How did you spend your New Year's--me, I was arrested for murder.

Well, “held for questioning,” at least.

I was going to meet an old friend at a Starbucks, had parked and was a half a block away. This cop comes along and stops me, asking for ID. I gave him my driver’s license, and he calls it in, and then starts asking me a lot of questions. Questions that I really didn’t think were his business. But I answered anyway. Then, within a few minutes, a was surrounded by six or seven more cops. “What’s going on?” I asked. “I’ll tell you in a minute,” he said. While the other cops repeated the same questions, the original cop stepped away, and started talking on his blackberry. (They all had blackberries, it turned out, all the same model.) They pulled out a sheet of paper with a still–clearly a still from some video surveillance–and were looking from me to the paper, puzzling over something.

The original cop told me that “last night a crime was committed nearby, and you fit the descirption of a video tape we have.”

Hmm. I really wanted to see the photo, but they wouldn’t let me. I’d figured that somebody had robbed a 7-11, and that I’d be cleared soon.

More calls on the blackberry. “Well, sir, we’re going to take you downtown to talk to you.” They were very polite. They cuffed me, and took me to a patrol car where I had to squeeze into an impossible space, with no leg room. “This is getting serous,” I thought. I started to think about my alibi. I hadn’t been anywhere near that neighborhood.

The officer who took me downtown was pleasant; she didn’t treat me like a criminal. In fact, when we arrived, she had to ask where to go. “A rookie,” I thought.

We were escorted to the “fouth floor,” which didn’t mean anything to me, until we reached the door, which said “Homocide.” Then I started to panic. “Homocide?” I pleaded to my escort. “Yes,” she said, “that’s what the door says.”

“We’ll explain in a minute,” said a guy in suit, who apparently was the detective. They took me to some kind of holding tank with windows. Then, from time to time, the detective and officers would peer in at me. The detective came in, and I said, “Am I being accused of murder?”

“Well,” he said, "We have a video of a murder, and it kinda looks like you. He went back out to look at the video. “Should you be?”

“Should I be what?”

“Invovled in a murder?”

“Of course not!” One of us had seen too many crimes dramas on TV.

He left, and then he came back, with one of the print outs. Finally I was allowed to see it. “The reason why you’re here is because you might resemble the person in this video who killed someone.”

I looked at the print out.

“Are you kidding?” I shouted. “I don’t look anything like that guy!” He’s 15 years older and 30 pounds heavier than me. And he’s creepy-looking. And he’s wearing a red sweater."

“No, it’s dark. Notice that everyone in the still that had dard clothes came out red.”

So really, what he didn’t want to admit, was that they had a lousy printer.

"Well, the still is not as clear as the video. "

So they really didn’t want to talk to me. They wanted to see me, and compare me with the video. Which they did. The whole problem was that they have a lousy printer. I thought, “You’re the Homocide devision, and you can’t get a decent printer.”

He left, and came back. “They’re going to take you.”

The cop who’d taken me to headquarters escorted me back to the patrol car. (All this time I’d been cuffed.)

“May I ask where you’re taking me now?”

“Back to the Starbucks. Well, not just there, but close. That would be embarrassing.”

Maybe. But to be delivered in front of the Starbucks, unlocked, and freed, might have convinced my friend that indeed that cops had held me for murder. I expressed my concern that I might be stopped again for the same reaon, so she wrote a little note: “guizot has been interviewed by Det. So-and-so regarding the 157 on Such-and-Such Street.”

Unless the real murderer posts here, you win! :eek:

Well, at least you got a pretty good story out of it…

I thought it was a 187.

Seems like they could have un-cuffed you for the ride back.

I got accused of blowing up a construction site when I was in high school. I was at work at my part-time job one day when the police swooped in and took me in for questioning. They said that my little pickup truck had been at the scene which was about 15 miles away. Luckily, I worked nearly every day and my time-card showed that I was at work at the time. Ever vigilant, they then declared that my little brother borrowed my truck and he did it. I chuckled because this is where being a real dick comes in handy. I never let my brother so much as have a glance at the driver’s seat and I usually made him ride in the back if he needed to go somewhere. They let me go but the bastards went straight to my house and confiscated all of my firearms (and the families firearms) for ballistics testing. We hadn’t shot anything in a few months and the tests came back fine. I was pissed though.

