All personally identifying information on this site discovered utilizing resources readily available to the general public. All publicly-obtainable court documents, media reports, and any content of similar nature, provided herein or linked to were pre-published elsewhere by parties other than myself. General images along with my personal photographs are garnered via publicly accessible sources through legal means. The purpose for republishing or otherwise publicizing the information is simply to support the content contained herein.


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.