Words

Patriot Acting Out or Tales of Narrow Escape

Federal harassment takes many forms. Legal or not, the vague distinctions are apparently made by the purveyors of the Patriot Act and the battle sergeants in the “War on Drugs.”

“Any society that would give up a little liberty to gain a little security will deserve neither and lose both.” – Benjamin Franklin

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Act I: Harassment in Rural Mississippi or “The Drug Runner”

15 October ‘04 – Before New Orleans’ physical demise at the hands of Mother Nature, the city earned a reputation as a place of all things cultural. Its international roots and laid-back attitude spawned unique, care-free and colorful customs, many whose essences – however compromised - spread outside the region and into the popular culture of the US. But lesser-known, non-cultural substances also originated from New Orleans’ warm-water ports and spread throughout the country. These substances are known as narcotics.

But I only learned this just recently at the hands of the Mississippi State Patrol’s drug enforcement unit.

According to the officer who was busy frisking me as I stood on the side of the dark and desolate stretch of Interstate 59, my hands planted onto the trunk of my friend’s car, this particularly isolated stretch of forested freeway was a primary conduit for shipments of cocaine arriving from South America to New Orleans, and being transported via Interstate 65 to Chicago.

That’s interesting, I thought sarcastically, without making the mistake of audiblizing my frustration.

“But we don’t have any drugs.”

“Then why did your friend say you did? You know I have a dog in the car and when he comes out he will find them – and he won’t be happy.”

“He didn’t say I have drugs! He just didn’t say anything at all.” My friend Ray apparently had no confidence in me or his legal rights. When asked by the officer if we were carrying drugs he only answered negatively for himself. “But I can’t speak for my friend.” As innocent and law-abiding as this answer sounds, while serving to keep Ray free of danger from the oft-used threat of “lying to police,” his comments inadvertently served to make me seem suspect. That is when the officer walked around the car to the passenger side where I still sat.

“Your friend won’t vouch for you. Says you might be carrying something illegal. So step out of the car slowly and join him back there. And put your hands on the trunk.

The officer moved forward again to search the car so I had a chance to reprimand Ray.

“Hey man, why did you try to sell me out? I don’t have shit!”

“Well I didn’t know that? What if you did?

“Jesus Christ! Now he is going to search everything!”

The cop wandered back, alternating his bright flashlight beam between the inside of the car and directly on our faces.

“Listen to me, you two. I have searched you both. I’ve searched the car. I don’t want to have to search the trunk. Let’s make this simple. Just tell me where the drugs are and we can get this over with. You are just making things worse for yourselves by not telling me.”

“I swear we don’t have anythi—” I started, but he cut me off.

“Dammit! You boys just don’t get it,” he raised his voice. “We aren’t looking for the small stuff. We are looking for the big shipments of cocaine; the kilos people are sending up this interstate. I don’t care if you have a little bit of pot on you or in your car. Throw it out in the woods. I will turn my back and let you go free. I just want to know where the big stuff is. Don’t lie to me. I have a canine unit in my car right behind me. The dogs will smell it. Believe me. So come clean now or else.”

I neither appreciated his lack of respect for our intelligence nor believed his promise of a release after finding a small amount of drugs on us. Obviously there was nothing better to do during the middle of Sunday night on this rural interstate than to mess with two kids in their mid-twenties who looked a little bit too smart for their own good. He was licking his lips, preparing for the big bust. My likely paranoid belief was that he either wanted some drugs for himself or was looking to frame us. This officer would bust us for anything he felt like if we gave him a reason.

After repeated threats and intimidations he still wasn’t satisfied. So he decided to search the trunk. But his confidence and determination had melted into anxiousness and frustration. His questioning became tiresome.

“What are the film canisters for?” he snapped.

“For film.”

“Why is your trunk so messy. What are you hiding?”

“Sorry, I guess I need to clean it.”…dad, thought Ray, according to the expression his face.

After an exhaustive search of the trunk and another look inside the car he finally gave up.

Wandering back toward his cruiser, his tail between his legs, he mentioned in passing, “You fellas are free to go. Just, uh, keep it on the right.”

