What's the worst trouble you've ever had with the law?

Miscellaneous and Personal Stuff I Must Share
21

Notice, the following story involves illegal drugs, and their use. While not intended to glorify the use of said drugs, the happy ending may be construed as such. This is not the intent of the poster, who is merely trying to relate the worst trouble he’s ever had with the law.

Back in the day, I was in the military. One fine payday, my three roommates and I bought a pound (if you have to ask ‘A pound of what?’ you may be too naive for this post), and split it up in our barracks room. We got 15 fat ounces out of it, plus a lot of stems and seeds, and some gravel. Sold it all within 12 hours – mostly in halves and quarters. I kept just a half for myself, in a cigar box in my nightstand drawer.

Let me emphasize that all this was not only illegal and highly frowned upon by the authorities, but there was an aggressive anti-drug war being waged on base. The Naval Investigative Service (NIS) had an office just down the hall from where I worked, and there were at least 3 agents dedicated to the drug war. They had a drug sniffing dog, and a fearsome reputation.

Several days later, I get up about 2:30pm (I was working nights), and Denny, a friend of my roommate Kenny, is sitting on Kenny’s bed, getting ready to light up. I quickly put the rolled up towel against the crack in the door, opened the windows, and got out the Ozium (just in case). Then we partook freely.

We were just discussing the new Cars album (their first), and whether Denny would be able to find it on 8-track or not (no), when there was a pounding on the door. Not a knock, a pounding. ‘Open up! NIS!’

OH F%&@! Denny swallowed the doobie, and I ran around like a madman spraying Ozium. ‘Just a minute, I’m getting dressed!’ ‘OPEN UP RIGHT NOW GODDAMMIT!’ ‘S#@&!’ :eek:

Opened the door to a passable imitation of the Gestapo, german shepard included. In came the drug dog. His handler took him around the room, and the poor dog was wetting himself, he was so excited. The handler just said ‘It’s all hot – toss the whole room’.

They found my stash, Tom’s stash, a bunch of pipes, papers, and trash cans liberally salted with seeds and stems. (Yes, now I know that seeds are a valuable commodity in themselves, in case you’re wondering. We were young and stupid.) It took hours, and as each of my roommates came home, they got searched and arrested. We even had a few poor souls stop by looking to buy: Sorry ‘Oz’ isn’t here. NIS probably searched for this guy ‘Oz’ for weeks.

Fortunately, the only thing they found under lock and key was a forgotten pipe in the pocket of an old pair of Kenny’s overalls, in his locker. Everything else was in a common area of the room, and we could show that we never cleaned the drawers out – there were letters in there from some guy who’d lived there 3 years ago. Basically, we could all point to each other and say ‘It wasn’t me, it was him! Or maybe some guy from years ago!’

So, back to the OP. The worst trouble I ever had with the law was when the NIS took me in for interrogation. One guy interrogated me, while the other sat 10 feet away at his desk, cleaning and loading his gun, and occaisionally aiming it at me. Very, very scary. I truly thought they might shoot me. He threw every possible threat at me, while his partner scowled and worked with his gun. Then he threw incentives at me, anything to get me to admit to something. I learned something important that day: Never underestimate the power of denial.

They knew we were guilty of at least possession, but without hard individual evidence they had to let us all off. Except Kenny, who got his hand slapped for paraphanalia. IIRC, Kenny’s commanding officer was more pissed off that he’d made the pipe out of $50 worth of airplane plumbing than that he’d used it to get high.

The ultimate irony is that our dealer (as we eventually found out) was an NIS agent himself. He was supposed to infiltrate the drug community, then inform on who was buying large amounts. (He was the ultimate overacheiver, he became the biggest dealer in the county.) The problem was administrative – both NIS groups were run, separately, out of DC. So the intelligence information had to be processed, and that took at least 48 hours. As long as you bought from this guy and sold out within 2 days, you were safe (unless you got tripped up some other way).

22

I was out jogging before curfew - in my county, it’s illegal for a minor to be out after 11 and before 6. Got pulled over by a cop who ordered me to walk to the other side of the road, kneel and put my hands up. Then the cop tells me to stay right there. He drives off.

