Talk about some of your more memorable run-ins with the law.

When I was in high school, I was a real shit. Did all sorts of stuff I’m not at all proud of. The worst that I got caught for though…

I and three of my fellow reptilian brained teenaged goofs decided to blow off some steam after our first semester finals. Specifically, the plan was to blow some shit up.

We made attempts to buy gunpowder at the local gunshops, but they just looked at our fake ID’s and laughed at us. So we decide to make a bomb with the materials we had on hand.

So it was that we found ourselves in a large vacant lot at the outskirts of town, just off the road, cutting open leftover fireworks and prying open .22 shells by flashlight and dumping the contents into a mason jar in the trunk of my buddy’s car. Then we threw in a few intact shells for good measure, inserted the fuse, and capped the jar.

Then we see the headlights. We freeze, hoping whoever it is will just drive by. The car screeches to a halt right in front of us (here I slam the trunk shut), and the cops jump out and crouch behind the doors.

“This is the police! Keep your hands where we can see them!”

So they seached us, emptied our pockets (pocket knives, fake IDs), bawled us out for the bomb, then confiscated our pyrotechnics and the flat of 30 eggs that also happened to be in the trunk. Gave us back our knives and bad ID.

Since this was in the pre-Columbine days of yore, they accepted our explanation that we had only intended to blow up a tree stump. No arrests, no phone calls to our parents, they just made us pick up the mess of fireworks wrappers and other paraphenalia we’d dropped on the frozen ground. I guess they were just glad we weren’t doing anything dangerous like smoking weed. :rolleyes:

Before we were formally introduced with the IDs and all, the cops referred to one of my friends as “redcoat” on account of his vividly coloured Gore-Tex.

eg: “One at a time, step to the patrol car, slowly empty your pockets, then place both your hands on the hood. Redcoat, you first.”

So of course, that was his nickname forevermore. But when I saw him again on Monday, he was wearing a new jacket.

“The old one’s ruined.”, he said. “Remember when they made us pick up all that garbage? One of the things I picked up turned out to be a frozen dog turd. It thawed in my pocket overnight.”

Friends, that wasn’t the dumbest stunt we pulled that night, just the one we got caught on.

Much more recently, just a couple months ago, I stole a sign off the works yard at a local park. It was kind of a favour for a friend. I strapped it to the back seat of my motorcyle, headed for home, and was promptly stopped at a drinking-driving roadblock. At that point I know I’m caught; there’s no room to turn around, no way to hide the incriminating evidence.

And incriminating it was. Here’s this aluminum sign, with the bolts and freshly cut ends of fence-wire still attached, and peek at the underside and you see “No Trespasssing” and “Property of Smalltown Parks and Rec.”

Officer says, “Have you been drinking tonight?”

Me, “No, sir.”

“Do you have a valid class 6 [motorcycle driver’s] licence?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Alright, you can go.”

How he missed it I’ll never know.


Caliban that s scary… I always thought only bored small-town cops were dangerous!!!

dave99… the sign incident made me think about some friends of mine who always take those “to let/ for sale” signs (not too hard to find a few in England… there are entire streets with a sign in front of each house) they grab a few and put them in front of diffrent houses or arrange them nicely in their own backyards… I wonder how they d explane it to a cop…
the one with a graphic-imagination

My hometown is Lincolnwood, IL, which is described as a “bedroom community on the outskirts of Chicago.” Basically, the town is run by elderly retired citizens who have little to do with their time. The cops, coincidentally, are also bored out of their skulls, and spend most of their time waiting in speed traps.
Its my senior year of high school, Western Civilization class. Project assigned: dramatize some event of historical importance to Europe. Myself and three of my friends decide that an event worthy of our talents is WWI.
From class, we’d determined that the most important part of WWI was trenches, and “going over the top,” so we decided to film some trench combat scenes.
Trouble was, no trench, and we didn’t feel like digging one.
Luckily, Lincolnwood has an abandonned railroad, and the drainage ditches along the tracks look pretty darn close to trenches, when filmed from the right angle. Unluckily, the railroad runs right behind some elderly citizen’s houses.
We made a “machine gun” by using electrical tape to put two pipes together, and painting the whole thing black. We also had a broken air-rifle, a .22 (no ammo), militia-type outfits, and a wide assortment of firecrackers. Plus more fake blood than a Hollywood slasher movie, and a camcorder to tape the whole mess.
So, we’re out on the railroad lines, in broad daylight (better for filming), dressed in cammo, waving guns in the air, shooting off firecrackers, bleeding fake blood, falling, dying, etc. And one of the elderly citizens sees us, and informs the cops that a militia may be forming up in her back yard.
The police arrive. Four squad cars, plus dogs, plus riot gear. Many, many police. With guns drawn. We are surrounded. My friend, in his infinite wisdom, is still filming. My other friend, in still more wisdom, reaches into his coat pocket to get out his ID (for reasons that were never explained to me). This nearly cost him his life.
Finally, one of the cops is brave enough to order us to drop the weapons, and turn off the (explitive) camcorder. We comply. We are rushed, forced to the ground, cuffed, and sat upon. At this point we are allowed to speak.
After thirty minutes of intense negotiations (“We’re making a movie!”) we are returned to the custody of our parents, who have a good laugh at our expense.
Worst of all, our movie only earned a C- in the class.

