theblogofthehandoftamm

I think I have frequently demonstrated that I’m a law ‘n’ order type of man; that I believe in taking responsibility for oneself and also alerting others to the error of their ways whenever possible in the most constructive ways imaginable. This morning I was confronted by a most reckless member of my local constabulary who did not share my high ideals.

Police officers have a tough job of it, no question. Yesterday, an officer accidentally shot himself during an arrest in Toronto. Today, there was a shooting outside an east-end high school. Constables regularly face delicate situations with the least desirable from our society’s misfits, such as the pantsless man atop my colleague’s roof from the other night, who refused to come down until his girlfriend was called. This morning, I became the quarry in Officer Kelly’s sights.

On my way to work, I stopped at a four-way in a residential neighbourhood I drive through daily. I noted a squad car a little down the street to my right and presumed they were there for a domestic call or whatever sort of business they might have been on. After proceeding through the intersection and making it already to the next corner, I saw the car come around the corner behind me with the cherries flashing and the squawker squawking. I made my next turn with the assumption that they had been called to an urgent matter and I had best not tarry in getting out of their way.

To my surprise, they also made the turn and squawked some more. The neighbourhood is a maze of one-ways so clearly my best route was also theirs. I pulled over out of their way. To my surprise, they pulled in behind me. A broken taillight, was the immediate and clichéd thought through my mind. I additionally thought, “it can’t be my stop, that was solid.”

I won’t deny that it wasn’t a complete stop in the letter of the law but it certainly qualified as being in the spirit of the law. I would argue that my car slowed down to some minute fraction of a kilometer per hour before I resumed my forward motion secure in the knowledge that there was no cross-traffic at my intersection. It was safe and responsible of the motorist in me, like always.

The officer who came to my door nonetheless opened with “I’m pulling you over with failing to stop at the sign.” To which I replied, “I don’t believe I failed to stop,” in as non-confrontational but firm way as was possible. The officer replied with some fluster, being taken aback by my flat denial, “Well I believe you did.”

With that exchange, it became clear to me that I was not being pulled over as a gag for some blooper TV show in which the lady cop was now going to change into a bikini and demand that I demonstrate my sobriety by dancing the Macarena in the middle of the street while construction workers sprayed us with soap bubbles from a hose.

Without taking off her Cool Hand Luke-inspired mirrored shades, she then demanded my license, ownership, and proof of insurance, which I passed along straight away. She then instructed me not to get out of my car as she went back to her cruiser to yap into the CB and finish her bear claw and double-double. Emerging some minutes later with powdered sugar all over her mouth, she returned to my window with all manner of paperwork and a case of the nerves. Visibly shaking, she handed back my bits and bobs with the words “I’m charging you with failure to stop and your instructions are included here.” I imagine she herself didn’t believe in what she was doing and was nervous about this encounter.

I wished her a happy day with the least sincere words of “I hope you enjoy your day” that were ever uttered by me to a police officer in as much disdain as I thought would make my point without resulting in me being waterboarded down at the precinct. She ran back to her car and sped off, presumably to resume her stakeout of that formerly-notorious corner, rife with traffic violators. The citizens of Toronto can sleep safely tonight. (But for how long?)

I looked at her ticket and was dismayed that there was no signature of Sandi or Staycee with a smiley face next to it, like at the family restaurants and pubs I like to frequent. I returned to my journey in to work, grateful that I had narrowly escaped being tasered or pepper-sprayed or beaten senseless with a police-issue baton. All I had to endure was an over-enthusiastic and under-qualified rookie cop messing up my otherwise cheerful demeanour with her prejudicial application of the law. I wonder if she’ll turn up in court when I fight the fine?

In his Birthday Party days, Nick Cave frequently wore the controversial t-shirt: I hate every cop in this town. The only good cop is a dead cop. That’s a bit much, surely. But I think it expresses something of the frustration at the gap between serving the public interest, which is surely the purpose of the police we employ, and the failure to act in a responsible manner befitting the badge. I’m not made happy by making accusations about the police force’s need to maintain their revenue streams with frivolous traffic stops but the interests of safety and observance of the rules and regulations of the road were not honoured with this abuse of a police officer’s authority. I wasn’t even granted my wish of being cuffed and frisked, despite my obvious desire. There’s always the next TFC gate entry for the latter, I suppose.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, September 16th, 2008 at 5:36 pm and is filed under commuting. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.