I wait for what feels like an eternity, on the side of a busy highway. I’m shirtless. I’m sweaty. I’m uncomfortable and to boot, I’m on the side of a highway, cars no more than three feet from me. No cop. I want to go home. So, I do - home is a mile away. I bolted. Right when I do, the cops pull around the bend, about a third of a mile away. I practically crap my pants and head for cover behind trees. I run behind a store and through a yard, scramble up a ditch and down my road. Cops pull down my road, but I duck behind some bushes and crouch before they can see me.

Cop car passes me, searchlight shining. They’re obviously angry. I wait until the car leaves, and very nervously step out and bolt for home. I am scared. I make it home, shaking and utterly afraid for myself. I made a bad situation worse - I probably would have been taken to the station and given a stern talking-to for being out after curfew, but I evaded arrest. Luckily, I didn’t get caught, but now, I still get nervous around police officers. I haven’t broken the law so signifigantly since.

23

Once, I was walking on the curb, and a police officer pulled up next to me and said to walk on the sidewalk because thats what they were there for.

24

Went to the bars with some friends. Didn’t have my driver’s licence. Didn’t drink. Drove home. Lost control of the car. Lived to tell the tale.

God, we were lucky. And boy, were they RCMP pissed at me!

25

Burnt a telephone exchange down when I was 9 or 10?

I used to be a monkey like every other kid. We’d climb up and down buildings and trees. The building in question was only about 7 or so feet high. With a little help it was pretty easy. My parents are smokers so one day we found some matches and decided to play around with them. There were alot of dry leaves and we had the great idea to shove them into a drainage pipe (made of plastic), which runs from the roof straight through the building. We threw a couple matches in there. 30 minutes later we saw firetrucks screamin down the street and still had no idea that it was our fault (I was there with 2 or 3 other buds). I guess some neighbours saw us or something because at around 6 that night I had the firechief and policecars all outside my house looking for me. They never found me, but my brother did and made me go talk to them. I don’t know how he figured I was in the closet but I guess he heard me crying like a newborn baby. I just got a LONG talk and lots of talking to from the family.

26

How about the worst trouble the law ever had with you?

One night when I was on the highway, I came around a bend and had to come to a quick stop due to a large number of vehicles ahead also being at a stop. I figured there must have been a bad accident, and cringed at the thought of the next vehicle to come along plowing into me.

Fortunately, I was not rear ended. As traffic crawled along, I found myself behind some transports. Eventually we passed some police cars with flares, and traffic picked up.

A few seconds later, a police car lit up, chased up to me, and pulled me over. I was informed that I had just driven through a spot check, and had not stopped when directed.

I explained that I had no idea that it had been a RIDE spot check since it was blocking a high-speed highway, that the officers on the road had waved the trucks and me through, and that I was now concerned over my having been put at risk by being stopped in the middle of a highway at night, leaving me a sitting duck to be rear ended by any drunks who might happen along.

Unfortunately, the officer did not take my honest and sincere criticism well, and instead started raising his voice. Not being one to suffer fools, I reviewed his incompetence by telling him that he was a discredit to the force for first putting me and other members of the public at risk, and then attempting to bluster his way out of it, eventually loosing control of his temper rather than recognizing and mitigating the problem he had caused. His inarticulate sputtering grew louder and louder, and he eventually stomped back to his car shouting “Fuck this!” over and over.

(BTW, I don’t drink, and I am a strong supporter of RIDE checks, provided that they are done safely: e.g. on arterials rather than on the highway itself, and with a long warning period of flares to give the drunks time to slow and stop.)

27

Many years ago, when I was still stupid but old enough to know better, I went stag to a B.Y.O.B. party with a pint of scotch. At that time in my life, moderation was not one of my virtues (you’ll have to take my word for it that I am very virtuous now), and I polished off the whole pint and then began looking for anything else that seemed potable. Needless to say, I got blind.

In the middle of my binge, when I was already way past intoxicated I was introduced to a young woman named Deirdre, who had an English accent and was entirely fascinating. I was inebriated enough that I thought that I, too was fascinating. That opinion evidently was not shared by the young woman, who disappeared somewhere, or maybe I was blind sooner than I thought.

Anyway, having struck out and finding no more booze that was not clung to by some other reveler, I decided to leave the party, I staggered down to my roommate’s car, which I had borrowed,
got behind the wheel, strapped myself in with the lap belt (there were no shoulder straps in those days) and turned on the engine. Suddenly, I had an irresistible urge to “visit my old friend Ralph,” who was apparently somewhere on the pavement outside the driver’s side door. After a brief visit, I flopped back into the seat of the car and passed out.

