I fought the law… and I won – How I weaseled my way out of a (probably well-deserved) speeding ticket

Posted on Oct 6, 2015 in Featured | 2 comments

This didn’t happen. Not this time, anyway.

It was the perfect mix of conditions: a dark, clear night; a miles-long straight shot of divided four-lane unimpeded by development; light but pokey traffic; a clearly marked 55-mile-an-hour speed limit; my mind on other things. Traffic going 59 in the left (but clearly not the fast) lane meant I juked right, accelerated away, and got on with my evening. I almost didn’t pay attention to the eerie glow on the shoulder ahead of me, but lifted off the throttle as I assumed it was someone parked on the shoulder. I flicked on my brights, and discovered that there was someone on the shoulder: a Sheriff’s deputy in a Ford Expedition, looking for leadfoot schmucks like me. The glow I saw was the reflective decal on the side of the SUV.

By the time my situation registered, I was past, slowing down from my 70-plus-ish MPH burst–no brakes, just coasting–and set my cruise control at 62. (Why 62? Doing exactly the speed limit would be a dead giveaway, wouldn’t it? Seven over the limit, in my experience, causes no issues. Fifteen over? Expensive trouble.) All of my righteous indignation about justifying speeding because life’s most precious unrenewable commodity is time went out the window: I finally had a clean license and didn’t want to pay for a ticket, traffic school or anything else. I went into act-casual-nothing-to-see-here mode, just in case. I did a quick mirror check to see whether he was swinging onto the road from the shoulder, but with four cars behind me, his lights quickly blurred in with all the rest. Could I have gotten lucky?

No. Inside of 30 seconds, lights shifted in my mirror. Someone behind me changed lanes. Twice. In about 15 seconds. Back and forth the lights went, weaving through the same morass of marshmallow-footed mopes that I left behind. The Expedition’s headlights, and the fogs mounted in the bumper beneath them, were a pendulum of inevitability bearing down on my six. (My van’s taillights didn’t help: they’re high-mounted and encompass the entirety of the D-pillar, while the cars I’d left behind all had their lights in the traditional place. I was marked.) Another thirty seconds, and the Expedition was on my bumper. I kept waiting for the inevitability and embarrassment of the wigwags in my mirror. Doubtless there was a radio conversation with someone who could confirm that my driving privileges were unblemished in the five and a half years I’d been in the state.

Now, back when New Jersey was a 55 MPH state and I was rolling up 25,000 miles a year on the Garden State Parkway, I was once plucked out of a line of cars and accused of going 72 MPH. I protested that I was not. “How fast were you going?” I was asked. “65!” I confessed. So was everyone else in the conga line I was in, ahead of and behind me. So honest. So foolish. So emotional. And 65 MPH was exactly what my ticket was written for. Ever since then, some 20 years ago, my policy regarding traffic issues has been to speak only when spoken to, to play dumb, and to say as little as possible: in other words, to be brief, but to not be short. (Not unlike my MO if someone rolls up on me while doing a photo shoot. But that’s a story that’s been told.)

All of this played in my head as I was also prepping the checklist of things I’d need for when he pulled me: passenger’s-side window down; hands on the wheel (and not rummaging around in the glovebox for registration and insurance, lest I give the impression that I’m fishing for a firearm instead); four-way flashers on; ignition off; documents to be presented upon request.

Still no lights behind me. Hmmm.

A glowing oasis of a gas station appeared in the distance, and I figured, well, if I’m going to get a ticket, I may as well do it under the Circle K’s artificial light, make it easier for both of us to see–and I’d fill up while I’m there. I turned right on an access road; he followed. Then left into the station itself; he followed. I pulled up to a pump, popped the gas door, made a concerted effort not to look behind me, and … and …

Nothing.

The Deputy did not come and visit me beneath the humming fluorescence of the evening. He pulled into a proper spot, ambled inside, and got himself a cup of coffee before I even knew he wasn’t there. Minutes later we passed in the entrance of the travel stop foyer; I held the door open for him. By the time I was done inside, he was idling near the access road, about to wander off somewhere.

I couldn’t believe it. I got away with it.