him.
“Twenty-three, twenty-four now.”
He stared at the car for another long moment, then saw it. “Broken tail-light?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?” Kopriva asked good-naturedly.
“Telling.”
“Do we stop them?”
Travis didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Kopriva picked up the microphone. Before notifying radio, he told Travis, “There’s two of them. If one runs, stay with the car. If both run, you take the passenger. Okay?”
Travis nodded, his eyes dancing with excitement.
Kopriva recited the license plate and their location to radio and activated his overhead lights. The car i m mediately pulled to the side while Kopriva put his spotlight and takedown lights on the vehicle. He slammed the car into park and still managed to beat Travis out of the car.
Both occupants remained seated, neither one seat-belted. Kopriva approached cautiously, lighting up the back seat with his heavy maglight and then searching for the driver’s hands. They were on the wheel. The passe n ger’s hands rested on his lap.
The driver was a white male in his mid-twenties with long, greasy hair and a scraggly growth of beard. “Is there a problem, officer?” asked with careful politeness.
This is going to be a good stop.
“You have several equipment defects, sir,” Kopriva told him. “Your headlight is out and one tail-light is broken.”
“They are?” The driver acted surprised.
Kopriva nodded. “You were also traveling at thirty miles per hour. The speed limit here is twenty-five.”
“I thought it was thirty.”
“It’s twenty-five. May I see your driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance?”
“Yes, sir.” The driver began to dig through a pile of papers above the visor.
Kopriva motioned over the top of the car to Travis, who stood beside the passenger window. “Get his I.D.”
Travis nodded and spoke to the passenger.
The driver nervously handed Kopriva an insurance card that had expired four months ago, along with the registr a tion. The registered owner was Pete Maxwell.
“Are you Pete?”
The driver shook his head. “No. Pete’s my friend. He loaned me the car.” He handed Kopriva his license.
Kopriva looked at it. Right away, he noticed it was a state identif i cation card, not a driver’s license. While a perfectly legal form of ident i fication, even issued by Department of Licensing, it was not a license. And it usually meant that the driver’s status was suspended.
“Well, Mr...” Kopriva glanced down at the card. “Mr. Rousse. This isn’t a license. Do you have a l i cense?”
Rousse shook his head. “It’s suspended,” he said ru e fully.
“And Mr. Maxwell’s insurance has lapsed.”
Rousse nodded glumly.
“Okay, wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.” Kopriva glanced at Tr a vis. “Got his I.D.?”
Travis shook his head. “He won’t give it to me.”
Oh really ? Kopriva peered at the passenger through the driver’s wi n dow. “What’s your name?”
The thin passenger had jet-black hair, shaved on the sides and long in the back. His beard stubble was thick. He stared straight ahead and didn’t respond to Kopriva’s question.
“I said, what’s your name, passenger!” Kopriva put an edge in his voice.
The man turned. “Why do I have to tell you?”
He has a warrant .
“Are you wearing a seat-belt?” Kopriva asked.
“No. Well, I was. I took it off when we stopped.”
Kopriva shook his head. “No, you didn’t. You weren’t wearing one. That’s a traffic infraction. You are now required to identify yourself. If you don’t, I’ll arrest you for Refusal To Cooperate. Now what’s your name?”
The passenger considered briefly, then said, “I’m Dennis Maxwell.”
Travis wrote it in his pocket notebook.
“Middle initial?” Kopriva asked.
“G.”
“Date of birth?”
“Uh, ten…seventeen, sixty-three. I mean, sixty-two.” He gave a nervous grin. “Listen, I’m not trying to be a jerk. I’ve just been hassled
“Twenty-three, twenty-four now.”
He stared at the car for another long moment, then saw it. “Broken tail-light?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?” Kopriva asked good-naturedly.
“Telling.”
“Do we stop them?”
Travis didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Kopriva picked up the microphone. Before notifying radio, he told Travis, “There’s two of them. If one runs, stay with the car. If both run, you take the passenger. Okay?”
Travis nodded, his eyes dancing with excitement.
Kopriva recited the license plate and their location to radio and activated his overhead lights. The car i m mediately pulled to the side while Kopriva put his spotlight and takedown lights on the vehicle. He slammed the car into park and still managed to beat Travis out of the car.
Both occupants remained seated, neither one seat-belted. Kopriva approached cautiously, lighting up the back seat with his heavy maglight and then searching for the driver’s hands. They were on the wheel. The passe n ger’s hands rested on his lap.
The driver was a white male in his mid-twenties with long, greasy hair and a scraggly growth of beard. “Is there a problem, officer?” asked with careful politeness.
This is going to be a good stop.
“You have several equipment defects, sir,” Kopriva told him. “Your headlight is out and one tail-light is broken.”
“They are?” The driver acted surprised.
Kopriva nodded. “You were also traveling at thirty miles per hour. The speed limit here is twenty-five.”
“I thought it was thirty.”
“It’s twenty-five. May I see your driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance?”
“Yes, sir.” The driver began to dig through a pile of papers above the visor.
Kopriva motioned over the top of the car to Travis, who stood beside the passenger window. “Get his I.D.”
Travis nodded and spoke to the passenger.
The driver nervously handed Kopriva an insurance card that had expired four months ago, along with the registr a tion. The registered owner was Pete Maxwell.
“Are you Pete?”
The driver shook his head. “No. Pete’s my friend. He loaned me the car.” He handed Kopriva his license.
Kopriva looked at it. Right away, he noticed it was a state identif i cation card, not a driver’s license. While a perfectly legal form of ident i fication, even issued by Department of Licensing, it was not a license. And it usually meant that the driver’s status was suspended.
“Well, Mr...” Kopriva glanced down at the card. “Mr. Rousse. This isn’t a license. Do you have a l i cense?”
Rousse shook his head. “It’s suspended,” he said ru e fully.
“And Mr. Maxwell’s insurance has lapsed.”
Rousse nodded glumly.
“Okay, wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.” Kopriva glanced at Tr a vis. “Got his I.D.?”
Travis shook his head. “He won’t give it to me.”
Oh really ? Kopriva peered at the passenger through the driver’s wi n dow. “What’s your name?”
The thin passenger had jet-black hair, shaved on the sides and long in the back. His beard stubble was thick. He stared straight ahead and didn’t respond to Kopriva’s question.
“I said, what’s your name, passenger!” Kopriva put an edge in his voice.
The man turned. “Why do I have to tell you?”
He has a warrant .
“Are you wearing a seat-belt?” Kopriva asked.
“No. Well, I was. I took it off when we stopped.”
Kopriva shook his head. “No, you didn’t. You weren’t wearing one. That’s a traffic infraction. You are now required to identify yourself. If you don’t, I’ll arrest you for Refusal To Cooperate. Now what’s your name?”
The passenger considered briefly, then said, “I’m Dennis Maxwell.”
Travis wrote it in his pocket notebook.
“Middle initial?” Kopriva asked.
“G.”
“Date of birth?”
“Uh, ten…seventeen, sixty-three. I mean, sixty-two.” He gave a nervous grin. “Listen, I’m not trying to be a jerk. I’ve just been hassled
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