Johnny Law and his Merry Band of Profit Centers

Don't get me wrong, I am a gun-toting, God fearing, law abiding sumbitch, along with the best of them. My most recent run in with Johnny Law, however, serves as a philosophical reminder that in a world of limited resources we really need to prioritize.

For the first time since 1990, fatboy got a speeding ticket. Let's cut through the crap, and establish the following: 1) I was speeding; 2) I was running every bit as fast as Johnny Law and his miraculous Ladar say I was running; and 3) if there is anyone that probably deserves a speeding ticket, it is me. My guilt, as is now begrudgingly established on the back of the misleading and poorly written ticket, is not the issue.

No, beloved, I am far more concerned about how, and where, our police resources are being arrayed. First the basics on the morning in question...

Highway 199 runs in a generally southeastern direction into down town Cowtown. Given that it is somewhat of a rural feeder into the big city, 199 is fairly busy. Outside of town, it is dangerous as hell. In the three months we have lived out in these parts, it seems that each month a hapless teenager has had their life prematurely cut short just on the section of 199 that is within walking distance of our house.

High speed, blind corners in a (rare) hilly area, driving into the sun during rush hour all mean that someone has to be on their game in normal conditions. Roll into those conditions that are just as preventable as they are asinine, and you have a real rodeo. Take for instance, the college coed that always passes me at 80 mph, the front drive wheel hanging on by a velcroed ball joint and a space saver spare on the back, with cell phone tucked between shoulder and blond hair, mascara in one hand, McHeartattack in the other hand, and a copy of Allure magazine being supported... well I still don't know how she holds the magazine. Then there is the bona fide retard who insists on turning right on red, into my lane while I am running highway speed, and waits until I approach the intersection to make his move... and despite the fact that he is in a Cummings Turbo diesel powered, towing packaged (plenty of acceleration and bite), jet assisted Hemi, extended cab dually truck with a titanium cattle guard arrayed around all four sides of his vehicle, insists on driving 40 mph while I light up the tires on my subcompact trying to stop before running underneath his armored urban attack vehicle and separating head from shoulders. With all of this going on in the fraction of a second, get this, Patton in his Dodge branded Bradley fighting vehicle has time to flip me off as I am sliding to a stop in the ditch beside the road, as though I had just tried to deprive his loved ones of their chief breadwinner. The irony of all of this only serves to piss me off more, while I am simultaneously trying to drag my car out of the 6 foot tall tumbleweeds and stomping out the numerous grass fires now starting to flare up from the molten slag that was once my brake drums. A job, which by the way, would have been much easier, if the woman who had been teaching herself the fine art of drafting her "gin-u-wine" gubment issued H1 Hummer behind my little car would have stopped to give me a tow. Mind you, all of this takes place in the right hand lane, meaning that I am on the breakdown side of the highway, rather than the median, because apparently we have all adopted some convoluted European driving style which requires the slowest drivers to hang out in the left lane with their forefinger in their nose and their thumb up their ass. Danger lurks in every driver's seat. But I digress.

While downtown Ft Worth is a great place to live and work, after 20 years of urban renewal, everything 2 blocks outside of downtown is still a pit, be it rust pit or slut pit. 199 winds through an archaeologists delight of a string of aging strip malls, used car lots, pawn shops, and finally, an industrial area that has been giving way to Bar B Q and wannabe blues joints before crossing the river into downtown. The residential areas are all nestled away from the highway, and their are no school zones, retirement homes, or duck crossings. Lower income, edge of Northside, which is largely Hispanic.

Just before reaching one of the largest Hispanic flea markets in the Tri-County region, I notice an odd-gathering of tall, beefy gentlemen all dressed alike, and all hanging around white and black motorcycles. My brain registers that something is amiss, just about the same time that the front end of the vehicle beside dives down into the pavement hard enough that Fiberglas shards from his ground effects embed themselves in my windshield. Hmm, that can only mean one thing...

Just as I decide that it might be a good time for a sudden brake check of my own, one of the men milling around the motorcycles walks out into the street, and appears to be stopping both inbound lanes of traffic. Still in denial, I am pleased to have been selected for this random survey, perhaps I will get a free mocha latte or a Thanksgiving turkey for my time.

Ladar. The use of a reflected laser beam to determine the speed of an automobile, relative to the stationery Ladar operator. 49 mph in a 35 zone, relative to the speed limit sign I hadn't actually ever taken note of before. Over the last 15 years I skated past state troopers in more states than I have fingers and toes, this was just a matter of time.

Four, maybe five, officers running and gunning, tagging everyone at the head of the column of traffic, everyone runs hot trying to get across the Trinity. Why aren't these officers walking the halls of my baby's middle school, where one of the teachers was fired from selling pot in his free time. The collection of various knives and sundry guns makes me jealous, except that they run in the same halls of education that my children do. Why aren't they working the school zones, where the kiddies with their personal speedways practice before stalking me so they can blow past me and my heavy foot on the highway. Hell, just this once, why can't they taser the assclown who lumbered in front of me in his rolling mountain of metal?

Sitting in the parking lot of the local Sherwin Williams (I will be buying all of my paint from Lowe's thank you very much), and looking at my fellow citizens who had been detained and delayed in their work days, I realized something very troubling. The folks sitting here in this parking lot, searching for insurance cards and trying to remember when they had last taken a driving safety course, these people were all broke-dick working stiff blue collar types trying like hell to make it to Friday's payday. Lawyers (responsible, well-paid lawyers anyway), bankers, doctors and politicians do not find their way into corporate America on this road. These were not people apt to fight a speeding ticket, nor were these people apt to have a friend who has a friend in the DA's office, or an attorney looking to impress a potential client at the cost of a few man-hours of a clueless associate wandering around municipal court. Mini-van in front of me, African American female driver. Two cars over, old man wearing his name sewn over the breast of his flame retardant uniform shirt. Not a teen-ager, ricer, or college coed in sight. No one weaving in and out of traffic, no tailgaters. While everyone around me was trying to figure out how to pay for their fine, I was doing a from the hip cost benefit analysis to determine the value of rolling the dice and hoping for a friendly judge or a forgetful cop.

But for the organized speed trap, Johnny Law wouldn't have had any reason this day to stop playing self-love ring toss with his "extendable baton" and his Krispy Kreme long enough to disturb this exercise in micro-economics. Alas, we are a nation of laws and not of men (so much for my ascent to power), and the powers that be ordered Roscoe out to the crik, and those passers-by unlucky enough to wander into Tarrant's own Hazzard got stuck with their Daisy Duke's hanging out in the wind.

Here comes the math. By the time the procrastinators in the group mail their tickets in, the court clerk turns around the disposition (damned driver's safety class is gonna be full on New Year's Eve), and folks get their court costs and fines paid, a big wad of extra funds will be rolling into city coffers before the end of the calendar year. I was in the parking lot no more than 5-7 minutes, times 5 vehicles per 5 minute session, over a 2 hour period, popped for at least $179 per offense, and another $70 or so for court costs... well you work it out.

Too bad this doesn't work like the United Way. I decided not to fight the ticket, but writing that check out would be a hell of a lot easier if I could designate the money go to the DARE cop assigned to my baby's school, rather than intuitively sensing it will be deposited into the Krispy Kreme donut and recreation fund.

I plead... Formerly Living.