behind him, angled in case he decides to peel out and run for it.
I approach from the passenger’s side with my sidearm unsnapped. I can’t be too careful. Doesn’t matter what they think of me.
He rolls the window down and gives me an amused look. “Somebody send me a stripper? Are the cuffs part of the act?”
I keep my expression neutral. “License and registration, sir.”
“Honey--”
“Now.”
This guy--there’s at least one a day--driving a Mercedes, flying between whatever bedroom community he lives in and downtown Philly. Probably doesn’t even realize there’s a town here, that kids play on these roads. None of them care.
“All right,” he says and produces the documents.
They’re all bark, this type. He sits in the car, hands at ten and two on the wheel, wondering if I’m going to do the step out of the car routine.
One of my august colleagues would respond to sass like that. They’d make him do a sobriety test, search him, whatever they could come up with.
I’m a professional. Sassing me isn’t a crime. Speeding is. I write him up for it, hand him his ticket, and send him on his way. He says something I’m either supposed to or not supposed to hear, some wiseass remark, but I let it roll away, get back in the car, and get set up.
Traffic is sparse today. The next several cars that pass me are all obeying the speed limit. Locals or people who’ve been dinged before. You only get two kinds that speed out here, the ones that don’t know or don’t care.
I stop myself from nodding a few times.
At first, I think it’s a mirage. Here comes this news van covered with all the antenna crap on the roof. It rolls right up to me, and a woman in a pantsuit gets out, followed by a guy with a camera.
“What are you--”
“Officer Maguire,” she cuts me off, “why did you arrest Broadside Wright?”
“What? I didn’t, I cited him for a traffic…” Oh, damn it. “No comment,” I correct myself.
“Can you give us any insight on--”
“No. Comment.”
As she talks, my radar gun bleats. A speeder goes flying past. “Get out of the way,” I shout. I put the SUV in gear and start to move, only to slam my foot on the brake and stop dead when the camera guy runs in front of the car. “What are you doing?”
“Officer Maguire, how does it feel being the only woman in the Sylvester police department?”
“What? I’m not answering any questions. You need to move or I’ll place you under arrest for obstructing an officer in the course of her duties.” The camera guy does not budge. “I’m not joking.”
This is a nightmare.
If it were anyone else, I’d call for backup and get ready to pull on them if I have to. You can’t just stand in front of my cruiser while I’m trying to pursue someone committing an offense right in front of my face, yet here this jackass stands blocking my path.
I sigh and thumb the mic. “Jimmy, I need backup.”
“Yeah, Feebs. Where at?”
“My usual spot. Put a motor on it.”
About five minutes later, Jimmy rolls up. He’s older than Bill, the oldest guy on the force. He was a cop in Sylvester when I was Carrie’s age, and looks mostly the same as he did then, except for a wider belly and whiter hair.
I hate calling him in. It feels like calling my dad for help at work. He radios me before he exits his car.
“Hop out and help me on this. I want you to look like you’re taking point in case this ends up on the news. You cuff the camera guy.”
“Ten four.”
I get out and they both rush over to me. Jimmy trips his siren.
“Okay, folks,” I announce as loud as I can. “Camera and microphone on the ground, keep your hands where I can see them.”
“You heard Officer Maguire,” Jimmy adds in his professional, even tone. “Ya’ll gonna comply, now.”
The reporter and camera man look at each other a little incredulously, then realize I’m serious when I stare at them.
“Go on then,” I add.
He lowers his expensive looking
I approach from the passenger’s side with my sidearm unsnapped. I can’t be too careful. Doesn’t matter what they think of me.
He rolls the window down and gives me an amused look. “Somebody send me a stripper? Are the cuffs part of the act?”
I keep my expression neutral. “License and registration, sir.”
“Honey--”
“Now.”
This guy--there’s at least one a day--driving a Mercedes, flying between whatever bedroom community he lives in and downtown Philly. Probably doesn’t even realize there’s a town here, that kids play on these roads. None of them care.
“All right,” he says and produces the documents.
They’re all bark, this type. He sits in the car, hands at ten and two on the wheel, wondering if I’m going to do the step out of the car routine.
One of my august colleagues would respond to sass like that. They’d make him do a sobriety test, search him, whatever they could come up with.
I’m a professional. Sassing me isn’t a crime. Speeding is. I write him up for it, hand him his ticket, and send him on his way. He says something I’m either supposed to or not supposed to hear, some wiseass remark, but I let it roll away, get back in the car, and get set up.
Traffic is sparse today. The next several cars that pass me are all obeying the speed limit. Locals or people who’ve been dinged before. You only get two kinds that speed out here, the ones that don’t know or don’t care.
I stop myself from nodding a few times.
At first, I think it’s a mirage. Here comes this news van covered with all the antenna crap on the roof. It rolls right up to me, and a woman in a pantsuit gets out, followed by a guy with a camera.
“What are you--”
“Officer Maguire,” she cuts me off, “why did you arrest Broadside Wright?”
“What? I didn’t, I cited him for a traffic…” Oh, damn it. “No comment,” I correct myself.
“Can you give us any insight on--”
“No. Comment.”
As she talks, my radar gun bleats. A speeder goes flying past. “Get out of the way,” I shout. I put the SUV in gear and start to move, only to slam my foot on the brake and stop dead when the camera guy runs in front of the car. “What are you doing?”
“Officer Maguire, how does it feel being the only woman in the Sylvester police department?”
“What? I’m not answering any questions. You need to move or I’ll place you under arrest for obstructing an officer in the course of her duties.” The camera guy does not budge. “I’m not joking.”
This is a nightmare.
If it were anyone else, I’d call for backup and get ready to pull on them if I have to. You can’t just stand in front of my cruiser while I’m trying to pursue someone committing an offense right in front of my face, yet here this jackass stands blocking my path.
I sigh and thumb the mic. “Jimmy, I need backup.”
“Yeah, Feebs. Where at?”
“My usual spot. Put a motor on it.”
About five minutes later, Jimmy rolls up. He’s older than Bill, the oldest guy on the force. He was a cop in Sylvester when I was Carrie’s age, and looks mostly the same as he did then, except for a wider belly and whiter hair.
I hate calling him in. It feels like calling my dad for help at work. He radios me before he exits his car.
“Hop out and help me on this. I want you to look like you’re taking point in case this ends up on the news. You cuff the camera guy.”
“Ten four.”
I get out and they both rush over to me. Jimmy trips his siren.
“Okay, folks,” I announce as loud as I can. “Camera and microphone on the ground, keep your hands where I can see them.”
“You heard Officer Maguire,” Jimmy adds in his professional, even tone. “Ya’ll gonna comply, now.”
The reporter and camera man look at each other a little incredulously, then realize I’m serious when I stare at them.
“Go on then,” I add.
He lowers his expensive looking
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