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Today’s Entry Brought To You By The Letters ATF

Four cars with guys from the ATF in Washington showed up at my place this morning to “talk” to me. That’s right, four. With ATF Agents. From Washington. For little ol’ me.

(Two of the four, belonging to Agents Michael Moore and Dave Stone.)

I almost never answer the door to people I don’t know, so when I heard the knock this morning and, through the peephole, saw a couple of men in ties on the other side, I thought Meh. Jehovah’s Witnesses, and went back to what I was doing pre-interruption.

When the rapping came again, louder and far more insistent, I just knew something bad was up. A peek out the blinds of the window and my earlier thought turned to Oh my God -- FEDS! I mean, suits and shiny shoes? At my little hole in the Ghetto? Come on. Who else could it be?

I watched as two of their vehicles barricaded the parking area and a man standing outside the pair of automobiles fished out his cell phone. Aha! I know this trick. I ran for my own cell phone and toggled the option to “vibrate only” -- right as “Restricted” rang through.

Multiple Agents in attendance, their pounding on my door, their calling my number, their circling outside like vultures... the sad thing is, I know they’re just trying to intimidate me yet it still works on me. I was frightened. Plus, while they were busy terrorizing me they’d also simultaneously targeted for the same treatment members of my family who live nearby. Do you know how hard it is to think and function under such conditions?

I put Mr. Restricted on ignore and dialed my lawyer. Who was in court. After playing a bit of phone tag -- to the ongoing tattoo of knuckles striking the door -- I was advised to not get in a stand-off. A stand-off! Moi in a stand-off? Stand-offs equal dead. I can’t blog if I’m dead.

Ultimately I let the men in.

The sole reason they graced me with their presence is because of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms Special Agent John Stoltz. You know, the not-really-a-JADE-Task-Force-Officer JADE Task Force Officer. The one I picked on minimally for site filler weeks ago. The one I insinuated I wouldn’t bother again if he didn’t make ado out of a nothing thing. Mhmm. Him.

What part of “I’ll leave you alone if you leave me alone” is confusing to these fellows? What part of “I don’t respond well to bullying” isn’t sinking in their collective head? You would think at least one affiliate with Law Enforcement -- just one! -- could figure out what does and what does not work with me and, I don’t know, go with it.

It’d be understandable maybe if I’ve been tweaking them lately, but, for the love of logic, my last post is, in part, an apology for my not blogging!

Anyway, I’ve done nothing illegal. (I feel like I should make that my mantra or something.) Apparently I haven’t even done enough to incur a search warrant. Or an interrogation. Or even an official announcement. But they sent four cars. With ATF Agents. From Washington. For little ol’ me.

(Their business card. Yes, really.)


Trio Of Time-Takers

Subtitle: Explanation For Infrequency Of Entries

The State:

I run my fingertips around the firearm tucked by his shirt. He and I are in my vehicle tucked beside an unoccupied residence. The thickness of rainfall further secrets our encounter. I am beyond rhapsodic he contacted me -- on this exact day, and, in the first place, months ago. I. Adore. Him. A kindred spirit he is, connecting with me like no other. His smile indicates he’s not opposed to my ever-increasing fixation with him. To the beat of descending water we speak about everything. And nothing. His eyes coruscate with amusement. I play with his hand while he talks. He is smart. So smart. He’s entirely no good for information on the JADE Task Force; they should be grateful. But he does offer a deeper glimpse into the world of Law Enforcement -- insight on badged boys and their toys. I think I’ll keep him.

The County:

The street light illuminates his sinewy shape well. It’s an odd place, odd time, for us to meet but it’s all we can swing. I haven’t seen him in, it seems, ages. Two weeks is ages, correct? He gives me the lowdown on “the hen house.” Yes, that’s really what he calls his department. Funny, another ACPD guy used that same term as a description just a month ago. Are they friends? Being the tease he is, my attractive companion serves me Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement gossip last. Sometimes I have to weed out his vitriol to find the facts. I poke him in the ribs and tell him his malevolence is showing. He cracks a cop joke which makes me laugh which makes him laugh. Verbal dancing is his forte. He wraps his arms around me tight before parting. He’s right, I really ought to be more available for him.

