Guilty plea for dealer of cocaine
June 2010
A 25-year-old man arrested earlier this year as part of a drug bust in Albemarle County has pleaded guilty to possession of cocaine with intent to distribute.
Abidan Pimentel entered the plea during a hearing Tuesday in Albemarle Circuit Court, according to court records. Pimentel was arrested Feb. 4 on Timberwood Boulevard during a special operation, during which officers seized about 124 grams of cocaine and more than $2,700.
Pimentel and his co-defendant, Fidel Martinez-Cortez, are scheduled to be sentenced Sept. 15. Martinez-Cortez, 36, was convicted of the charge last week, court records show.
(Source)
20100630
Jeez, You Don’t Have To Make A Federal Case Out Of It!
I’ve gotten a few inquiries about my fresh string of John Stoltz posts. I know it’s completely cheezball to quote oneself but sometimes I kinda do feel like pressed curd surrounded by nuts, so this is one of my responses from last week to a reader to semi-explain the esoteric entries:
John Stoltz is the local ATF agent who works with the JADE Task Force -- whenever JADE is investigating dealers and there are guns and such involved. I found out Mr. Stoltz has files under my name on his computer so I thought it'd be funny to let him know that I know that -- much like I'd carry milk and cookies out to an undercover officer if I caught one watching me.
Apparently one girl’s humor is another guy’s affliction?
Through a couple of inerrant sources I’ve confirmed the ATFer is now resorting to filthy tactics in response to the modicum of attention I’ve recently shown him. I should’ve realized it’d be the route he’d take, him being a Detective Brian O’Donnell knockoff and all.
Since Mr. Stoltz is not a member of the Task Force, I am free to contact him -- both directly and indirectly. This would be the direct approach:
Dear Special Agent Stoltz,
You must be aware you won’t be able to have me locked up forever nor is Google going to cyber-assassinate I HeArTE JADE merely at your whim and behest. Please settle down and reconsider your strategy. Seriously, I really don’t want to have to pick on you for the rest of eternity. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m not interested in concentrating on you for even like a whole month. I mean, I’m already spread thin keeping up with JADE, tabbing the Virginia State Police, teasing various City of Charlottesville and County of Albemarle lawmen, et cetera.
You could keep trying to handle me the very same way your buddies did, but, c’mon, anyone can see how that worked out for them. I don’t believe you’ve yet crossed the line into bullying -- not me, anyway -- thus I’m not opposed to backing off if you’re not opposed to being reasonable. I’ll give you some time to think it over. You decide to truce, have your people call my people. ‘Til then, expect my minute occasional, one hundred per cent. legal, tweaking of you to continue.
John Stoltz is the local ATF agent who works with the JADE Task Force -- whenever JADE is investigating dealers and there are guns and such involved. I found out Mr. Stoltz has files under my name on his computer so I thought it'd be funny to let him know that I know that -- much like I'd carry milk and cookies out to an undercover officer if I caught one watching me.
Apparently one girl’s humor is another guy’s affliction?
Through a couple of inerrant sources I’ve confirmed the ATFer is now resorting to filthy tactics in response to the modicum of attention I’ve recently shown him. I should’ve realized it’d be the route he’d take, him being a Detective Brian O’Donnell knockoff and all.
Since Mr. Stoltz is not a member of the Task Force, I am free to contact him -- both directly and indirectly. This would be the direct approach:
Dear Special Agent Stoltz,
You must be aware you won’t be able to have me locked up forever nor is Google going to cyber-assassinate I HeArTE JADE merely at your whim and behest. Please settle down and reconsider your strategy. Seriously, I really don’t want to have to pick on you for the rest of eternity. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m not interested in concentrating on you for even like a whole month. I mean, I’m already spread thin keeping up with JADE, tabbing the Virginia State Police, teasing various City of Charlottesville and County of Albemarle lawmen, et cetera.
