sacramento for a four-week training session. My caffeine kick felt much too similar to being high on coca, which was unsettling since I was surrounded by the fuzz. I felt defensive and continually fought the urge to explain that I had just downed a HUGE coffee.

Mindy didn't seem to notice; we chatted until two of the blondes took off in the tow truck, their car hitched behind them. The third blonde drove her white sedan away in one piece while Mindy and I bid each other adieu and reported back to our respective patrol cars to be taken on different adventures.

A Promise Lost

We spotted two speeding cars, and John let me choose which one to pull over ("you can't get 'em all"). The caffeine had lost its edge after about an hour, and I was a little less jumpy now. I had asked John what his most tragic experience had been as a CHP. He was quick to answer, and matter-of-fact about it. He had been working a graveyard shift with another officer elsewhere in California when they spotted a white Honda parked on the shoulder of the highway with its hazard lights blinking. They were about to pull over when a call came through telling them to report to the scene of an accident. It turned out to be a minor fender bender, and when the officers had almost cleared it they got a call to check out another "major" accident -- the dispatcher reported cars blocking the roadway in the same area they had seen the Honda. They sped back.

The Honda had been crushed by an El Camino traveling 75 miles per hour. The driver of the El Camino was dead. John walked up to what was left of the Honda and peeked inside. A woman in the driver's seat was pinned between the back end of the car and the steering wheel, but she was still alive. John told her the fire department was on its way and that everything was going to be fine. A man in the passenger's seat was harmed the least, as the rear left of the car had taken the brunt of the impact. Another woman was "flopping around" in the back seat. I assumed he meant she was dying, but I didn't ask.

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