I do not envy the jobs of police officers, especially those who pull highway speed-trap duty. By the nature of their assignments, they will engage antagonistic civilians, not least because of the generally capricious nature of speed enforcement. My first time occurred this week.

And yet, this lack of envy does not extend into outright sympathy. When these folks pull one over, it is not for polite chat. It is to hand out a penalty for the purported offense. “Here’s your ticket, sir, now drive safely, bye.”

At least, that’s what one would think. But not really. There’s always more.

For one, the conversation usually starts with an invitation to admit guilt: “I clocked you as travelling at speed X. How fast do you think you going?”. I don’t have statistics, but I guess a majority of people give some number in excess of the speed limit, but below their actual speed, thinking how clever they are. They have in fact just admitted guilt, which will be duly noted in the officer’s notes, and which will make any future trial quite short. Having enjoyed the Never talk to cops videos, amateurishly reinterpreted for our local jurisdiction, I of course did no such thing.

The second thing that the locally famous OPP Const. Troy Roberts said to me was “can you please pop open your trunk?”. Apparently this question is made routinely to just about everyone subjected to a road stop. I would assume that most people are meek/ignorant, and think they have nothing that might get them into trouble. So, they obey, opening up their vehicle and property to search.

Think about this, kind fellow citizen. The original purpose of the stop was to issue a citation of some sort. As soon as a search is proposed, a whole new element exists: a fishing expedition to find something else wrong. After all, one’s trunk’s contents are unrelated to one’s driving. There is nothing in the trunk that can exonerate the driver: the situation can only be worsened. By invoking such a search, the officer is no longer a parental figure just trying to encourage safe driving. He has unilaterally changed his role into an adversary, and no amount of polite rhetoric changes that.

I had time on my hands, and nothing much to worry about. “No, I do not consent to a search.” was my reply. Thus began a thirty-minute stalemate involving three police cruisers, several officers, many questions, and a few answers. Apparently, my attire (orange vest, used to carry my flying survival equipment and other sundry stuff) piqued their interest — nay, concern — that, perhaps, I might be a hunter transporting firearms. Horror! (Of course, hunting is legal; so is transporting hunting weapons. Heck, according to the current law, I could have kept an unloaded shotgun on the seat next to me.)

“Are you transporting any firearms?” “No, sir.” “Any drugs?” “No, sir.” “Ever been arrested or charged?” “No, sir” Time passes. Records got checked in his cruiser. He and a partner returned to ask the same questions several times, apparently trying to catch me in a contradiction, which could be grounds to force a search. “If you have nothing to hide …” “No, I do not consent.” Time passes. “That is your right.” “Yes, that’s all this is about.” Time passes. Questions about where I’m going, whose car this is, when I am returning to work, how many firearms I possess, et cetera. Foolishly, I was comfortable in giving at least partial answers to some of the questions, taking care never to contradict, or give any them any excuse. It must have been good enough, for eventually they gave up. My reward for partial cooperation (those partial answers) was a full-face-value ticket, and a nearly-misplaced insurance slip.

On the other hand, they never saw the snow scraper and windshield washing juice in the trunk.

I tip my hat to Const. Roberts, for doing his job well. The techniques clearly work to catch various lowlifes. As for me, because of his prolonged treatment of me as a suspect of acts worse than a traffic infraction, I can only promise to say and cooperate as little as possible in the future. I advise everyone to do the same.

My Tim Hortons gift card is looking for a new owner.

Reason for disposal: Change of diet. Specifically, as of four days ago, the house brats and the house woman have insisted that I should not drink coffee any more. I never drank very much (3 cups/day max.), but they have decided that it is not good for me, and that’s that. I have shown excellent restraint in the mean time. I hardly ever emit the zombie moans of “Timmuh!” – with arms reaching toward the store – every time we drive past one. Or rather, every such emission is drowned out by a chorus of voices yelling “You can’t have any” or “Just drink fruit tea!”. They delight in crushing my dreams. I adore my family, so I must be mad.

Disclosure: This card has $0.00 economic value. It is of entertainment value only, if that.

Clarification: I am well aware that Tim Hortons sells products other than coffee. However, I do not possess the simply superhuman aplomb required to not order the brown goo of life, the black slop of power, the pale yellow vanilla-flavoured happiness juice, or the milky white sludge of energy, if I were to ever set foot in the store.

	santa	god
subject	children	adults
surveillance	watches you all year	watches you all your life
reward	brings you presents	sends you to heaven
punishment	brings you coal	sends you to hell