You could keep trying to handle me the very same way your buddies did, but, c’mon, anyone can see how that worked out for them. I don’t believe you’ve yet crossed the line into bullying -- not me, anyway -- thus I’m not opposed to backing off if you’re not opposed to being reasonable. I’ll give you some time to think it over. You decide to truce, have your people call my people. ‘Til then, expect my minute occasional, one hundred per cent. legal, tweaking of you to continue.
So Much, So Little
Y’all thought the Feds arrested me, huh? Not yet. But they’re working on it. More on that later. Maybe.
20100623
20100622
Love My Little Birdies
What do you do when you learn somebody in the United States Department of Justice (USDOJ) has an active file with your identity on it, last name first? You roll your eyes, laugh out loud, and post another “Charger photo” for his jastoltz collection:
20100621
Eric Kudro: Psychic Superhero
Michael Dennis Hogberg, the guy that ACPD Officer Eric Kudro tasered back when, has made the news again. This latest story on him -- basically a drunk driving incident -- isn’t much interesting to me per se, though I do find one of the multiple charges he’s facing iffy. (If not crashing into a Virginia State Policeman’s cruiser warrants attempted capital murder of a police officer, then there ought also be a count of attempted murder for each and every other innocent person Mr. Hogberg passed but didn’t hit during this dangerous alcoholic stunt behind the wheel.)
However, I figured the marvelously hubristic Mr. Kudro, still indignant at people’s unsupportive reaction to his own takedown of Mr. Hogberg, would try to use this arrest as vindication to justify those earlier actions of his. Sure enough, I found his post on Topix, so, wow, I must be clairvoyant like Mr. Kudro as well! (Hey, maybe we could get, like, a whole X-Men thing going on -- Kudro… me… that County cop who I heard has a Spiderman symbol tattooed on his upper arm…) Naturally it will not occur to the unthinking public that Mr. Kudro had no possible way of knowing what Mr. Hogberg would do in the future and therefore is absolutely still lacking in the area of self-control. Hmm… maybe Mr. Kudro is putting that high IQ of his to good use.
But if our Superhero’s plan was for everyone to pat him on the back now, well, I think he forgot to let me and, uh, someone in Korea in on it.
However, I figured the marvelously hubristic Mr. Kudro, still indignant at people’s unsupportive reaction to his own takedown of Mr. Hogberg, would try to use this arrest as vindication to justify those earlier actions of his. Sure enough, I found his post on Topix, so, wow, I must be clairvoyant like Mr. Kudro as well! (Hey, maybe we could get, like, a whole X-Men thing going on -- Kudro… me… that County cop who I heard has a Spiderman symbol tattooed on his upper arm…) Naturally it will not occur to the unthinking public that Mr. Kudro had no possible way of knowing what Mr. Hogberg would do in the future and therefore is absolutely still lacking in the area of self-control. Hmm… maybe Mr. Kudro is putting that high IQ of his to good use.
But if our Superhero’s plan was for everyone to pat him on the back now, well, I think he forgot to let me and, uh, someone in Korea in on it.
20100620
20100619
Facades
Pearls of sweat trail down his face under the scorching heat of the day as the sun prepares to set. With his broad shoulders reflecting years of good posture, he sits outside in the chair across from me and says he is nervous. He is, I remind myself, an area officer meeting with the purported “enemy,” the infamous operator of I HeArTE JADE. I give him an opportunity to put his anxiety into words, all the while visually siphoning in as many details as my brain can process without hazarding cerebral spillage.
He’s dressed casual rugged, but there’s a scent of hauteur that betrays the working-man impression his clothes are meant to convey. His footwear likely cost more than a new set of tires.
He’s handsome; not really my type, but no doubt the bulk of the female population would find him incredibly appealing. Definitely a Badge Bunny’s dream. I already know good looks run in his family. In fact, I know a lot about him -- probably much more than he thinks I do; then again, probably much less than he thinks I do.
He tells me he’s unarmed, lifts his shirt to prove it. Too bad -- the presence of a firearm paired with the sight of his belly would’ve been ultra sexy. I tell him I’m not recording this, but I don’t bother baring body parts to verify it. This exchange, in all its oddity, I suppose is our individual way of establishing trust with each other.
