Blah Blah Blogging

Couldn’t decide whether to spend this weekend taking a road trip to the DC area for residential photography purposes or seeing what someone in Ruckersville/Barboursville was officially up to. So I’m doing laundry instead.

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A reader sent this via email:

TITLE 18, U.S.C., SECTION 241

If two or more persons conspire to injure, oppress, threaten, or intimidate any person in any State, Territory, Commonwealth, Possession, or District in the free exercise or enjoyment of any right or privilege secured to him by the Constitution or laws of the United States, or because of his having so exercised the same;

...

They shall be fined under this title or imprisoned not more than ten years, or both; and if death results from the acts committed in violation of this section or if such acts include kidnapping or an attempt to kidnap, aggravated sexual abuse or an attempt to commit aggravated sexual abuse, or an attempt to kill, they shall be fined under this title or imprisoned for any term of years or for life, or both, or may be sentenced to death.

Great. Presumably that’s another law that policemen are legally permitted to violate.

A different reader gave me this:

How perfect is that?!

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Because of a recent “clerical error” -- yeah, right -- on the part of Albemarle County, and an uninvolved-in-the-situation City of Charlottesville Commonwealth Attorney inappropriately vomiting “there’s a lot of people who’d like to keep her off the road” to the County judge, I’ve been going through my audio files trying to find where JADE Task Force Officer Brian O’Donnell threatened that they, Law Enforcement, would maliciously cause me to lose my license. I’m not going to post that particular comment yet, but I will this one -- which kinda contradicts one of his dirtball CYA tactics that I alter sound bites.

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I still haven’t written up a report on what happened when I went to traffic court on July 14^th against Virginia State Trooper Long. For one, around that same time my attention was more on ACPD Officer Eric Kudro’s reckless driving courtishness. Secondly, a shockingly positive unexpected encounter with another Trooper has mostly counteracted the abuses of Trp. Long and Sgt. Bailey. Proof that one good experience can make a bigger impact and mean so much more than all the bad ones combined. Almost.

Quotables

“I personally estimate the City of Charlottesville, there’s probably at least a thousand drug dealers in the City of Charlottesville; and we probably know just about every one of them.” Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement Task Force Officer Paul Best

“I like to call it the ‘JADAR.’ Most of the dealers are on the JADAR ...eventually they’re going to get caught -- unless ya kill them first.” Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement Task Force Officer Paul Best

Caution: Subject Armed With Camera and Sharp Wit

There was a bug on the passenger window in the back seat. I pulled into a grocery store parking lot so I could safely free it to the great outdoors. I wonder how many bugs are responsible for car crashes. A kitty-corner flash caught my attention, and when I about-faced I saw a Virginia State Police cruiser leaving the convenience store across the path. My task of insect liberation over, I slipped back in place at the wheel and fished a camera out.

The Trooper stopped for the traffic signal at the shopping center and I rolled in behind him. I took a couple of pictures.

His left turn light sprang to life. Ha! Cool; we’re headed the same way. Trying to time the shutter to his blinker for the heck of it, I clicked another shot or two. We got the green. The Trooper accelerated like molasses.

I, in case you couldn’t guess, don’t have any qualms about passing a police car -- unlike the rest of the population does. The way I figure it, I’m legal, my car is legal, my driving is legal, the mere presence of Law Enforcement is not a reason to uncharacteristically travel 15 miles below the speed limit. It ain’t the Indianapolis 500; I don’t need a pace car.

I overtook Trooper Turtle and checked him out as I cleared his driver’s side. Kinda plain looking… spectacles… common lawman haircut…

I got up to speed and set the cruise control. Know what would be funny? If he pulled me over. Then I’d find out his name.

Turtle pretty much stayed equidistant in the rear. I thought about taking more photos of him via my side mirror, but sporadic rain from earlier made the reflection spotty and I knew none would come out well. Feh. I’ll just wait ‘til he rockets on by.