About ten years ago I was in New Jersey at night finishing up a delivery job in my car. I got lost in the burbs near the George Washington Bridge, and couldn’t figure out how to find it so I could get back to New York.

At one point I thought I had just passed the entrance to the bridge, and made a quick, and highly illegal, u-turn. As I’m straigtening out the turn I see the cop car in the shadows just waiting for someone like me. Sure enough he pulls out and starts out for me, but no lights flashing just yet.

I make a turn, thinking maybe he doesn’t want me. But sure enough, he turns too. Lights aren’t on yet, but are bound to be shortly.

So I turn on my flashers, pull over to the side, roll down my window and wave him over. I hop out of the car (keeping my hands casually in front of me) and head over to his. He rolls down the window. I say with a huge smile of relief, “Boy, am I glad to see YOU! I am so lost, and I just need to get to the GW bridge. Can you tell me how to get there?”

He rolled his eyes, looked me over, and proceeded to direct me back to the bridge. I thanked him and drove off.

I halfway expected him to send me back in the car so he could turn his lights on and pull me over.

The setting and the minor crime of hot-blooded revenge vandalism shall be omitted, to bring us to the scene of Our Hero being politely asked to attend the office of the sole Campus Detective.

The detective had himself a manila folder, properly marked with an incident number and containing a complaint form.

Drawn from the manila folder is a fingerprint study in black and white, with a very clear oily black index finger print.

The question: “Is this your fingerprint?”
The answer: “N-n-no.” [Truth: Y-y-yes.]

Furrowed brow. “Okay, you can go”.

There, now the Senate committe can kiss my ass.

Grok’s post reminded me of another (why’d I post my rap sheet, anyway?).

Anyway, we’re in Mexico on the last day of a week-long (spring break) field trip with the UH Geology Department. Our van has become separated from the convoy; it’s about 10:00 PM and we’re still about 50 miles deep into Mexico on a 2-lane highway when a Federale car passes us and pulls across the road to block it. The TA driving immediately says, “Anybody in here (~6 of us) fluent in Spanish?”

Guy-in-back, “Yes, quite, what do you need?”

TA, “Keep your mouth shut!”

Federale gets to the window and TA rolls it down and says, “Boonose Die-ass, Sig-nore.”

You could read the cop’s face - “It’s going to be way too much trouble to shake down these gringoes” and he just waved us on.

ROFLMAO, I love some of these stories, but sadly, mine are somewhat more serious. I think I may have told one of these before on this board, but what the hell.
It was a typical thursday afternoon. I had just gotten home from school, (10th year) anticipating the coming weekend, as I had just purchased about two grams of weed. I had placed it in a film canister which was inside the breast pocket of my jacket.

I had just sat down to play some PS2 when the doorbell rang. I went to the top of the stairs and looked in time to see my parents open the door to three men with body armor, tactical vests, and pistols.

Brain still not functioning at normal rate (“Hey, look! Those guys are wearing some cool shit! One has a Glock!”)

As my parents let them in, they notice me standing there. “Come down here, we’re going to talk to you.”

Sadly, I walked down there the swaggering idiot “Hey cool, some SWAT guys want to talk to me, maybe they’ll let me ride with them and see them serve a warrant!”

Fortunately, I did get to see them serve a warrant. Unfortunately, it was on me.

For a good hour, my room was ripped apart and they found the weed, and a pipe. They then proceeded to interrogate me heavily on “where the rest of it is” and if I had any bank accounts, and so on. For a good ten minutes they thought they had busted a big-time drug dealer when they found two handguns in my closet. My dad had to tell them that I was an avid paintball player and that they were in fact, paintball guns. They wouldn’t believe me otherwise.

Once they realized that I was no dealer, they lectured me with facts such as “once you smoke weed, you get lazy and fail all your classes. Either that or a dealer slips in Ecstacy, and you become ‘X crazy’ and all you want is another pill, just one.” Actually now that I think back on it, it is hilarious, but at the time I shit my pants. Imagine having to tell your dad that you have smoked weed and broken the law. Now imagine telling that to a dad that grew up in the 50s, was in the National Guard during the DNC riots of '68, is a licensed PI, worked with local, state, and federal officials all his life, and knows all of the major politicians in Chicago.

The DEA agents then told me it was “a good thing” that I had been caught before I ruined my life. They then proceeded to charge me with possession, pariphenalia, and intent to sell on state property or something like that. Yeah, my life got a whole lot better. God knows what might have happened if they didn’t catch me before I ::gasp:: smoked more weed.

Fuck the police.