Hand_Rifle_Guy
New member
This was inspired by Thairlair's thread about hassles with a CCW and the State Police.
Once upon a time in 1995, I lived in Los Altos, an affluent community on the san Francisco peninsula. At the time I was driving a 1972 AMC Matador, an ex-police car, to be precise. This car was tired, (It had a quarter-million miles on it.) and it used to get me pulled over at least once a month by the local cops, who were doing their jobs hassling cars in a rich neighborhood that really didn't belong there. They were nice enough about it, and they would just run me for warrants and let me go. The pull-overs tapered off as the guys on the force learned to recognize my old beater as belonging there. These stops usually happened at about midnight or so, as that was when I was usually headed home from my friends house after playing cards all evening. (Magic; The Gathering actually. That game's addictive!)
So one night I'm headed home, it's 12:15 or so, when the old red 'n blues appear behind me. I'm on a local expressway, but there's very little traffic as it's late. I of course pull over IMMEDIATELY, as I have no problem talking to the local guys, and I want to go home and go to bed.
Turns out this time it's the local county sheriff. I think, Eh, expecting nothing different than the usual once-over. The sheriff says hello, and asks if I know what he pulled me over for. I reply no, as I wasn't speeding. he tells me that it's for a burned-out license plate light, (typical made-up reason), and then asks me to please step out of the car. BOOM goes the heartrate. Just so happens that locked in the trunk, in a pistol case, is my new CZ-52, that I have picked up the day before. now, there's nothing illegal about the situation, but I've never talked to a cop with a gun in my car before, as this was early in my gun-collecting days. (Gun #4) Now I am by nature really shy. Cops ALWAYS make me nervous. After all, I've watched "Cops" on T.V., and I know that as far as cops go, it's Guilty Until Proven Innocent, and they can ruin my day on a whim. But hey, it never mattered before, so I figure this guy's just going to show me something on the back of my beater.
Nope.
"I'd like you to tell me what you're on tonight, sir."
I reply "Whaat?!! What are you TALKING about?"
"Well, it's pretty obvious you're on something. You're very amped up right now."
This leaves me in complete shock. This has NEVER happened before. And I haven't touched stimulants of any kind since I was a dangerous teen-ager. I was a hyperactive kid, and I found out I had no use for such things. This has proved to be my undoing, as I have a tendency to talk rather quickly. Comes from having a multi-track mind that typically runs at a mile a minute ALWAYS. I know what my next sentence will be halfway through the current one, and I get impatient.
Naturally, this causes an adrenalin dump. Great. And he tells me this after exchanging all of 6-7 words with me.
"Well, you're wrong. I had a drink with dinner, about 6 hours ago, but I'm not ON anything. What do you mean?"
"Now you're not being honest with me. I want you to tell me what you took tonight."
"I haven't taken anything tonight. You got it wrong, guy."
"Well, you sure seem awfully nervous. Any weapons in the car?"
I'm an honest guy. So I tell him about my pistol. That's LOCKED. In the TRUNK. In a CASE.
BIG mistake. Next stop, handcuffs! Lovely! Now I'm just about in a state of panic! I've been arrested once, for an unpaid traffic deal. I ABSOLUTELY HATE BEING ARRESTED! Being in handcuffs does unpleasant things to my state of mind.
So we spend the next 45 mniutes arguing about my state of "intoxication", with me trying desperately to stay calm and not lose my head and start screaming at this guy in a frothing rage. Adrenalin is coursing through me, and I can't run. Guess how many options "Fight or Flight" leaves me?
He proved his point by checking my pulse. (Boomboomboomboomboomboomboom etc....go figure.)
I'm irritating him. I won't tell him that I'm on drugs, but he can tell I'm lying. He knows this, he tells me, because he's had advanced training, and knows just what to look for.
At some point back-up comes to look at me, and naturally confirms his suspicions. (Boomboomboomboomboomboomboom...)
So then comes the threats, and the explanations of consequences. "Where'd you get it? who from? Why can't you be honest with me? You're gonna lose your guns if you get a felony, you know."
Explanations of honesty about the pistol don't wash. It certainly doesn't help that this clown has never laid eyes on a CZ-52 in his life, as they have no manufacturer's name on them, just a three letter code. 4-5 explanations of the gun's origin are neccessary before he grudgingly accepts the story. And my original sales receipt was in the box!