I’m not certain why he wanted to meet me; I’m even less certain why I agreed to it. Long before we part ways, what I am certain of is this little hook-up of ours is a one-time thing.
Granted, he’s very nice. Only, when I combine his cordiality with his striking physique, illusory blue-collar attire, and decent intellectual level, and pit it against my pink and black hair, tattoos, loosely-fitted T with jeans and high heels, and deficient gray matter, the overall effect is that he’s hopped off his pedestal to interact with the gutter girl. Whether he’s looking down his nose at me or not or has some inscrutable ulterior motive isn’t the point though, what matters is how to make the most of him before he retreats to his version of higher ground.
The conversation is enjoyable. He, I believe, does most of the talking, which suits me ducky. The problem is the more he speaks, the more human he becomes. Like he’s not some cardboard cookie-cut cop to make fun of or pull a Use ‘n Toss on. He is still a policeman however, and has every ounce of that peculiar-to-Law-Enforcement fusion of ego and humility.
The bright rays from the sky are sneaking around the building and before we completely lose our shade -- my companion’s already been perspiring enough to create a salty wading pool at our toes -- I suggest we move our Talkabout elsewhere.
We spend some of our time together in my parked vehicle with the AC running. He is bothered by the aroma of oil coming from the engine through the vents but at least he is no longer troubled by the stares of strangers, both discomforts I don’t gather he has until he openly announces them. I feel bad for him, but I’m not a darn mechanic and how was I to know he’d be so embarrassed by my appearance?
In short order I sense his life is exactly how he likes it, perfect, with everyone and everything in it positioned just so. I suspect meeting me secretly is about as big of the kind of rebellious risk as he’d dare take; my opinion solidifies when he seeks acknowledgement that this get-together is truly a “courageous” move on his part.
Amusing, the idea that after I’ve viewed so many of these guys as my personal guinea pigs now it seems one of them is doing the same to me.
Over the extent of our socializing I sporadically try to test or fluster him. He takes it all in stride, offering blah to no reaction. It doesn’t even faze him when I coquettishly remark on his admirable derriere -- nope, not even a hint of blushing. Cool, he is. Plus fascinating. I’m sorry he doesn’t find me… interesting? entertaining? attractive? whatever it is he was looking for. Can’t keep a man’s attention for the long term without allure of some sort. No further attention means no further information. Which bites.
Our visit is ending. I’m generally pleased with the whole experience, although I believe he would’ve preferred to be in the company of, hell, anyone else. Oh, he says all the appropriate things, mind you, but I’m no twit. He serves up an “I’ll call you” and I force myself to repress a grin. Men really do this I’ll-call-you thing? My gosh, I thought that was fiction! And I didn’t even have sex with him before hearing it!
I ring him up later in the week, purposely choosing a day he’s already mentioned he’ll be free. He totally brushes me off. This time I don’t hide the huge smile that hits my face.
He’s dressed casual rugged, but there’s a scent of hauteur that betrays the working-man impression his clothes are meant to convey. His footwear likely cost more than a new set of tires.
He’s handsome; not really my type, but no doubt the bulk of the female population would find him incredibly appealing. Definitely a Badge Bunny’s dream. I already know good looks run in his family. In fact, I know a lot about him -- probably much more than he thinks I do; then again, probably much less than he thinks I do.
He tells me he’s unarmed, lifts his shirt to prove it. Too bad -- the presence of a firearm paired with the sight of his belly would’ve been ultra sexy. I tell him I’m not recording this, but I don’t bother baring body parts to verify it. This exchange, in all its oddity, I suppose is our individual way of establishing trust with each other.
I’m not certain why he wanted to meet me; I’m even less certain why I agreed to it. Long before we part ways, what I am certain of is this little hook-up of ours is a one-time thing.
