Sunday wasn’t the best of nights. I would have been dragging anyway, thanks to the Philly trip, but I was feeling crappy all weekend, and feeling worse at work.
We also had the newsroom’s first random power outage of the spring; we were down for only 90 minutes or so, but that was enough to set me up for what happened later.
Which was this: just after 11, we heard a call about a bad accident in the northern reaches of our coverage area. On a normal Sunday, I wouldn’t probably wouldn’t chase a call that late, because we’d be too close to deadline.
But with the delay from the power outage, I had time to hustle up to the scene, spend a couple minutes collecting whatever information I could and get back in time to write something.
So I went. I found one of my favorite cops who was willing to help me out, and I sped back to the office.
I was moving quickly enough that I didn’t notice the cop who was watching traffic around the corner from our office. In fact, I didn’t see him until he was behind me, lights on, pulling me over in front of our building.
He asked for the license and the rest; as I was digging that stuff out of the glovebox, I did something I’ve never done before: I asked him for a break.
Every single time I’ve been pulled over for speeding — including this one — I’ve deserved it. And I’ve always felt that arguing about a ticket was A) a little pointless and B) liable to piss off someone who could make my life very difficult. So I’ve never done it.
I didn’t do it Sunday, either; I did ask the guy if I could have 10 minutes or so to get my story done. I said the copy desk was holding the paper for me, and I had to get my story filed; I even offered to let him come inside while I wrote.
The cop, a guy I recognized but don’t know, smiled just a tiny bit. “You know why I pulled you over, right?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I was flying.”
“Yes, you were,” he said. “Take it easy, OK?”
My Sunday to that point had pretty much sucked. After that, though, I had no room
lucky lucky lucky lucky lucky lucky
Mr. TR got pulled over by an airport cop dropping me off on Sunday, because he LOOKED LIKE he was going too fast. As in, “I’ve been doing this for 13 years, and that wasn’t 15 miles per hour.” Of course, the cop didn’t have actual radar, so he wrote the citation for failing to yield – to the pedestrian who started into the crosswalk after we were slowing down because a cop was stepping in front of our car and motioning us to pull over.
Hello, not guilty plea.
How in the hell do you look like you’re going too fast? Was your husband’s hair billowing in the wind or something?