Frank Zafiro - Under a Raging Moon

“So what do you need?”

“I want to do the weasel in the passenger seat, too. He’s the registered owner. I’d like to arrest them both for constructive possession.”

Shen considered. “So the driver is not the registered owner?”

“No.”

“And the RO was in the passenger seat?”

“Yes.”

“Where’d you find the drugs? The glove box?”

Kopriva shook his head. “No, the console between the seats. Both had access.”

“What are they saying?”

Kopriva’s radio crackled. “Bravo-123.”

“Neither one has been read their rights, but both say it’s the other guy’s meth,” he told Shen, then answered the radio. “Go ahead, I’m clear for traffic.”

“Morris is in as a confirmed gang member. He has a felony want for possession of crack cocaine, bail is $25,000.”

“Copy. I don’t have him here. Also, have records ship over the warrant for Maxwell.”

“Copy.”

Kopriva explained to Shen, “Isaiah Morris drove by us while I was waiting for Sully and Battaglia. So, what do you think about these two here?”

Shen stroked his chin for a moment. “Do them both for constructive possession. Be detailed in your report on where you found the dope and the issue of access for both parties. Their statements, too.”

“I will. Thanks.”

“Good stop, Stef.”

“Thanks, Sarge.”

Shen drove off. Kopriva locked the doors to the Monte Carlo and returned to his patrol car.

Maxwell leaned forward, his voice muffled by the plastic shield. “What’d he say?”

“He said I have to do you both. Sorry, man.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“Oh, man, I don’t need this shit.”

“Sorry.”

“Shit. Well, thanks for trying, man. Thanks for the pipe, too.”

Kopriva nodded. He turned on his favorite rock station and faded the music to the back. The tactic kept the prisoners from hearing the conversation between the officers.

“Advise radio we are en route to jail with one and our mileage is reset.” Kopriva punched the trip odometer reset. “And get our time of stop and a report number.”

Travis advised radio and carefully noted the time and report number. “Wow,” he said. “That was cool.”

“That is the way the game is played. That suspended ticket we wrote Rousse? He most likely won’t appear in court for it, so it’ll go to warrant. Next time he gets stopped, he gets arrested again and we get into his car and find his drugs again. Ba-da-boom, ba-da-bing.”

Travis nodded his head, smiling.

“See,” Kopriva continued, “some officers act like traffic enforcement is beneath them. But traffic is one of our best tools. Just because you stop someone doesn’t mean you have to write them. I let people off all the time. Decent people. Sometimes even shitheads. But look what happened tonight. We stopped Rousse on a piddly traffic stop for defective equipment. Now we have a misdemeanor, a warrant, and two felonies. Plus about three misdemeanors we threw away, if you count the pipe and obstructing charges.”

“Great,” Travis said. “This is great.” He nodded his head to the music and grinned.

The two were quiet the rest of the way to jail. Kopriva thought about how he would like to catch Morris again. Cream’s Sunshine of Your Love came on the radio. Kopriva turned it up.

“I’ve been waiting so long…”

Maxwell leaned forward and yelled over the din. “At least you guys got good tunes.”

“To be where I’m going…”

“Rock-n-roll,” Kopriva yelled back and flashed a grin at Travis. Pete Maxwell might be a doper maggot but now he thought they were buddies. You never knew when that might come in handy.

“In the sunshine of your luuhh-uuuhhve!”

They drove into the sally port at jail and secured their weapons in the lock-box outside the door. Kopriva walked Maxwell into the officer’s booking area and O’Sullivan handed him a booking slip.

“Rousse is all done, except for the report number.”

“Thanks, Sully.”

Battaglia nudged Kopriva. “You better check his work. Sometimes he forgets and he writes shit in Gaelic.”

“Better than Italian,” O’Sullivan fired back. He shook his head at Kopriva. “I can’t tell you how many times we’ve come in here to book someone named Mamma Mia.”

“Hey!” Battaglia said. “Leave alone my mother.”

O’Sullivan smiled. “Italian boys and their mothers.”

“Irish boys and their dresses.”

“They’re kilts, not dresses.”

Battaglia rolled his eyes and clapped Kopriva on the shoulder. “Good pinch, Stef.”

The two officers left, tossing insults at each other on the way out the door.

Kopriva filled out the booking slip for Maxwell and completed Rousse’s. A jailer brought out Maxwell’s warrant. Kopriva told Travis to read it to Maxwell.

Officer James Kahn stood in the corner of the small booking area. He looked up from his paperwork at Kopriva. “What’d you get, hotshot?”

“Warrant. Some meth.” Kahn was a hard-charger and Kopriva respected that. On the few calls he’d been on with him, though, Kahn had exhibited almost zero compassion. “What are you here for?”

Kahn cocked an eyebrow at him. “You know what’s a bad day? It’s a bad day when a policeman shows up at your doorstep at midnight with two Child Protective Services workers. He takes your kids and places them with CPS, then arrests you and your wife for warrants right out of your living room. That’s a bad day, man.”

Kopriva waited, knowing there was more to come.

“You know what’s a good day?” Kahn asked. “It’s a good day when you’re a cop and CPS calls you to go to some meth maggot’s house to place his kids in foster care. You go there and turn his kids over to CPS and then you arrest him and his skanky wife right out of their living room on some drug warrants. That is a good day.”

Kopriva laughed. “A very good day.”

Kahn returned to writing his report. Kopriva gathered up his own paperwork. The jailers returned their handcuffs, they retrieved their weapons and left jail. Even though Kopriva had a report to do, it was still early enough to get into some more action.

Thursday August 18th

2309 hours

Pyotr Ifganovich thanked the customer for his business as he handed over the change. He preferred to go by the English version of his name, Peter. At varying times, depending on the government in power, it had been a popular name in Russia.

Here in America, he’d discovered with some surprise that Peter had also once been a popular name. He had not been so foolish as to believe all the lies the Soviet government told the Russian people regarding this nation, once his enemy. Neither had he been naive enough to believe the myths of unsurpassed riches whispered out of KGB earshot.

When he arrived in River City, he found some of both. Of course, it was the riches he noticed first. He recalled the first time he stood in a Safeway store and struggled not to weep at the shelves bulging with food, coffee, and toilet paper. America was wealthy indeed.

He quickly enrolled in English classes and studied for his citizenship along with Olga, his wife. Their son, four-year-old Pavel (they called him Paul now), didn’t remember Minsk and as he grew older, his appreciation for America obviously did not mirror that of his parents. Now ten years old, Paul spoke English better than both his parents and without an accent.

America was good to him and his family. He could apply for any job he wanted and the best applicant usually got the job. His work as farmer in Minsk didn’t qualify him for many jobs here in America. The convenience store provided a great opportunity for him. More importantly, his son could go to an American school, learn English and become an American. Yes, America was good to him.