The City:

He stands in front of me his breath raspy, his body taut with fury. What have I done? I’ve depended on him, trusted him with nearly everything. The JADE items he’s been holding for safe-keeping for me he’s now holding for ransom from me. He feels used, neglected. I vehemently shake my head back and forth at every accusation he makes. He knows I won’t lie to him. Much more crucially, he knows I will never betray him. My eyes still wet, the side of my face still stinging, I cautiously approach him and untangle the remnants of a few long black hairs of mine that linger intertwined in his clenched fist. I have to calm him down. I have to fix this. Even as bruises are forming on me I tell him he’s still my favorite. I need him.


Yeah, I Got Nothin’

Y’all can check out this site in the meantime.


No Post Title

This morning was Albemarle County Officer Eric Kudro’s make-up day in Waynesboro General District Court. I’d already decided I wasn’t going to miss witnessing it for nothin’. I believed he was going to get away with his hit-and-not-run charge -- which he did -- but how it played out exceeded even my expectations.

I pulled into a favorable parking place near the courthouse slightly before 9AM. When I crossed the threshold of the justice building, I immediately saw a third-rate printout taped on a four-foot-high signpost stationed between myself and the metal detector. After reading its message, I promptly spun about and headed back to my vehicle.

Being somewhat familiar with courthouse policies, I typically carry a mere two items with me when visiting such an establishment: the solitary piece of formed metal that opens and starts my car, and my cell phone. Unlike the City of Charlottesville and Albemarle County courts, according to the public display I’d a moment ago seen, Waynesboro’s bans cellulars, period. Won’t be long, I think, before even my single key is going to be forbidden.

I tossed the contraband in my auto console and engaged the lock again.

Upon reentering the edifice, I deposited and recovered my one allowed object into and from the guard’s obligatory Gladware, stepped through the security device without incident, and took the door “on the left” that’d been pointed out to me. Traffic court was already in session.

The boyish-looking policeman I’d come to watch was easy to spot. Aside from lawyers and other cops inside the partitioned-off bench area, Mr. Kudro was the only person in the room dressed in a full suit. I’d figured he’d either wear that or his ACPD uniform. No way would he dared show up in normal attire.

He was sitting in the right front pew, on the far left side. I chose a seat three rows behind him, on the far right side. I spent the next forty minutes or so listening to victims and officers tell their tales to the judge while I observed Mr. Kudro’s stop-and-go habit of chomping much too enthusiastically on the gob of gum in his mouth.

There was the guy who was “only stopping fer a cuppa coffee, your honor,” the one who quetched about being racially profiled and denied resembling a drug dealer, the fellow who inebriatedly bailed on his alcohol-aroma-ish sedan leaving $28 dollars worth of damage behind, the woman in pajama bottoms and one sock, this speeder, that speeder… finally the nine o’clockers were over.

There was a nod to Eric Kudro by, I presume, an attorney and the judge called his name. I simultaneously scampered up to the same bench the baby-face-with-a-badge had just abandoned to better hear what would transpire.

I kid you not, whatever happened took less than thirteen seconds. Not even thirty -- thirteen! I blinked once and it was over. No account of the violation. No explanations. There was no pretense of legal procedure. They barely went through the motions. It took me longer to pick my jaw up off the floor.

At the courthouse after the… oh my gosh, I don’t even know what to call it -- other than a ridiculous farce, I spoke to someone in the know and learned the case had been dismissed because Officer Kudro “took care” of the other driver involved. Short of contacting that party, I guess I’ll never know what went on.

Maybe some things are better left to wonder about. Plus there’s always next time. Yessir, there will be a next time. We are talking about Eric Kudro you know.




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