Homocide? :eek:

Hmm. Is the penalty for committing typographical errors worse if it’s a hate crime?

So… you got away with it… this time.

I drove through the presidential motorcade (in Venezuela) and was held for a few hours while they figured what they were supposed to do with us (I had 2 friends in my car). The whole event went from bizarre to bizarrer when they found my AD&D dice in the car. After some hours of total confusion, I was unceremoniously dumped in a Traffic Police post where I got a ticket for driving against the flow of traffic (probably the only infraction I hadn’t incurred that night). After 10 years and 3 presidents, I still haven’t paid it. :slight_smile:

Holy crap! You win!

Guizot Wins

Heck of a tale you got for the future. All I did was have a bunch of friends over and get very comfortably drunk on White & Chocolate Russians.

Required: One blender, one measuring cup. A bottle of Vanilla Extract, Ice, Milk, Vanilla or Chocolate Ice Cream, Kahlua and Vodka.
Measure out 6 ounces of Kahlua and 3 ounces of Vodka. Add a dash of vanilla. Fill the blender to one third with ice, another third of ice cream and then pour in the alcohol. Fill to an inch or two below the top with milk and then Chop and blend the mix. Serve in large glasses and continue to make additional pitchers.


Well I got a call from an old friend (20 years in April) and met him and his intended at a lounge near my home. While I was there I ran into other old friends, I was fed a number of strong drinks plus a couple of the Freixenet splits that the management were distributing. At 3:00 I discovered that I was making out at the bar with a woman I didn’tknow, whose name was Rachel but whose face escapes me. When I left, I told her, for some reason, that she’d broken my heart. You know, you forget to drink for a couple weeks and you wind up with the tolerance of a college boy.

Anyway, Guizot, I know how you feel. I have been tossed many times on suspicion of resembling someone suspicious, and it certainly can be a hassle. Never for murder, though. You must have one badassed mien.

I spent this NYE the way I spend every NYE. Plotting my revenge on all who live on this wretched orb called Earth.

At least you weren’t murdered by a murderer.

Not quite as exciting, but when I was living in Berlin ages ago, then President Carter was visiting the city. By coincidence, it was also my birthday, so some friends invited me to a cafe on Ku’Damm (the main blvd of West Berlin at the time) and we had the usual cake and coffee, not realizing Jimmy Carter was going to be walking down Ku’Damm that day. This was back in the days Presidents of the US were still popular in Germany and the locals stood on the streets waving paper US flags.

At any rate, one of my friends gave me a potted palm tree for my birthday, a little over three feet high, with shiny green paper around the big pot at the bottom.

So, here I am, walking down Ku’Damm, carrying this potted plant while the President of the US is also walking down Ku’Damm. Plus, how many young men in Berlin casually walk down a busy street with a huge-ass potted plant in their arms?..a potted plant that, oh, I donno, I guess would be large enough to hold maybe a machine gun or a rifle.

I was stopped four times in about five or six city blocks. Twice by US Secret Service who were surprised to hear I was American - one said, “what are you doing carrying a potted plant on this street?” The other stabbed his finger in the dirt and checked the plant out. Then I got stopped by the German police twice - one was very polite and the other wasn’t and told me to get off the boulevard and walk down a side street immediately. I figured that was pretty good advice and did exactly that. I bet if I tried carrying that plant down a street with a Presidential parade going on today, I would be sitting in Guantanamo Bay learning Spanish and Arabic by now.

But guizot, that is one hell of a story, being handcuffed and dragged downtown for a murder rap. Imagine if they had put you in a line up, and the sole witness also thought you looked like the suspect…you might have gotten to spend the night in a cell with Bubba - wouldn’t that have been fun?!

Did you make your saving throw?

Except us, though right?

You’re right; I was just trying to be discreet.

VCO3, I wasn’t thinking about orthography, when I was being accused of murder. Sorry. I hope your sensibilities weren’t too much offended. Would you like me to send you a bouquet?