We go round and round with his threats and whining about honesty. Staying calm is NOT working for me, as this guy is telling me I'm going to jail.
At one point, he's trying really hard to get me to admit that I'm on something, so he won't charge me with gun possesion while under the influence of a narcotic. "They'll take your guns." He says.
I SNARLED at him at then. "So you want me to admit to a felony, so you won't charge me with a DIFFERENT felony?! WHAT KIND OF A DUMB-A$$ ARE YOU? DO YOU SUPPOSE THAT I AM SOME SORT OF IDIOT?!!! F%&K YOU AND THE HORSE YOU RODE IN ON!!!" I actually said those exact words. Forgive me, I was enraged and terrified at the same time, and had no idea of the outcome of this as yet.
He looked rather hurt at that point. He had been quite civil in the application of his threats, and probably thought he didn't deserve to be yelled at.
To make a loud story short and quiet, he puts me in the back of his car so he can go search mine.
Where he finds my .50 cal. ammo box filled to the top with three different kinds of ammo. (.30-30, .303 British, and .45-70.) It had been riding in the car since the week before when I had gone shooting. He got a little weirded out by what amounted to a couple hundred rounds in the box. Wanted to know why I had SO MUCH ammo.
And he had NO IDEA what to make of the .45-70, as he'd never seen the like.
He arrainges to tow my car (It's not legally parked. Can't leave it on the expressway.), and off we got to jail, for booking and a blood test. On the way down, he gets all chummy, and asks if he can answer any questions. I fire back, "What are you going to do with my GUN?!!" I guess my complete rage and stubborn-ness made an impression on him, because he said he wouldn't charge me with the gun possesion, just being under the influence of a narcotic, and a D.U.I., because I was driving when he charged me with the narcotic thing. But he couldn't leave it in the car, so he was just going to put it in the property room as property, not evidence. Wow, what a swell guy! Can't be bothered to let me go, not once the cuffs are on. Why, he might lose face!
So we stop at some substation, where I cough up a blood sample, (To prove my "guilt") and he can inventory my ammo box. This bozo knew nothing of guns. He wrote down four different kinds of ammo. Turns out I had .50 caliber .303's, because they were headstamped with a 50, the year they were made!
What's worse was while he spent 40 minutes peering at ammo and writing it down, he had to stop anytime another cop came into the patking lot, call them over, and show off the huge arsenal of ammo this guy had in his car! While I sat in the back of his cruiser, and got looong looks from cops who had to see the crankster with the assualt box. And of course, those .45-70's! What a sensation they were!
Next, it was off to San Jose Main Jail, as lovely a piece of municipal architecture as you're likely to see. Not!. I was proccessed, had my pockets emptied, and was unceremoniously dumped in the drunk tank. Well of course. I had a D.U.I., even though I wasn't pulled over for impaired driving. The guys at the correction department had a field day with my inventory list, which of course Mr. Sheriff had to show them. They all wanted to know why I had .50 cal.'s. I had no clue what they were talking about, and I thought they meant the .45-70's, so I told them they were for my antique rifle. I guess they thought they were .50 BMG's. Idiots. well, ignorant anyway.
I got to spend the next six hours shivering on a concrete floor, trying to sleep while happy-drunk mexicans had loud conversations over my head. At least THEY were drunk. They were all-right guys. That was the best thing that happened that night.
Next morning, they hand me a provisional license (D.U.I.'s result in automatic suspension.) and a plastic bag with the contents of my pockets, (Out of which someone swiped a loose round of .45-70 I'd had in my pocket.) paperwork with my court date, and turn me loose twenty miles from home, with all of $2, and I'm supposed to be at work! I call work, and tell them I'll be there as soon as I get my car. This required a trip to three different cities to get a vehicle release, and to pick up the car. Freeing the car cost $147, $80 for the tow, and $67 for the release from the sherff's office. The $2 got me a bus pass, to begin the process of retrieving the car. This took ALL day. The Boss-man was no end of pleased, and the whole shop had a great luagh at my expense. Here starts the fun of Waiting For Court. STRESS!, as I have no idea what's going to happen next.
I hate the bus.
The end of the story is that two weeks later I get my license in the mail, (They confiscated it.) stapled to a form letter that explained that I was not actually arrested, merely detained, and no charges were filed due to (B) lack of evidence. (The blood test found NOTHING! Surprise, surprise!).