Granted, he’s very nice. Only, when I combine his cordiality with his striking physique, illusory blue-collar attire, and decent intellectual level, and pit it against my pink and black hair, tattoos, loosely-fitted T with jeans and high heels, and deficient gray matter, the overall effect is that he’s hopped off his pedestal to interact with the gutter girl. Whether he’s looking down his nose at me or not or has some inscrutable ulterior motive isn’t the point though, what matters is how to make the most of him before he retreats to his version of higher ground.
The conversation is enjoyable. He, I believe, does most of the talking, which suits me ducky. The problem is the more he speaks, the more human he becomes. Like he’s not some cardboard cookie-cut cop to make fun of or pull a Use ‘n Toss on. He is still a policeman however, and has every ounce of that peculiar-to-Law-Enforcement fusion of ego and humility.
The bright rays from the sky are sneaking around the building and before we completely lose our shade -- my companion’s already been perspiring enough to create a salty wading pool at our toes -- I suggest we move our Talkabout elsewhere.
We spend some of our time together in my parked vehicle with the AC running. He is bothered by the aroma of oil coming from the engine through the vents but at least he is no longer troubled by the stares of strangers, both discomforts I don’t gather he has until he openly announces them. I feel bad for him, but I’m not a darn mechanic and how was I to know he’d be so embarrassed by my appearance?
In short order I sense his life is exactly how he likes it, perfect, with everyone and everything in it positioned just so. I suspect meeting me secretly is about as big of the kind of rebellious risk as he’d dare take; my opinion solidifies when he seeks acknowledgement that this get-together is truly a “courageous” move on his part.
Amusing, the idea that after I’ve viewed so many of these guys as my personal guinea pigs now it seems one of them is doing the same to me.
Over the extent of our socializing I sporadically try to test or fluster him. He takes it all in stride, offering blah to no reaction. It doesn’t even faze him when I coquettishly remark on his admirable derriere -- nope, not even a hint of blushing. Cool, he is. Plus fascinating. I’m sorry he doesn’t find me… interesting? entertaining? attractive? whatever it is he was looking for. Can’t keep a man’s attention for the long term without allure of some sort. No further attention means no further information. Which bites.
Our visit is ending. I’m generally pleased with the whole experience, although I believe he would’ve preferred to be in the company of, hell, anyone else. Oh, he says all the appropriate things, mind you, but I’m no twit. He serves up an “I’ll call you” and I force myself to repress a grin. Men really do this I’ll-call-you thing? My gosh, I thought that was fiction! And I didn’t even have sex with him before hearing it!
I ring him up later in the week, purposely choosing a day he’s already mentioned he’ll be free. He totally brushes me off. This time I don’t hide the huge smile that hits my face.
20100616
20100615
Link Murderers!
Albemarle County just redesigned their website. It cost them $30,000 (are they for real?!) and took a year to do (are they for real?!). Now all my links to it are dead -- including the few I have to their Police Department’s Traffic Squad in a major entry for I HeArTE JADE hits. Grr… This is why I dislike linking outside sites. Ah, well, I haven’t decided if I want to drop, relink, or replace them. As for the popular “Irony” post, I may just link all their names to pictures of their respective houses. Except for Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement Detective Jon McKay’s, because he’s special.
20100612
20100610
20100608
Between A Rock And A Hardass
I was in Albemarle Circuit Court yesterday morning. Barring elaboration here for the time being, my case is in the throes of the appeal process. Oh. Jubilee. Since they dragged me all the way there just to stand in front of a judge for all of thirteen seconds -- long enough to get yet another court date set -- I figured I’d make the best of the rest of the beautiful day doing what I do, which included observing some of the proceedings at Albemarle General District Court.
As luck would have it, apparently the building was experiencing “electrical problems.” So there I was, with fifteen acrillion summonsed people sitting on butt-spiting benches, smoldering in the un-air-conditioned, predominantly unlit, courtroom. Good times.