We drove in tandem for miles upon miles. When have you ever seen a Trooper drive for miles upon miles doing the speed limit? Exactly! It. Never. Happens. Hmm… lessee if I can make him pass me. Using my cc instead of my foot pedal, I slowed down just barely -- not enough to be obvious, though enough that, if he didn’t do the same, he’d catch up to me eventually. Apparently he did the same. What the…? If he intended to pull me over, he would’ve done it, like, a half hour ago! Bizarre. I glanced down at my scanner. He hasn’t called in my tags or anything. I dunno, maybe it has nothing to do with me. I tapped the gas and reset the cruise.

Settled in for the rest of the haul, I sang along with my music and occasionally peeked at Turtle back there.

At last we were approaching Charlottesville-Albemarle. There were two ways I could go to get where I needed, and the first one was rapidly coming up. I was planning on taking it. Until I saw Turtle become the Hare. He’d certainly stepped it up and would be passing me momentarily. Well, hey! It seems I’m going to get his picture after all. I lifted the camera as he flanked me, then squeezed the button.

Man, he jammed on his brakes so fast you woulda thought a tornado had landed in front of him! Scarcely a gasp later he activated his emergency lights. Well, hey! It seems I’m going to get his name after all.

Now, this is all kind of amusing to me. On the surface. But if you really think about it, you know, go a little deeper, I’m about to be detained for photography. One more time, real slow: phhhhhotoooooggraaaaaphy. And since I knew good and darn well that alone was the reason…

I scooped my recording device out of the console.

My power window will be uncooperative on occasion. Due to potential showers, I wasn’t going to test its functionality then and there. So when Trooper Turtle walked up, I carefully, blatantly, displayed both my hands, placing one along the panel where the glass and the frame meet and using the second on the door hasp. It’s a casual move other officers have seen me make, and I’ve never had a problem -- especially since I immediately explain why I didn’t simply do standard window-down procedure. In this case, however, when the access gave way, Trooper Turtle jumped back. Seriously jumped back. Jumped! I was mystified. What’s wrong with him? “The window sticks sometimes” I quickly said. He readjusted himself. I zeroed in on his name pin.

Trooper Doss requested my license and registration. Do they even ask for proof of insurance anymore? Without delay or hesitation, he pursued with the point of the pullover. “Why were you taking pictures of me?” Well, sir, see, I run this website, about the Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement, JADE, Task Force, because one of its detectives… Instead I replied, while retrieving my papers from the glove box, “Because I can?” I took that opportunity to set the camera -- which had been visibly resting on my lap -- on the seat next to me.

I then relinquished the solicited items to the man in uniform. Oh. My. God. His hands were shaking. Shaking! He had a pen, and he was trying to scribble something on the palm of his hand -- yes, on his hand -- and his hands were trembling worse than a heroin addict missing a fix. It. Was. Hilarious. But I didn’t laugh at him. Out loud.

Trooper Doss refused to drop the picture-taking topic. I refused to not toy with him about it. I deliberately gave ambiguous or non-committal answers to his inquiries on the subject. I attempted to get him to claim that photographing him or his wheels was a crime. He went right up to the line but didn’t quite go over it. I tried to cajole him into letting me get more images of his car and person. He was having none of that either. “Not while I’m on official business” he barked finally. Perfect set up. I had him clarify what he meant by “official business” and he indicated the traffic stop itself. Gotcha! Wait ‘til we wrap this up, babe.

He opprobriously informed me he’d noticed my taking the pics of him four thousand miles ago. Ah, so that’s why you were hanging in my backyard the whole time. Abruptly, he threatened to, get this, cite me for “reckless driving”! I bristled. Intimidation and bullying? Oh, boy, you better not even go there.

Yeah I might’ve let him slide on the whole “reckless driving” thing as a determent had he mentioned it at the onset but him throwing it out there the way he did, after he’d flagrantly made the stop about pictures?

My eyes hardened, and he and I orally combated briefly about reckless driving. I think he gathered mondo-fastola he’d chosen the wrong tactic to exploit on me. He let me know to sit tight and off he trod to his vehicle.

No sooner did he enter his auto, my scanner leapt to life. I listened as he communicated with the female dispatcher. He supplied my license number to her and asked specifically about a “caution” that his terminal had, previously I inferred, kicked back to him. Caution? What caution? The woman confirmed the “caution” -- that made me laugh -- then an instant later asked him to call the radio room. They’ve got me flagged in their system! Suddenly Trooper Doss being immoderately jittery started to make a bit of sense. It went even beyond typical cop annoyance at a stranger capturing him on film. I’m not your run-of-the-mill stranger, no, I’m tagged as a dangerous stranger, y’see. Pfft. Oh, please.

