by Frank Zafiro
“Mr. Rousse,” he said, placing the tickets on the hood of the car, “I am citing you tonight.” He explained each of the tickets and directed him where to sign. Rousse cooperated and didn’t appear angry. Once he’d signed the ticket, Kopriva tore off his copies and handed them to him.
“Mr. Rousse, what is your passenger’s name?”
Rousse’s eyes flitted nervously from the car to Kopriva and back again. “Dennis. Dennis Maxwell.”
“And where’s Pete tonight?”
“Home, I guess.”
“What is Pete to Dennis?”
“His brother.”
Kopriva stared at Rousse. “Why are you lying for him, Mr. Rousse?”
“I’m not. His name is Dennis. Honest, you can ask him.”
“Okay, if that’s how you want it.” Kopriva pointed. “Go back to your car, put your hands on the steering wheel and stay there.”
Rousse obeyed. As the driver reached the car, Kopriva called to the passenger. “Dennis, come back here for a minute.”
‘Dennis’ obeyed. Kopriva half-expected him to run, but evidently he had faith in his name ruse. Kopriva almost laughed in disgust as he watched a black-haired male about five-ten and one-hundred-fifty pounds exit the car and approach the front of the cruiser.
“Stand right there by my push-bar, please.”
He complied, crossing his arms.
Kopriva eyed him for a full minute until the man finally raised his hands questioningly, “What?”
“Why are you lying to me, sir?”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are,” Kopriva said with a nod. “Do I look like an idiot to you?”
“No,” Dennis answered quietly.
“Did I forget to erase the STUPID stamp off my forehead before shift tonight?”
“What’s the problem?”
“The problem is, you’re not Dennis. You’re not even close. What’s more, you look a lot like Pete Maxwell. Now can you explain that to me?”
“I am Dennis Maxwell.”
“What do you weigh?”
“One-seventy or so. But I lost a lot of weight in the last few months. I used to weigh almost two-forty. I was fat.” Sweat collected on his upper lip and he fidgeted from foot to foot.
“And I suppose you dyed your hair black, too, huh?” Kopriva’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
He nodded.
“And what? Shaved off three inches from the soles of your feet?” Kopriva shook his head in disgust. “Uh-uh. Don’t insult my intelligence. You’re Pete Maxwell.”
“I am Dennis. Swear to God.”
Kopriva looked at Travis. The reserve stood enthralled by the entire exchange. Kopriva winked, then stepped around the car and leaned toward the fidgeting, sweating suspect. “Okay, Dennis, I’ll tell you what I am going to do. First, I’ll call for another unit to go to the station and get a printout photo of you and your brother. He’ll bring those pictures up here while I detain you. See, Pete has a warrant for his arrest. So when my friends get here and show me the pictures and you mysteriously look like Pete and not anything like Dennis, that’s when I place you under arrest for the warrant.”
Dennis squirmed, then opened his mouth to speak.
Kopriva raised his finger to cut off his denial, “Not only that, I will charge you for lying to me about your name in order to avoid arrest. Plus, I will arrest your friend for the same charge, since he is backing up your lie.”
He gave Dennis a long stare. The suspect looked away and back again, shifting his stance from side to side.
“Now, if you save me from all that messing around and just admit who you really are and take care of your warrant like a man, I will only arrest you for the warrant. Nothing else.” Kopriva shrugged. “Otherwise, you get it all, the whole enchilada. I’ll even write you for no seatbelt.”
A long minute of silence followed. The only sounds Kopriva could hear was the engine idling and the clicking and whirring of his overhead lights. Having played out his hand, he held the man’s stare, showing him that it wasn’t a bluff.
Finally, the dark-haired suspect looked away and sighed heavily. “I’m Pete Maxwell. I’ve got I.D. in my back pocket.”
“Pete, you’re under arrest.” Kopriva quickly cuffed and searched him. He found a marijuana pipe in Maxwell’s right front pocket and placed it on the hood. He put the rest of his property into a plastic bag. Travis guided Pete into the back of the police car.