Machismo seemed to be policeman o’ the hour. Remember him? Turns out, aside from being a nice piece of eye candy, he’s got an orgasmic voice. Sure, it was projecting radar detection numbers and the espials of counterfeit inspection stickers but, oh, yeah, I can totally see a chick gushing when he tells her “buckle up.” However, no one, female or male, looked satisfied after her or his go ‘round in front of the officer and judge.
While I find it educational and super entertaining to watch the system at work, it can become depressing when person after person parades to the front and none of them are declared innocent or given a break. On this occasion I left before that happened, still in good spirits.
Outside I took a peek at a parking square for a certain squad car before trekking off a non-standard path towards my own vehicle. I stepped on the sidewalk prepared to go right and caught sight of a uniform in motion coming in my direction. Despite the Godzilla-sized black shades engulfing his face, I identified him as Machismo. Wahah… how did that happen? He must’ve been finishing up when I was leaving.
The thing about Machismo is that though he recognizes what I drive and is aware generally of what I look like, I believe the closest he has ever come to for realiously seeing me has been either a coup d’oeil from the opposite side of a courtroom or as I’ve been motoring by. I do not want us to get any closer than that. The power these men have is scary sometimes, if you think about it. What if my arm accidentally brushed Machismo’s as we passed on the sidewalk and he charges me with assault? What if I don’t touch him and he still arrests me as an assailant?
With nary but a millisecond to make a decision, I twisted fast to head left -- away from my car -- and took a few quick strides to put additional distance between us to make up for my moment of surprise. My feet, in their five-inch-high-heeled sandals, were not pleased to be rerouted after having already transported me all over the dang region. Does he know it’s me in front of him?
I wasn’t even able to cut down the subsequent street because I saw JADE Detective Jon McKay’s infamous blue Honda parked there beforehand and I couldn’t risk running into him. He’s one of them sensitive ones; you know, like, if we’re in the same county, he’d consider it “indirect contact.”
I assumed Machismo was still back there. Don’t look over your shoulder… don’t look over your shoulder. He might not know it’s you. I used the one-way road where Task Force hottie McKay’s auto had been as an excuse to run to cover more ground -- don’t want to impede traffic, right? One more intersection up, I finally deviated off the main track. Once I’d gone a block further, I gazed the background. Clear!
My remaining long trip back to my wheels was uneventful.
Under imagined-protection of steel and glass around me I pulled out onto Market Street, winding up a few sedans behind a Fire Engine. I love Fire Trucks! Considering they’re essentially massive mobile gadgets, how could I not be keen on them? Anyway, pedestrians kept locking us motorists up like it was rush hour on the CI in Chicago. During one of the jams, I noticed Machismo’s unmarked ride exit at the forefront from the city parking garage. Next to the place where he departed is the inlet/outlet for the Charlottesville Police Department. I got there just at the instant a silver Monte Carlo with tinted windows was edging up to the roadway. It was Joseph L. Hatter of the JADE Task Force. Agh! I crossed his path and he rolled in right at my bumper. You gotta be kidding me.
I and Sgt. Hatter, plus Firemen, got snagged by the 7th Street signal; I wasn’t certain if Machismo did also, given that the enormous red truck ahead was hindering my view. At 9th, Machismo went right, Firemen and all betwixt vehicles continued forward; I went right, as did Joe Hatter.
Mimicking river-floatin’ ducks, us: Mr. Albemarle County, then Miss Moi, then Mr. Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement.
Task Force Officer Jon Seitz has developed a habit of deliberately tailgating me whenever he sees me. I’ve decided he thinks it’s funny and that, in lieu of the conditions, I have no recourse; he is right -- on one count. I tell you that only so you understand my next thought. Is Dasani going to follow me too -- how far -- to where?
The three of us crossed the bridge. The upcoming light was red. Machismo was braking. Even though his huge sunglasses might indicate otherwise, Machismo is not blind. Gawwwwd, he has to know I’m back here. Shoot. How close is Dasani? I don’t wanna be the middle of a cop sandwich here.