Now, this is all kind of amusing to me. On the surface. But if you really think about it, you know, go a little deeper, Law Enforcement has helped -- as a matter of fact, I do accept my role in this -- create what is honestly a rotten situation for both me and them. What happens if one of the policemen I encounter on a traffic stop is trigger-happy or extra on edge because of this BS, and I reach just a wee bit too fast for my ID and his comfort? Good strategy JADE -- the twits who arranged the predicament. Maybe they don’t mind if my insides get splattered across the windshield but did they consider for a single second the impact such might have on the guy with the badge who does the deed? Never mind; I already know the answer.

Trooper Doss rejoined me. He generated a pat verbal “warning,” although he didn’t specify what precisely the caveat was for. Who cared? The “official business” was complete. I launched into another stab at acquiring more images, mainly to vex him. It tickled me that he ultimately gave permission for “later.” Since ya know he did it because he had zip freaking idea just how very capable I am of tracking him down.

The thing is, if the Trooper had merely let me do my harmless whatever, all I would’ve had is a few pictures of his blue and gray -- which a vast amount of people see on a daily basis anyway. But he had to make an issue of it. So I got a nifty story out of it. Plus all the information I could want on him. Initials in a regional news article led to a full name led to a phone call to verify it’s the correct Trooper led to an address… you know the drill. Still entirely harmless, only exceedingly more of it.

That’s it for now. But it’s probably safe to assume I’ll be getting back to Trooper Doss “later.”

(Footnote)

Ya Don’t Say

Near the beginning of the month, I -- mainly for my own amusement -- put up an audio clip of a conversation JADE Detective Brian O’Donnell and I had sometime in 2009.

My husband, who I’ve been separated from for over three years, is now vengefully spinning said sound bite for his own benefit. Along with concocting a story to give the recording some bogus context, he’s nuttily transcribed the thing and dishonestly added unspoken words to it. It looks so legit though; it never ceases to amaze me how skilled he is at deception.

At any rate, I was going to remove the link to my chat with the studly Task Force Officer, then let the mp3 undergo death by exceeded bandwidth, but upon further reflection I remembered my husband no longer controls me and can’t hurt me anymore.

So it stays.

Five Fer Friday

1. For most investigators, once a case and its connected courtroom stage show is over, it’s over. O-V-E-R. Done. Finito! But a cool source of things VSP says Special Agent Jason Trent just can’t stop frequenting I HeArTE JADE. People, the man is stalking my site. So… New file? Still-active old file? He obsessed? You tell me.

2. A select few terms that have brought searchers from Google to my site recently:

jade wireless
joseph fleming va state police force
Ian Diner, Charlottesville, Virginia
OLD TIME PORN STARS

I blame JADE’s Albemarle officer Jon McKay for that last one.

3. No longer must anyone resort to displaying the picture of me that both anti-racist and “pro-White” rejectamenta have been using against me for the last decade. Behold; an equally beautiful mugshot! Be assured these images absolutely accurately depict my appearance.

4. In the past year, 9000 persons have viewed my profile; it would’ve been 9 but, hey, the Task Force stallions traded in their thinkin’ for whinin’.

5. Detective Brian O’Donnell. Listen. Laugh. Or don’t.

The Best Man Didn’t Win

Despite 3,425 ballots in his favor, Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement Task Force detective Paul Best will not be the next Sheriff of Charlottesville. The position will instead be filled by his opponent, Albemarle County officer James Brown, who defeated the Independent-running Best by garnering 62 per cent. of the vote.

Apparently most area residents were not swayed by Best’s one-time dressed-down street corner electioneering, scarce placards, or last minute door-to-door canvassing. Still, Best says he’s pleased with his campaign and won’t mind continuing his work with JADE.

Forecast: Mostly Clear With A Slight Chance Of Raid (Part 2)

(Part 1)

The rhythmic tattoo of boots as the assault squad descended the flight of steps seemed to mock the thumps of my heart.

