getting his hands
on my bank account number? How does that keep me honest in the first place?”
“No other law enforcement agency has to reveal their assets or bank accounts,” Hollywood Nate said. “Do you think those few
crooked LAPD cops put their loot in their bank accounts? The only ones that get their privacy violated here are the honest
cops!”
Sergeant Lee Murillo looked at his watch then, and they took it as a cue. They ceased grumbling and settled down so he could
call roll and read the crimes. But before he started, Sergeant Murillo earned a bit of applause when he said quietly, “I’d
like to tell the federal judge that if I was a crooked cop, I would certainly never put the hot money in my bank account.
I’d stuff it in my freezer, just like your average US congressman.”
Six-X-Seventy-six decided to write their first ticket of the watch at 6:30 P.M ., shortly after clearing from roll call, when they saw a ten-year-old GMC pickup blow a stoplight on Melrose Avenue near
Paramount Studios. There was still plenty of daylight on this hot summer evening, and the setting sun was certainly not in
the eyes of the driver who was heading east.
Hollywood Nate was driving and said to Dana Vaughn, “You’re up.”
Dana grabbed her citation book, and after Nate tooted at the guy to pull over, he parked behind the pickup. She got out and
approached the car while Nate crossed behind her and stepped up on the sidewalk to look in through the passenger window.
The driver was a wide-bodied working stiff in his late twenties dressed in a gray work uniform. His fingernails were grease-caked,
and smudges showed on his ruddy cheeks, as though he’d been crawling under a car.
“Your license and registration, please,” Dana Vaughn said, and the guy fumbled with his wallet.
The smell of stale beer hit her, and when he handed over his driver’s license, she said, “How much have you had to drink today?”
The guy looked up with bloodshot, unfocused eyes, brushed his light brown hair off his forehead, and said, “The boss let me
off early because my wife had twins yesterday. A boy and a girl. Two of the mechanics I work with bought me some beers to
celebrate.”
“How many beers did you drink?”
“Seven,” he said. “Or eight. I’m not used to drinking.”
Dana looked over the bed of the truck at Hollywood Nate and said, “Whadda you know? A forthright man.” Then she opened the
door of the pickup and said, “Step out, sir. Up onto the sidewalk.”
When the new father stepped onto the sidewalk, he stumbled, and Nate reached out, grabbing his elbow. “Whoa, cowboy,” Nate
said.
“What’ve you been arrested for?” Dana asked.
“Nothing,” the young man said. “Never. You can check. And I only had one ticket for speeding in my whole life.”
“Your whole life is gonna be cut short if you keep drinking seven or eight beers and driving,” Dana said.
She looked at Nate, knowing that he hated booking drunk drivers, believing it was too much paperwork for a misdemeanor and
that it probably meant court time. He was always looking for something that could get his name in the news. Something that
could make a casting agent see it and remember him.
The mechanic stood on the sidewalk, facing the two cops and reeling slightly, taking out his cell phone. “I can call and have
my brother come get me,” he said boozily. “I’m a father now. I can’t afford to go to jail. Besides, Officer, I’m not really
drunk.”
“You’re not, huh,” Dana said. “Let’s see you count backward from seventy-five to fifty-five. If you can do it, we’ll let you
lock up your truck and call your brother.”
The mechanic said, “Yes, Officer.” And turning around unsteadily until his back was to the astonished cops, he said slowly
over his shoulder, “Can you please tell me again what number I should start with?”
Hollywood Nate stared dumbfounded, and when he’d
on my bank account number? How does that keep me honest in the first place?”
“No other law enforcement agency has to reveal their assets or bank accounts,” Hollywood Nate said. “Do you think those few
crooked LAPD cops put their loot in their bank accounts? The only ones that get their privacy violated here are the honest
cops!”
Sergeant Lee Murillo looked at his watch then, and they took it as a cue. They ceased grumbling and settled down so he could
call roll and read the crimes. But before he started, Sergeant Murillo earned a bit of applause when he said quietly, “I’d
like to tell the federal judge that if I was a crooked cop, I would certainly never put the hot money in my bank account.
I’d stuff it in my freezer, just like your average US congressman.”
Six-X-Seventy-six decided to write their first ticket of the watch at 6:30 P.M ., shortly after clearing from roll call, when they saw a ten-year-old GMC pickup blow a stoplight on Melrose Avenue near
Paramount Studios. There was still plenty of daylight on this hot summer evening, and the setting sun was certainly not in
the eyes of the driver who was heading east.
Hollywood Nate was driving and said to Dana Vaughn, “You’re up.”
Dana grabbed her citation book, and after Nate tooted at the guy to pull over, he parked behind the pickup. She got out and
approached the car while Nate crossed behind her and stepped up on the sidewalk to look in through the passenger window.
The driver was a wide-bodied working stiff in his late twenties dressed in a gray work uniform. His fingernails were grease-caked,
and smudges showed on his ruddy cheeks, as though he’d been crawling under a car.
“Your license and registration, please,” Dana Vaughn said, and the guy fumbled with his wallet.
The smell of stale beer hit her, and when he handed over his driver’s license, she said, “How much have you had to drink today?”
The guy looked up with bloodshot, unfocused eyes, brushed his light brown hair off his forehead, and said, “The boss let me
off early because my wife had twins yesterday. A boy and a girl. Two of the mechanics I work with bought me some beers to
celebrate.”
“How many beers did you drink?”
“Seven,” he said. “Or eight. I’m not used to drinking.”
Dana looked over the bed of the truck at Hollywood Nate and said, “Whadda you know? A forthright man.” Then she opened the
door of the pickup and said, “Step out, sir. Up onto the sidewalk.”
When the new father stepped onto the sidewalk, he stumbled, and Nate reached out, grabbing his elbow. “Whoa, cowboy,” Nate
said.
“What’ve you been arrested for?” Dana asked.
“Nothing,” the young man said. “Never. You can check. And I only had one ticket for speeding in my whole life.”
“Your whole life is gonna be cut short if you keep drinking seven or eight beers and driving,” Dana said.
She looked at Nate, knowing that he hated booking drunk drivers, believing it was too much paperwork for a misdemeanor and
that it probably meant court time. He was always looking for something that could get his name in the news. Something that
could make a casting agent see it and remember him.
The mechanic stood on the sidewalk, facing the two cops and reeling slightly, taking out his cell phone. “I can call and have
my brother come get me,” he said boozily. “I’m a father now. I can’t afford to go to jail. Besides, Officer, I’m not really
drunk.”
“You’re not, huh,” Dana said. “Let’s see you count backward from seventy-five to fifty-five. If you can do it, we’ll let you
lock up your truck and call your brother.”
The mechanic said, “Yes, Officer.” And turning around unsteadily until his back was to the astonished cops, he said slowly
over his shoulder, “Can you please tell me again what number I should start with?”
Hollywood Nate stared dumbfounded, and when he’d
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