I ain't over yet.
Once upon a time in 1995, I lived in Los Altos, an affluent community on the san Francisco peninsula. At the time I was driving a 1972 AMC Matador, an ex-police car, to be precise. This car was tired, (It had a quarter-million miles on it.) and it used to get me pulled over at least once a month by the local cops, who were doing their jobs hassling cars in a rich neighborhood that really didn't belong there. They were nice enough about it, and they would just run me for warrants and let me go. The pull-overs tapered off as the guys on the force learned to recognize my old beater as belonging there. These stops usually happened at about midnight or so, as that was when I was usually headed home from my friends house after playing cards all evening. (Magic; The Gathering actually. That game's addictive!)
So one night I'm headed home, it's 12:15 or so, when the old red 'n blues appear behind me. I'm on a local expressway, but there's very little traffic as it's late. I of course pull over IMMEDIATELY, as I have no problem talking to the local guys, and I want to go home and go to bed.
Turns out this time it's the local county sheriff. I think, Eh, expecting nothing different than the usual once-over. The sheriff says hello, and asks if I know what he pulled me over for. I reply no, as I wasn't speeding. he tells me that it's for a burned-out license plate light, (typical made-up reason), and then asks me to please step out of the car. BOOM goes the heartrate. Just so happens that locked in the trunk, in a pistol case, is my new CZ-52, that I have picked up the day before. now, there's nothing illegal about the situation, but I've never talked to a cop with a gun in my car before, as this was early in my gun-collecting days. (Gun #4) Now I am by nature really shy. Cops ALWAYS make me nervous. After all, I've watched "Cops" on T.V., and I know that as far as cops go, it's Guilty Until Proven Innocent, and they can ruin my day on a whim. But hey, it never mattered before, so I figure this guy's just going to show me something on the back of my beater.
Nope.
"I'd like you to tell me what you're on tonight, sir."
I reply "Whaat?!! What are you TALKING about?"
"Well, it's pretty obvious you're on something. You're very amped up right now."
This leaves me in complete shock. This has NEVER happened before. And I haven't touched stimulants of any kind since I was a dangerous teen-ager. I was a hyperactive kid, and I found out I had no use for such things. This has proved to be my undoing, as I have a tendency to talk rather quickly. Comes from having a multi-track mind that typically runs at a mile a minute ALWAYS. I know what my next sentence will be halfway through the current one, and I get impatient.
Naturally, this causes an adrenalin dump. Great. And he tells me this after exchanging all of 6-7 words with me.
"Well, you're wrong. I had a drink with dinner, about 6 hours ago, but I'm not ON anything. What do you mean?"
"Now you're not being honest with me. I want you to tell me what you took tonight."
"I haven't taken anything tonight. You got it wrong, guy."
"Well, you sure seem awfully nervous. Any weapons in the car?"
I'm an honest guy. So I tell him about my pistol. That's LOCKED. In the TRUNK. In a CASE.
BIG mistake. Next stop, handcuffs! Lovely! Now I'm just about in a state of panic! I've been arrested once, for an unpaid traffic deal. I ABSOLUTELY HATE BEING ARRESTED! Being in handcuffs does unpleasant things to my state of mind.
So we spend the next 45 mniutes arguing about my state of "intoxication", with me trying desperately to stay calm and not lose my head and start screaming at this guy in a frothing rage. Adrenalin is coursing through me, and I can't run. Guess how many options "Fight or Flight" leaves me?
He proved his point by checking my pulse. (Boomboomboomboomboomboomboom etc....go figure.)
I'm irritating him. I won't tell him that I'm on drugs, but he can tell I'm lying. He knows this, he tells me, because he's had advanced training, and knows just what to look for.
At some point back-up comes to look at me, and naturally confirms his suspicions. (Boomboomboomboomboomboomboom...)
So then comes the threats, and the explanations of consequences. "Where'd you get it? who from? Why can't you be honest with me? You're gonna lose your guns if you get a felony, you know."
Explanations of honesty about the pistol don't wash. It certainly doesn't help that this clown has never laid eyes on a CZ-52 in his life, as they have no manufacturer's name on them, just a three letter code. 4-5 explanations of the gun's origin are neccessary before he grudgingly accepts the story. And my original sales receipt was in the box!