What followed next could best be described as “the epitome of surreality.” It’s not that I can’t recollect certain things from the raid now -- as if they’ve just been dismissed from my mind with the passage of time; it’s like I wasn’t aware of them even as they were happening. I mean I distinctly remember asking myself questions like “how did I get in this room?” and “when did we come upstairs?” and never gaining the answers.

It’s like trying to watch a DVD with someone who won’t stop toying with the remote control.

Play.

They didn’t immediately enter the bedroom after the door swung open. Instead I was ordered to exit the quarters by a man I couldn’t see. I’m not sure if I’d gotten to my feet before the command came or after. Do everything they tell you to do. Exactly how they tell you to do it. Don’t be scared don’t be scared.

Fast Forward.

How did I get in this room? Special Agent Jason Trent was standing by my left side. Jason Trent? Really? Really? Another man was in front of us, slightly off to the right. Who’s he? I wanted to remember everyone so I eyed him carefully from head to toe, taking in each inch of him. By the time I’d gotten to his shoes, I’d already forgotten what his face looked like. Meh. I have the sense he had gray hair, and a gut that’s probably been hanging over his happy place since his 10th wedding anniversary. Someone flipped a switch and the room erupted with light.

Don’t show ‘em you’re scared don’t show ‘em you’re scared. Mr. Trent informed me I was being placed under arrest, plus read me my rights. That means he officially plans to interrogate me. Great; the man takes everything I say the wrong way. He was holding something during his trite spiel and although I was deliberately staring at it the entire time his lilting voice lifted and dived, all I could see in his massive hands was… was a… There was definitely something there -- a card with printed Miranda warnings seems logical -- but the blood pulsating in my ears and distracting thorns of anxiety blanked it out. Firearm?

I was not handcuffed.

Fast Forward.

I was asked where specific items were -- computer, camera. I gestured at the noticeable tower and screen that was eight inches in front of them. “We don’t need to take the monitor” Mr. Trent said to his accomplice. Hmm... why would he tell him something so obvious? Aren’t these guys supposed to be the professionals?

I think the camera’s in the car. It’s customary for me to bring it inside and download images straightaway when I’ve used it but I wasn’t sure I’d done so the night before. I was under the impression I’d intended to carry it in and decided, since I’d be putting it to work again so soon in the morning, I wouldn’t bother. I conveyed to the beefy men only that the object was in my automobile.

“Is that a laptop?” Agent Trent had targeted a zippered black case. I indicated his deduction was spot on and grabbed socks from a drawer. I was slipping my feet into a pair of Converse when, bent upside down, I again glanced at the Toshiba’s holder. On second thought, the camera might be in there. I, like, always carry it in with me. Frustrated with my amnesia poisoning, I brooded aloud something to the effect of what had just gone through my head. My uncertainty was resolved in moments; no picture-taking device inside the bag.

Still no cuffs.

Random Play.

An audio CD, made by Jon McKay, of a JADE-controlled drug buy, sitting atop a speaker on my desk caught my attention when one of the officers went near it. Ach! I hope the prints got wiped off that. I should’ve moved it. Aww… what are the chances I’ll get it back?

Random Play.

Kitchen. When did we come upstairs? Mr. Trent repeated something about if I told him where they could find items they were looking for, they wouldn’t need to disturb much. You mean no trashin’ the house? Hell, I’m all for that!

Pause.

Officer Trent was predominately focused on the computers in the residence. Seriously. Tunnel vision. To the third power. I guess I can understand why, given that we’re in the digital age ‘n all, and the man steadfastly feels I’m “computer-savvy,” but I deem it nothing short of incompetent. I believe it’s generally a bad idea for law enforcement to rely on the mere potential of computer evidence as heavily as it does these days. In any case, this made cooperating with him and his team that much easier because a) there were only two PCs that I use and b) I didn’t have to reveal where anything else was that they didn’t have the sagacity to ask for.

Random Play.

Walked an unlit hallway, closely followed by Jason Trent. Stopped. Turned around and crashed into a different cop. It was a girl. Whoa. Where’d she come from?

Somewhere in the midst of the event I’d been told by Mr. Trent “I brought along a female officer. To pat you down.” Um, thanks? I’m sure Smurfette there is thrilled too.

Random Play.