In unison, these things happened: I slowed, as not to get too close to Machismo; lit circle of red flashed to green; Machismo’s right blinker lit up, he turned.
No awkward pile-up. I breathed a sigh of temporary relief. One down, one to worry about.
Drawing near to Monticello Avenue, I squeezed inside the auto-packed turning lane to shoot for I-64. Although I’m certain Jon Seitz would’ve, I doubted Sgt. Hatter would bother to obstruct the flow of traffic just to be aggressive with me. The JADE man skimmed by and faded into the foreground.
It didn’t hit me ‘til I was almost home: I didn’t get a single picture of any of it.
As luck would have it, apparently the building was experiencing “electrical problems.” So there I was, with fifteen acrillion summonsed people sitting on butt-spiting benches, smoldering in the un-air-conditioned, predominantly unlit, courtroom. Good times.
Machismo seemed to be policeman o’ the hour. Remember him? Turns out, aside from being a nice piece of eye candy, he’s got an orgasmic voice. Sure, it was projecting radar detection numbers and the espials of counterfeit inspection stickers but, oh, yeah, I can totally see a chick gushing when he tells her “buckle up.” However, no one, female or male, looked satisfied after her or his go ‘round in front of the officer and judge.
While I find it educational and super entertaining to watch the system at work, it can become depressing when person after person parades to the front and none of them are declared innocent or given a break. On this occasion I left before that happened, still in good spirits.
Outside I took a peek at a parking square for a certain squad car before trekking off a non-standard path towards my own vehicle. I stepped on the sidewalk prepared to go right and caught sight of a uniform in motion coming in my direction. Despite the Godzilla-sized black shades engulfing his face, I identified him as Machismo. Wahah… how did that happen? He must’ve been finishing up when I was leaving.
The thing about Machismo is that though he recognizes what I drive and is aware generally of what I look like, I believe the closest he has ever come to for realiously seeing me has been either a coup d’oeil from the opposite side of a courtroom or as I’ve been motoring by. I do not want us to get any closer than that. The power these men have is scary sometimes, if you think about it. What if my arm accidentally brushed Machismo’s as we passed on the sidewalk and he charges me with assault? What if I don’t touch him and he still arrests me as an assailant?
With nary but a millisecond to make a decision, I twisted fast to head left -- away from my car -- and took a few quick strides to put additional distance between us to make up for my moment of surprise. My feet, in their five-inch-high-heeled sandals, were not pleased to be rerouted after having already transported me all over the dang region. Does he know it’s me in front of him?
I wasn’t even able to cut down the subsequent street because I saw JADE Detective Jon McKay’s infamous blue Honda parked there beforehand and I couldn’t risk running into him. He’s one of them sensitive ones; you know, like, if we’re in the same county, he’d consider it “indirect contact.”
I assumed Machismo was still back there. Don’t look over your shoulder… don’t look over your shoulder. He might not know it’s you. I used the one-way road where Task Force hottie McKay’s auto had been as an excuse to run to cover more ground -- don’t want to impede traffic, right? One more intersection up, I finally deviated off the main track. Once I’d gone a block further, I gazed the background. Clear!
My remaining long trip back to my wheels was uneventful.
Under imagined-protection of steel and glass around me I pulled out onto Market Street, winding up a few sedans behind a Fire Engine. I love Fire Trucks! Considering they’re essentially massive mobile gadgets, how could I not be keen on them? Anyway, pedestrians kept locking us motorists up like it was rush hour on the CI in Chicago. During one of the jams, I noticed Machismo’s unmarked ride exit at the forefront from the city parking garage. Next to the place where he departed is the inlet/outlet for the Charlottesville Police Department. I got there just at the instant a silver Monte Carlo with tinted windows was edging up to the roadway. It was Joseph L. Hatter of the JADE Task Force. Agh! I crossed his path and he rolled in right at my bumper. You gotta be kidding me.