Kopriva called Rousse out of the car.
“Stand here,” he said, pointing next to Travis at the front of the patrol car. Then he searched the car. In the center console, he found a small Tupperware container roughly the size of a fifty-cent piece. He opened it carefully and saw a brown chunky substance inside.
Methamphetamine.
The rest of his search turned up nothing. Kopriva retrieved a field test kit from the trunk of his car. The small plastic vials had ampoules with chemicals in them that reacted with specific drugs by turning a particular color. He used his knife to slice off a sliver of the substance in the Tupperware container and dropped it in. When he broke the ampules, the test tube immediately flowed orange.
Positive.
Kopriva showed the tube to Travis.
“What’s going on?” Rousse asked.
“You’re under arrest for possession of methamphetamine,” Kopriva told him, applying a mild wristlock. He motioned with his head for Travis to handcuff Rousse.
“What’s that?” the man asked unconvincingly.
“Meth,” Kopriva told him. “Crank. Like you don’t know.”
“It’s not mine,” Rousse protested.
Kopriva searched him, finding nothing of importance. He requested another unit for transport. He sat Rousse down on the curb with his legs straight out in front of him. Travis stood guard behind him.
“Baker-123, is there a sergeant available?”
“L-123, go ahead.”
Sgt. Shen, Adam sector sergeant. Good.
“L-123, can you contact me at Regal and Olympic?”
“Affirm, from Division and Wabash.”
“Copy.” Kopriva allowed himself a tiny smile. So the Sarge was having coffee at Denny’s with the Lieutenant, huh? Well, that wasn’t far off, at least. He shouldn’t be too long.
A dark brown Chevy cruised past the traffic stop slowly. Too slowly. Kopriva broke the snap on his holster and rocked his pistol forward. The car looked familiar, and the passenger...
Isaiah Morris!
Morris was a gangbanger from Compton. He’d arrested the Crip about two months ago on a warrant and found crack cocaine stuffed into his sock. Not enough to prove Morris was dealing, but still a solid possession arrest.
Kopriva followed the car with his eyes. It rolled slowly by. Morris glared at him through the passenger window. Then the tires chirped and the car sped away. Kopriva switched to the data channel and ran Morris’ name. He doubted that Morris had appeared in court on the drug charge. Maybe there was a warrant out for him.
While he waited, Kopriva decided to see if he could plant a seed of trust. He picked up the marijuana pipe and opened the back door of the patrol car. “See this?” he asked Pete.
Pete nodded.
“Since you told me the truth about your name, I’m going to dump it and not charge you. Next time I talk to you, don’t lie to me.”
“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I found Meth in your console.”
Pete winced. “Can’t you just dump the crank, too?”
Kopriva shook his head. “A pipe is one thing. Nobody cares too much. Drugs are something else. People care about drugs. Especially meth. It’s a problem.”
“Yeah,” Pete said mournfully. “I know. My niece just went through D.A.R.E. at school.”
“Then you get what I mean. Besides, my sergeant is coming here. I think he wants to charge both of you.”
“What? Hey, that shit’s not mine, man. It’s his.”
“All right,” Pete said, resigned. “Thanks for chucking the pipe, man. Straight up.”
“No problem.”
Kopriva closed the door and walked to the sidewalk where a dutiful citizen had put out his garbage can. With a casual look around to satisfy no one was watching, he slipped the pipe into the garbage.
Rousse sat on the sidewalk curb, looking dejected and angry. Travis stood behind him.
Kopriva got his attention and asked, “Whose crank is that, anyways? You guys share?”
Rousse sniffed. “Nice try.”
“Nice try what?”
“Whatever it is you found, it ain’t mine. Just like I said. So you can save your little cop interrogation games, all right?”
Kopriva glanced at Travis. “He gets a little testy when things don’t go his way, huh?”
Before Travis could answer, Rousse said, “Fuck you, man. I want to talk to my lawyer. His name is Joel Harrity.”