I wonder if you vomit on one of them if they’ll charge you with assault.

Play.

Outside, inquiries I found odd were directed at me here and there including “do you have ID?” Huh? It’s not like you don’t know who I am.

In every direction I gazed there was an armed person. X26. Visions of Taser test subjects suddenly bubbled up. The middle of a raid is not the time for recourse.

Pause.

Throughout I tried to be as obliging as possible. Always in the back of my mind was the thought that I didn’t want to slurp down a slug of Sig Sauer. Nor was I going to give them any leverage whatsoever for future courtroom testimony.

Random Play.

Count them. Now; now you should count them! … Seven. Eight. Nine…

Rewind. Play.

I unlocked my Toyota on the passenger side while several males, and the sole woman, donned in battle wear circled about the yard and driveway. Good gaaaawd. Wish I’d been the invisible participant in their briefing for this. I reckoned their soon-to-follow debriefing would consist of ten words: Well that was lame. She didn’t even swear at us.

Mr. Trent hovered near me at my vehicle -- to ensure I didn’t tamper with or remove his hallucinated evidence, I suppose. I wasn’t even given the opportunity to retrieve the identification he’d just a minute sooner requested before I got spun around and was patted down. Uuuh, I didn’t know they got that close to, ahem, there. Eek! Talk about “invasion of privacy.”

An audience of lawmen watched while their token female counterpart, a pretty, petite lady that Jason Trent could pro’ly cart around in his pocket, unskillfully moved her hands over me. Huh. She seems nervous. I think she’s more intimidated by these guys than I am. I’d noticed Mr. Trent had a habit of superciliously coaching her. Which in turn threw her off her groove. Which in turn compelled Mr. Trent to give her further directives. Exacerbation at its finest. If this is what they do to her all the time, it’s no wonder she’s angst-ridden.

Are these people all State Police? I’d barely put the dot on that question mark when…

Cuffs, at last.

(Continued here)

Of Course I Want Paul Best To Be Sheriff! But I Might Be A Little Biased.

For at least the next four days Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement officer Paul J. Best can still hope to become the next Sheriff of Charlottesville. Come November 3rd, the final result will be in the hands of the area’s residents.

Mr. Best has made it a point that he’s running as an Independent. However, while the concept of his obviating affiliation with a particular party in the interest of John and Jane Q. Public seems sound in theory, it could be argued that what Mr. Best has essentially done is scorned partisan-loyal citizens while simultaneously soliciting their votes. Or has he merely tried to capitalize on a steadily growing Independent political movement?

Mr. Best’s centrism aside, in addition to ensuring agency accreditation and creating openings for volunteers, the candidate, if elected, also intends to put a Gang Reduction and Intervention Program (GRIP) into place. Mr. Best has publicly stated the gang program is “highly successful” and even ties it to the city of Richmond’s reduced danger rate, but in a conversation I had with him about local youth he said the following:

Detective Best: All these young kids -- a matter of time, but eventually their time comes. Few people slip by.

And whether they don’t -- they get by us -- it’s their rival gang member, or drug dealer, that ends up having a beef with them, they get shot and killed by them. It’s, it’s, it’s kind of like a cycle that’s just not ending. We dealt with their parents, now we’re dealing with their kids. And it just keeps going.

Me: I mean you don’t think you’re -- you’re going to change that do you?

Detective Best: You’re not, no. You’re not.

I mean, you look at these people and you just -- they live too much for today. They don’t think about the future. They don’t think where they want to go, how they would want their life to go or end up. They want to get married, one day, and have a family but -- you know, it’s not about that. But they end up with a family and then they don’t know what to do with them and they don’t do the right things with them. You know? And they’re seventeen years old! And they’ve got their third kid already! You know? And they’ve got their third kid, but they’re no longer with the mother. Or they’ve got a kid here with this one, a kid there with that one, a kid there with that one.

It’s…

It’s, it’s, it’s really sad.

(Audio here)

If Mr. Best doesn’t believe things can be changed for the very people a program like GRIP targets, why has he been advocating GRIP for Charlottesville?

Frankly it’s hard to conceive of anyone who’s pursuing election to a position of power not engaging in the kind of shady strategies for personal gain that typically abound in such campaigns. To be fair though, a contender may be simply naïve rather than intentionally deceptive. Unfortunately neither of those attributes make for a good Sheriff.