I guess he had found one thing: my open 40 ounce bottle of malt liquor.

Ray drove – and we kept it on the right.

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Act II: Ridicule in Del Rio, Texas or “Don’t Mess with Texas”

6 May ’05 – “Fuck! What’s this guy pulling me over for? I am only going five over.

He approached the car.

“Sir, do you know why I pulled you over.”

“Is it because I was speeding?”

“No. You were only going 60 in a 55 zone. I pulled you over because you fit the description.”

“Of what?”

“Of someone running drugs. You’ve got the out-of-state plates, a car packed full of stuff; you are male and young. Can I ask you where you are coming from and where you are going and why you are so close to the border?”

“Well, I started in Dallas and drove here because I am on my way to Big Bend National Park with my girlfriend.”

“Did you know this is a very common route for drug smuggling? So you should be very careful…since you fit the profile. I took a look around your car and it looks like your story checks out. I am going to give you a warning for your speed this time. But don’t let there be a next time. Usually we won’t pull people over unless they are doing at least ten over. But you fit the description so well we had to take a look. So if you don’t want to get messed with anymore…

…keep it under 60.”

I drove – and we kept it under 60.

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Act III: Intimidation in Shafter, Texas or “The War on Drugs”

6 May ’05 – West Texas: dry highlands, flat landscapes and endless horizons. Clear skies while empty eyes scan for geographic variation. A massive, white, unmanned anti-drug-smuggling enforcement balloon lofts high above the gray, barren wasteland, looking like a blimp. Following its metal leash to the ground with my eyes, I notice it attached to a building further down the road – only a speck from this distance.

The speck grows.

I pass warning signs.

FEDERAL DRUG INSPECTION CHECKPOINT AHEAD. ALL VEHICLES MUST STOP.

I stop.

The 20 year-old agent comes over to my window, bends down and snaps, “Where are you going?”

“El Paso.”

“From where?”

“Big Bend.”

This looks bad to them. I am probably on a direct drug running route. But I decide not to humor the group of gun-toting agents - who now form a circle around my car - with my pre-constructed answers which are designed to get me off the hook. I will give them the truth they desire. What can be wrong with that?

The young punk with a cocky attitude and a sneer starts up again. “You know,
This is a popular route for drug runners.”

Not this speech again, I think.

“We have tons of cocaine and marijuana being transported across this border. People like you driving in cars just like yours. You are one of them, aren’t you? What brings you here with your out-of-state plates, anyway? Where do you live?”

“I am on a road trip across the country with my girlfriend. I actually don’t live anywhere at the moment. I am in the process of moving.”

“What is your profession?”

“I am currently unemployed. I just finished working for a center for domestic disaster preparedness, mainly with bioterrorism.”

The fact that I had a federally-funded job working in a similar fields as the agent fails to register with him. He has stopped listening to me. Almost before I even finish he cuts in.

“Carrying anything illegal in that car?”

“No.”

“Nothing?!”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure? You wouldn’t mind then if my dog takes a sniff around it?”

“That’s fine.”

“Get out and go sit on the bench.”

His intimidating attitude frustrates me and even makes me a little nervous. I spit sunflower seeds on the burning pavement in the dead heat in silence. No other cars approach from either side. A shiver goes down my spine, as if I am in the midst of evil. Ironically, I am with a group of my well-trained countrymen who are allegedly here to protect me from the ills of society.

The agent leads a leashed German Sheppard in slow circles around the car, pausing near the wheel wells and sending the dog on sniffing missions under the bottom of the car. The others inspect the inside and underneath the car with gloved hands and mirrors. One of them sticks a long, bendy black tube into my gas tank, possibly to check for large objects.

I watch the dog. He shows no signs of excitement.

After about ten minutes, during which my anxiety and anger slowly build, the young, crew-cut agent walks over to me, shaking his head.

“Unfortunately, our dog got a ‘hit.’ A ‘hit’ means he smelled something illegal in your car. We are going to have to search your car. But before we do you can make it much easier on us if you just tell us what you have in there. We are gonna be pissed off if we have to go in and find it ourselves.”