Kopriva smiled. Harrity was a local defense attorney who crusaded against the police department. Most of the maggots who claimed to be a client couldn’t afford him.
“What’re you smiling about, punk?” Rousse demanded. “I want to see your sergeant.”
Kopriva shrugged. “People in hell want ice water. That don’t mean they get it.”
Rousse glared at him, then shook his head. “Whatever.”
Baker-122 arrived. Officer Anthony Battaglia climbed out of the passenger side. His partner, Connor O’Sullivan, remained in the vehicle.
“What’s up, Stef?” Battaglia asked.
“Got a warrant, found some meth in the car. That’s the driver,” he pointed to Rousse. “Can you transport him to jail for me? I’ll be right behind you after I talk to Sgt. Shen.”
“Sure.” Battaglia waved O’Sullivan out of the car and they walked to where Travis guarded Rousse. Each officer took an arm and pulled Rousse to his feet. At their patrol car, O’Sullivan searched Rousse again. Kopriva didn’t take offense, though he knew some officers did. Which was too bad, in his opinion. If he put someone in his car, it was only after he searched them himself. He expected the same from other officers.
Once Rousse was safely stowed in the back of the patrol car, Battaglia waved to him and the pair headed south on Regal, slowing to talk momentarily with someone in another police car. Kopriva recognized it as the Sergeant’s car. After a moment, O’Sullivan accelerated away and continued south.
Sergeant Miyamoto Shen pulled his car in behind Kopriva’s and waited. Kopriva walked over and leaned into the window.
“What do you have, Stef?” the trim sergeant asked him.
“I stopped the car,” Kopriva explained, “and the passenger played the name game. Once we got that straightened out, it turns out he has a warrant. He’s the one in my car. Anyway, I found some meth in the console. Battaglia and Sully have my driver and they’re running him in for me on the meth.”
“So what do you need?”
“I want to do the weasel in the passenger seat, too. He’s the registered owner. I’d like to arrest them both for constructive possession.”
Shen considered. “So the driver is not the registered owner?”
“No.”
“And the RO was in the passenger seat?”
“Yes.”
“Where’d you find the drugs? The glove box?”
Kopriva shook his head. “No, the console between the seats. Both had access.”
“What are they saying?”
Kopriva’s radio crackled. “Bravo-123.”
“Neither one has been read their rights, but both say it’s the other guy’s meth,” he told Shen, then answered the radio. “Go ahead, I’m clear for traffic.”
“Morris is in as a confirmed gang member. He has a felony want for possession of crack cocaine, bail is $25,000.”
“Copy. I don’t have him here. Also, have records ship over the warrant for Maxwell.”
“Copy.”
Kopriva explained to Shen, “Isaiah Morris drove by us while I was waiting for Sully and Battaglia. So, what do you think about these two here?”
Shen stroked his chin for a moment. “Do them both for constructive possession. Be detailed in your report on where you found the dope and the issue of access for both parties. Their statements, too.”
“I will. Thanks.”
“Good stop, Stef.”
“Thanks, Sarge.”
Shen drove off. Kopriva locked the doors to the Monte Carlo and returned to his patrol car.
Maxwell leaned forward, his voice muffled by the plastic shield. “What’d he say?”
“He said I have to do you both. Sorry, man.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, man, I don’t need this shit.”
“Sorry.”
“Shit. Well, thanks for trying, man. Thanks for the pipe, too.”
Kopriva nodded. He turned on his favorite rock station and faded the music to the back. The tactic kept the prisoners from hearing the conversation between the officers.
“Advise radio we are en route to jail with one and our mileage is reset.” Kopriva punched the trip odometer reset. “And get our time of stop and a report number.”
Travis advised radio and carefully noted the time and report number. “Wow,” he said. “That was cool.”
“That is the way the game is played. That suspended ticket we wrote Rousse? He most likely won’t appear in court for it, so it’ll go to warrant. Next time he gets stopped, he gets arrested again and we get into his car and find his drugs again. Ba-da-boom, ba-da-bing.”