I and Sgt. Hatter, plus Firemen, got snagged by the 7th Street signal; I wasn’t certain if Machismo did also, given that the enormous red truck ahead was hindering my view. At 9th, Machismo went right, Firemen and all betwixt vehicles continued forward; I went right, as did Joe Hatter.
Mimicking river-floatin’ ducks, us: Mr. Albemarle County, then Miss Moi, then Mr. Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement.
Task Force Officer Jon Seitz has developed a habit of deliberately tailgating me whenever he sees me. I’ve decided he thinks it’s funny and that, in lieu of the conditions, I have no recourse; he is right -- on one count. I tell you that only so you understand my next thought. Is Dasani going to follow me too -- how far -- to where?
The three of us crossed the bridge. The upcoming light was red. Machismo was braking. Even though his huge sunglasses might indicate otherwise, Machismo is not blind. Gawwwwd, he has to know I’m back here. Shoot. How close is Dasani? I don’t wanna be the middle of a cop sandwich here.
In unison, these things happened: I slowed, as not to get too close to Machismo; lit circle of red flashed to green; Machismo’s right blinker lit up, he turned.
No awkward pile-up. I breathed a sigh of temporary relief. One down, one to worry about.
Drawing near to Monticello Avenue, I squeezed inside the auto-packed turning lane to shoot for I-64. Although I’m certain Jon Seitz would’ve, I doubted Sgt. Hatter would bother to obstruct the flow of traffic just to be aggressive with me. The JADE man skimmed by and faded into the foreground.
It didn’t hit me ‘til I was almost home: I didn’t get a single picture of any of it.
20100604
If The JADE Task Force Isn’t Mentioned In It, Should I Still Post The Article?
Absolutely, because it gets picked up by search engines and brings more traffic to I HeArTE JADE. And you know how much Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement members love that.
Crack dealer to serve 10 years in prison
June 2010
A man who distributed crack cocaine in the area has been sentenced to 10 years in federal prison, according to court records.
Terry Benston White, 24, also was given five years of supervised release during a sentencing hearing Thursday in Charlottesville’s federal court, the court records show.
White pleaded guilty in December to one count of distributing more than 50 grams of crack in connection with an incident in April 2009.
(Source)
20100603
When Arrested By JADE, Try To Blend In With Your Surroundings
This is one of those pictures I should've put up a long time ago since it's even funnier with the cropped-out Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement Officers in it.
20100602
Separation Of Site And State
I was trying to avoid it. Really I was. Really. But all this Virginia State Police stuff? Is massively cluttering up I HeArTE JADE. A site which is theoretically about JADE and I. Or to be grammatically correct: JADE and me. Sure VSP ties into the “I” part. Though not since the days of Bureau of Criminal Investigation Special Agent Jason Trent -- I believe he still drops by here occasionally -- has the State Police been involved with both me and Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement enough to make a valid connection on my niche of the ‘net. Even then I classified the tunnel-visioned Trent and his affiliated department as Secondary. And hola accumulation, the gobs of VSP-pertaining junk that hasn’t been posted on iheartejade! Hence I broke down and done did it. I’ve given them a place of their very own. Yuh-huh. The Blue and Gray, as seen and experienced by yers truly.
20100601
Thanks For The Ticket, Fellas
Hey, I’ve already discovered Virginia State Trooper Brandon Long and VSP Sgt. Michael Bailey live only 1.4 miles apart:
I found this nifty old picture as well:
I found this nifty old picture as well:
Who Was I Tryin’ To Kid?
Sometimes I forget that the system isn’t designed for people such as myself. Or perhaps it’s not that I forget, maybe it’s that I have this deep-seated ridiculous optimistic belief that justice really can be found in a courtroom. I expect judges to be attentive, prosecutors to be reasonable, law enforcement to be truthful. While there might be instances in which one or two of those things happen, I think I have finally finally learned that it is only in imaginings when all three fall into place.
I’ve decided to forego an attorney. Mostly because he’d probably just impede my fun. And without that I am lost.
I’ve decided to forego an attorney. Mostly because he’d probably just impede my fun. And without that I am lost.
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