“I don’t have anything in there.”

He raises his voice. “You better not be lying to us. There’ll be big trouble. Our dog got a hit and he is NEVER wrong! Make it easy on yourself and tell us what you are carrying.”

I was starting to become paranoid, succumbing to his aggressive and threatening tone. I scanned my memory to think of anything I could possibly be carrying that was illegal. An old pipe? Nope, not even that. But even my 100 percent confidence was shaken. I was beginning to think I had done something wrong.

“I don’t have anything,” I stammer while trying to exude confidence.

“You are going to make us search your car, then?”

A loaded question with no correct response. This guy is definitely a military man, probably trained in the art of interrogation.

“You can search it if you want. You won’t find anything. But let me say that I packed it very tightly with everything I own so it will be difficult to repack. So please be careful.”

He motions to his crew and they started ripping into my car like it was a Christmas present.

“Come with me,” says the little guy with the big attitude. I follow him into the small station built on the side of the highway. He slams the door behind me and turns around quickly. We are all alone. He steps closer to me, ignoring any notion of personal space.

“Tell me what the fuck is in your goddamn car!” he seethes through clenched teeth, as if trying to suppress a holler.

“I told you. Nothing.” Again, in this confined environment and under his pressure I question myself. Have I done something wrong? He notices my uneasiness.

“Now listen to me. Just level with me. I don’t care if you smoke pot sometimes. Or even all the time. I am just looking for big shipments. When’s the last time you smoked pot?”

I answer honestly, “It’s been a while. A couple of months at least.”

“What about your friend? Does she smoke weed?”

Now he is going too far. He is trying to incriminate me through intimidation. I am being threateningly questioned and I know I am not legally bound to answer such questions. But I also know if I try to evoke any rights he will call me a “wise guy” and arrest me, or worse – plant drugs in my car. I feel like I am talking to the devil and I am powerless.

“No. She doesn’t do drugs.”

“You better not be lying! We are going outside to find out.”

He yanks the door open and hustles outside.

The twerp who questioned me meets with another agent while the others continue to search to the car, which has been mostly unloaded, the contents strewn about on the cement pad. I see several of the agents mocking the cans of low quality beer they find in my car. The other agent had questioned my girlfriend while I was also being interrogated in the other room. They asked her similar questions to what he asked me – and of course received similar responses. They compare and discuss our answers in hushed voices as they convene a few yards from us. Apparently our stories check out.

“Well, I guess you are okay this time. We’re gonna go ahead and let you guys pass,” Stated the young officer, visibly disappointed but still jagged.

He acts like he is doing us a favor by allowing us to pass and stares at us suspiciously as we walk to the car - as if we have done something wrong. I want to scream at him just to damn arrest me if I have broken the law – otherwise to fuck off. But somehow I feel like I am lucky to be given the green light.

I stop as I approach the driver’s side of the car. My belongings are unpacked and scattered all around. I look at the pack of agents who stand idle near the station, arms crossed.

“We couldn’t fit it back in,” one of them flatly states.

I shake my head at them and slowly repack my car.

We are permitted to pass.

I drive – and I keep the incident very close to the front of my mind.

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Act IV: Innocence in Marfa, Texas or “Driven Insane”

15 September ’08 – Just hours remain before the deal deadline in El Paso, Texas. The speedometer reads 105 and my blunt burns hot and heavy in my hand. I slam the remaining contents of my 9th beer and swerve widely as I chuck the can out the window. The hot wind gushes through my car. Peering through my blurry and shaded eyes I see what looks like two cop cars in my rear view mirror. Their lights flash intensely behind me. I focus and realize it is just one – I am seeing double. Tossing my blunt on the floorboards, I pick up the remnants of my bag of blow, dump it in my mouth and hit the breaks abruptly to cut my cruise control. I begin to pull over, spraying air freshener on my body and throughout the interior of my car in an attempt to mask the smell of the massive 50 pound payload of green bud in the secret compartment below my seat. Woozy from the booze and heat I wait for the cop.

“Now what the FUCK does this guy want?”