The next thing I knew, there was a loud clanging of a large barred door and a khaki-clad person was asking me if I was ready. “Ready?” sez I. “To be booked,” sez he. I looked around and saw that I was in a cement room with a big drain in the middle of the floor and a bare mattress in one corner on which I was sitting. I also realized that I had no shoes, no wallet and no belt. I was in the drunk tank of the (small Southern California town) jail. Now I became aware of what felt like a railroad spike between my eyes being hammered on by John Henry himself.

I had been so drunk that I was unaware of being arrested. The last thing I had been aware of was a car with the engine running and the lights on. I knew I was in for it, but as I was being fingerprinted and mugged, I was actually thanking the cops for arresting me. I knew that if I had come to in the car I would probably have tried to drive home, and very likely would have killed myself or, worse, somebody else.

All the while this was going on, I noticed that the officer in charge kept looking at me very intently. Did he think I was some desperado that he had seen on a wanted poster? Nope. It seems that he had graduated from — ------- High School a year ahead of me, and recognized me. I called my sister, who lived nearby, and she said she’d be right down to bail me out.

Meanwhile, I was taken to a holding cell where, luckily, there was only one other “inmate.” He was too busy sleeping one off himself to pay any attention to me. About this time, the urge to visit Ralph returned. But now I was empty and dry. I waited in that cell dry retching for about an hour and a half until my sister arrived with my bail. She had come right over and tried to give them a check, but they wouldn’t take it and she had to wait for a store to open for the day before she could cash a check and come back. The cops didn’t tell me that she had even been there. They just let me sweat it out, thinking that I’d be there forever.

It didn’t work out so badly after all. The officer who knew me booked me for being drunk in public, not the drunk driving I thought surely I would be charged with. It was only an infraction. But it still cost me for my bail and another fee to get my roommate’s car out of impound.

Between the binge and the arrest and the god-awful hangover it was an unforgettable night. That is, the arrival at the party and the police station. Everything in between was pretty hazy even then. Except for a few traffic tickets, that was my one and only brush with the law.

28

I was cautionned and fined about a year ago for fishing without a licence. That may not sound like much of a crime, but it was aggravated by the fact that my landing net had KNOTTED MESH! Apparently, at some point in the last five years, Reichsführer Tony Blair declared knotted mesh to be barbarous and cruel. I tried to explain to the unhelpful chap from the Environment Agency that since I intended to put a steel hook through the fishes’ mouths and then beat them to death with a priest, the slight chafing caused by the knots wasn’t really worth taking into consideration.
Unsurprisingly, the man was not impressed with this, and I was booked. Fair enough, if you start allowing desperadoes to land fishes in knotted nets unchecked, who knows where it could end? Today chafed fish, tomorrow, armed insurrection, bloodshed and anarchy.

29

As a person who only catches fish when they’re coated in crispy crumbs down at Sainsbury’s, I’d be … intrigued … to know what a “priest” is in this context. (Or, if “priest” means what it usually does, how you get the reverend to cooperate).

Huh? OP? Me? Um… I was once sternly ticked off by a constable in Edinburgh for leading a group on a walk along the Salisbury Crags at a time when they were officially closed. What scamps we were, to be sure.

30

Whilst in college, me and 300 or so of my closest friends were visited by 5 squad cars full of the underage house party patrol.
A patrol car had passed by and noticed people walking down the street and into our house. He apprently decided he needed backup because of the number of people he observed.
Well, two of them come in announce anyone underage has five minutes to leave or they start handing out tickets at $275 a pop. Running of the bulls anyone? Everyone bails, only problem is it’s a trap. They figure rather than sort through 300 ID’s they’ll just let the underagers self-select by leaving (though pissed at the time, I must admit now it’s pretty clever). They ended up with almost 100 tickets, and they didn’t even catch half.

Now, it’s our turn. As the gracious party hosts we’re on the hook for providing alcohol to minors tickets ( a quick note-wonder if we could’ve gotten off on a technicality. While not 21, there were no minors at the party). Those are $450. Each.
So, we’re looking at almost $50,000 in fines for our little house party. We’re sort of in disbelief. In the end, it turns out Johnny Law just likes to set an example early in the school year by busting a few parties and handing out ridiculous fines that are nearly all dropped later. We end up with about $1000 in fines between the 5 of us. Where can a college kid come up with that kind of cash, though? Hmmm…maybe a house party at $3 a head.