Travis nodded his head, smiling.
“See,” Kopriva continued, “some officers act like traffic enforcement is beneath them. But traffic is one of our best tools. Just because you stop someone doesn’t mean you have to write them. I let people off all the time. Decent people. Sometimes even shitheads. But look what happened tonight. We stopped Rousse on a piddly traffic stop for defective equipment. Now we have a misdemeanor, a warrant, and two felonies. Plus about three misdemeanors we threw away, if you count the pipe and obstructing charges.”
“Great,” Travis said. “This is great.” He nodded his head to the music and grinned.
The two were quiet the rest of the way to jail. Kopriva thought about how he would like to catch Morris again. Cream’s Sunshine of Your Love came on the radio. Kopriva turned it up.
“I’ve been waiting so long...”
Maxwell leaned forward and yelled over the din. “At least you guys got good tunes.”
“To be where I’m going…”
“Rock-n-roll,” Kopriva yelled back and flashed a grin at Travis. Pete Maxwell might be a doper maggot but now he thought they were buddies. You never knew when that might come in handy.
“In the sunshine of your luuhh-uuuhhve!”
They drove into the sally port at jail and secured their weapons in the lock-box outside the door. Kopriva walked Maxwell into the officer’s booking area and O’Sullivan handed him a booking slip.
“Rousse is all done, except for the report number.”
“Thanks, Sully.”
Battaglia nudged Kopriva. “You better check his work. Sometimes he forgets and he writes shit in Gaelic.”
“Better than Italian,” O’Sullivan fired back. He shook his head at Kopriva. “I can’t tell you how many times we’ve come in here to book someone named Mamma Mia.”
“Hey!” Battaglia said. “Leave alone my mother.”
O’Sullivan smiled. “Italian boys and their mothers.”
“Irish boys and their dresses.”
“They’re kilts, not dresses.”
Battaglia rolled his eyes and clapped Kopriva on the shoulder. “Good pinch, Stef.”
The two officers left, tossing insults at each other o
n the way out the door.
Kopriva filled out the booking slip for Maxwell and completed Rousse’s. A jailer brought out Maxwell’s warrant. Kopriva told Travis to read it to Maxwell.
Officer James Kahn stood in the corner of the small booking area. He looked up from his paperwork at Kopriva. “What’d you get, hotshot?”
“Warrant. Some meth.” Kahn was a hard-charger and Kopriva respected that. On the few calls he’d been on with him, though, Kahn had exhibited almost zero compassion. “What are you here for?”
Kahn cocked an eyebrow at him. “You know what’s a bad day? It’s a bad day when a policeman shows up at your doorstep at midnight with two Child Protective Services workers. He takes your kids and places them with CPS, then arrests you and your wife for warrants right out of your living room. That’s a bad day, man.”
Kopriva waited, knowing there was more to come.
“You know what’s a good day?” Kahn asked. “It’s a good day when you’re a cop and CPS calls you to go to some meth maggot’s house to place his kids in foster care. You go there and turn his kids over to CPS and then you arrest him and his skanky wife right out of their living room on some drug warrants. That is a good day.”
Kopriva laughed. “A very good day.”
Kahn returned to writing his report. Kopriva gathered up his own paperwork. The jailers returned their handcuffs, they retrieved their weapons and left jail. Even though Kopriva had a report to do, it was still early enough to get into some more action.
FOUR
Thursday August 18th
2309 hours
Pyotr Ifganovich thanked the customer for his business as he handed over the change. He preferred to go by the English version of his name, Peter. At varying times, depending on the government in power, it had been a popular name in Russia.
Here in America, he’d discovered with some surprise that Peter had also once been a popular name. He had not been so foolish as to believe all the lies the Soviet government told the Russian people regarding this nation, once his enemy. Neither had he been naïve enough to believe the myths of unsurpassed riches whispered out of KGB earshot.