We go round and round with his threats and whining about honesty. Staying calm is NOT working for me, as this guy is telling me I'm going to jail.
At one point, he's trying really hard to get me to admit that I'm on something, so he won't charge me with gun possesion while under the influence of a narcotic. "They'll take your guns." He says.
I SNARLED at him at then. "So you want me to admit to a felony, so you won't charge me with a DIFFERENT felony?! WHAT KIND OF A DUMB-A$$ ARE YOU? DO YOU SUPPOSE THAT I AM SOME SORT OF IDIOT?!!! F%&K YOU AND THE HORSE YOU RODE IN ON!!!" I actually said those exact words. Forgive me, I was enraged and terrified at the same time, and had no idea of the outcome of this as yet.
He looked rather hurt at that point. He had been quite civil in the application of his threats, and probably thought he didn't deserve to be yelled at.
To make a loud story short and quiet, he puts me in the back of his car so he can go search mine.
Where he finds my .50 cal. ammo box filled to the top with three different kinds of ammo. (.30-30, .303 British, and .45-70.) It had been riding in the car since the week before when I had gone shooting. He got a little weirded out by what amounted to a couple hundred rounds in the box. Wanted to know why I had SO MUCH ammo.
And he had NO IDEA what to make of the .45-70, as he'd never seen the like.He arrainges to tow my car (It's not legally parked. Can't leave it on the expressway.), and off we got to jail, for booking and a blood test. On the way down, he gets all chummy, and asks if he can answer any questions. I fire back, "What are you going to do with my GUN?!!" I guess my complete rage and stubborn-ness made an impression on him, because he said he wouldn't charge me with the gun possesion, just being under the influence of a narcotic, and a D.U.I., because I was driving when he charged me with the narcotic thing. But he couldn't leave it in the car, so he was just going to put it in the property room as property, not evidence. Wow, what a swell guy! Can't be bothered to let me go, not once the cuffs are on. Why, he might lose face!
So we stop at some substation, where I cough up a blood sample, (To prove my "guilt") and he can inventory my ammo box. This bozo knew nothing of guns. He wrote down four different kinds of ammo. Turns out I had .50 caliber .303's, because they were headstamped with a 50, the year they were made!
What's worse was while he spent 40 minutes peering at ammo and writing it down, he had to stop anytime another cop came into the patking lot, call them over, and show off the huge arsenal of ammo this guy had in his car! While I sat in the back of his cruiser, and got looong looks from cops who had to see the crankster with the assualt box. And of course, those .45-70's! What a sensation they were!
Next, it was off to San Jose Main Jail, as lovely a piece of municipal architecture as you're likely to see. Not!. I was proccessed, had my pockets emptied, and was unceremoniously dumped in the drunk tank. Well of course. I had a D.U.I., even though I wasn't pulled over for impaired driving. The guys at the correction department had a field day with my inventory list, which of course Mr. Sheriff had to show them. They all wanted to know why I had .50 cal.'s. I had no clue what they were talking about, and I thought they meant the .45-70's, so I told them they were for my antique rifle. I guess they thought they were .50 BMG's. Idiots. well, ignorant anyway.
I got to spend the next six hours shivering on a concrete floor, trying to sleep while happy-drunk mexicans had loud conversations over my head. At least THEY were drunk. They were all-right guys. That was the best thing that happened that night.
Next morning, they hand me a provisional license (D.U.I.'s result in automatic suspension.) and a plastic bag with the contents of my pockets, (Out of which someone swiped a loose round of .45-70 I'd had in my pocket.) paperwork with my court date, and turn me loose twenty miles from home, with all of $2, and I'm supposed to be at work! I call work, and tell them I'll be there as soon as I get my car. This required a trip to three different cities to get a vehicle release, and to pick up the car. Freeing the car cost $147, $80 for the tow, and $67 for the release from the sherff's office. The $2 got me a bus pass, to begin the process of retrieving the car. This took ALL day. The Boss-man was no end of pleased, and the whole shop had a great luagh at my expense. Here starts the fun of Waiting For Court. STRESS!, as I have no idea what's going to happen next.
I hate the bus.
The end of the story is that two weeks later I get my license in the mail, (They confiscated it.) stapled to a form letter that explained that I was not actually arrested, merely detained, and no charges were filed due to (B) lack of evidence. (The blood test found NOTHING! Surprise, surprise!).
I ain't over yet.