31

jk1245: [Akbar]It’s a trap![/Akbar]

At Syracuse, they once even sent young female officers undercover so they could bust parties. Not even loud, out of control, neighbors complaining parties either.

Meanwhile, every day a couple cars get broken into, and a couple times a month there is an armed robbery/mugging/assault or something. But thank Og the police are there to break up all the parties!

32

<~~~~is NOT going to post anything illegal he may have done throughout the course of his life on the Internet…

…ummmm, which he never did, btw…

33

I got pulled over once for pulling into the left hand turn lane too soon.

34

A policeman who was obviously compensating for him minitesticles threatened me, my brother, and his friends with tickets for not wearing lifejackets.

In a paddleboat.

In 3 foot water.

I asked him if we should swim instead and he said yes. Grr.

35

According to my research, a “Priest” is a club used in fishing to “finish off” a caught fish. I don’t know if it’s used outside fishing or not.

I’m guessing the name might have some reference to the weapons used by Medievil clerics in combat…since they were forbidden to shed blood, they used clubs or maces instead of swords. Frankly, I wouldn’t think that trying to use a loophole like that would work very well with the Universe, but that’s just my take…
Ranchoth

36

A priest as used in angling is essentially a small club for dispatching fish, as opposed to letting them suffocate. They’re also used to finish off small game. The name comes from the fact that they administer the last rites.

37

Thanks, Zorro.

[hijack]
AFAIK, the whole thing about clerics not using edged weapons is a myth, derived ultimately from an early illustration of Bishop Turpin (one of Charlemagne’s Twelve Peers) using a mace. Some commentator wrote that this was because he couldn’t shed blood, and the idea was perpetuated and wound up in the rules for Dungeons & Dragons… Knightly religious orders (the Templars, the Hospitallers, the Teutonic Knights) never had any problem shedding blood, with swords, lances, axes, or anything that came to hand.

That concludes this hijack. We now return you to your regularly scheduled confessions of petty crime.
[/hijack]

38

All my brush-ins with the law are traffic related.

Mostly speeding tickets. In Holland, you just get photographed by a radar cam, and the ticket comes in the mail a few days later - that is, unless you’re passing a police car at 200 km/h. Which I never did. Well, I did pass one at about 160 km/h once, and they let me go. Must have been Donut Time or something.

Abroad, you get a more personal approach.

For instance, I’ve learned that Belgian motorcycle cops will ride between you and the guard rail at 140 km/h to give you the stop sign. It was obvious why he picked out the only Dutch registered car out of a line of 10 cars doing 130 km/h in a 100 zone, but I gotta hand it to him: cojones.

Also, I’ve learned that the Spanish Guardia Civil will tap your window with a freaking loaded machine gun (an Uzi, I think) in order to get your attention. As if being cut off and forced onto a sandy shoulder wasn’t enough. All the time they talked to me, the machine gun remained aimed straight at me, 10 centimeters away from my face. Allegedly, I had been doing 90 km/h in a 70 zone or something equally dangerous. Yup, that deserves a gun in the face alright. Assholes.

And in Mexico, you don’t even get a fine at all. You are invited to bribe the officer. I got stopped for making an illegal U-turn whilst looking for a hotel in Chetumal, and the officer -in half-Spanish half-English- told me that it was either down to the station to be interrogated for a couple of hours, or pay 200 Pesos on the spot and fuck off. Since $20 isn’t a lot of money, and since I didn’t want an ethics discussion with someone carrying a mustache that big, I paid him and fornicated off quite nicely.

Ooh! I got a ticket for wildplassen (“peeing in the wild”) once. Ironically, I was relieving myself into one of Amsterdams fine canals at the time, which is hardly “wild” in the classical sense of the word. Also, peeing in the true wild is actually legal.

Interesting country. Although $50 for pissing in a canal is a bit stiff! I promised myself that I will turn around without stopping to pee, next time a police officer has the nerve to tap me on the shoulder mid stream. :wink:

39

I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy.

40

Jaywalking ticket.

$20 fine.

:o