Computrent

This past Thursday, October 22, I got back (most of) my property that was seized by the Virginia State Police three months ago.

I’ll spin out an in-depth report on it later; consider this a condensed edition.

I met with VSP Special Agent Jason Trent at my attorney’s office in Charlottesville. Because, apparently, if Mr. Trent has contact with me, it’s A-OK, but if I have contact with him, it’s criminal. The statuesque officer had no problem being antagonistic about that, and by the end of our interaction I was highly exasperated with him. In addition to his cocky -- and might I say unwise? -- gloating, I had to endure his scoffs and denials about missing items, one of which was a memory card conspicuously absent from my camera. The object was eventually recovered after Mr. Trent got in touch with a mysterious Mike Monroe and conversed with another person or two besides.

I assume Mr. Monroe’s name and number aren’t a secret, and that he doesn’t care if they’re given out, since Agent Trent rattled both off aloud right in front of me, a person who’s known to often procure and sometimes divulge such information.

Anyhoo, I’m pleased that my home computer has been returned, albeit covered in weird, red “evidence” tape and white labels.



It seems every time anyone in law enforcement did anything with it, they slapped on a new icky sticky strip and initialed it. With a dang Sharpie!



My laptop was not spared the wrath of the everlasting black marker either.



Fortunately, the fact that the tags on the tower contain interesting pieces of information make up for the permanent scribbles.



Why, yes, that M P Monroe signature did catch my eye. But only because SA Trent drew my attention to it.

It so happens that Michael P. Monroe has received computer forensic training from the FBI, the NW3C, and numerous others, and has been involved for years in computer evidence recovery.

Very cool.

It’s Going To Give “Sex, Drugs, And Rock & Roll” A Whole New Meaning

Special Agent Jason Trent asserts, because of this entry about Dasani, I am in violation of this Virginia Code:

§ 18.2-186.4. Use of a person’s identity with the intent to coerce, intimidate, or harass; penalty.
It shall be unlawful for any person, with the intent to coerce, intimidate, or harass another person, to publish the person’s name or photograph along with identifying information as defined in clauses (iii) through (ix), or clause (xii) of subsection C of § 18.2-186.3, including identification of the person’s primary residence address. Any person who violates this section is guilty of a Class 1 misdemeanor.
Any person who violates this section knowing or having reason to know that person is a law-enforcement officer, as defined in § 9.1-101, is guilty of a Class 6 felony. The sentence shall include a mandatory minimum term of confinement of six months.

The above is intriguing in that it seems to support what I’ve repeatedly stated: publishing pictures and other identifying information of Law Enforcement is not a crime. What is illegal -- and I knew this already -- is harassment, which is the angle the aforesaid code plays. Really what it boils down to is motivation.

I deny my intent was to harass Dasani. I’m not trying to harass any of the officers. I HeArTE JADE is, and has been, a means to exhibit some of the things I’ve experienced because of my curiosity about, and interest in, the JADE Task Force.

I suppose though, when it comes to my actual motives and what I say vs what a group of Law Enforcement claim my motives are and what they feel, the latter people are all that matter.

With that in mind, I expect what will come out in court, in my defense, will still be scandalous for Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement.

I did not know in fact, that I did, in fact, know what I’d be charged with, so, now that I know that I know, now, I don’t know that I care.

If it wasn’t evident, I talked to Special Agent Jason Trent of the Virginia State Police again. Should I have only my blog labels to use to define why I called him last Thursday, I’d go with “Experiment Without Explanation.” Anyhoo, it’s out of my conversation with Mr. Trent that I’m able to serve up the undermentioned brain blend:

From an assortment of informal comments Agent Trent has made, I think it’d be killer to speak with him about his work and cases. For instance, he said something about interview techniques and classes and my psyche was thenceforth whisked into a cyclone of curiosity-filled inquiries. It bites that he’ll never willingly reply to my questions regarding his profession.

I was asked completely out of nowhere by Mr. Trent why I recently sold my car. I’m not certain if his query was supposed to be of the we’re-watching-you-lady intimidation variety but if that’s how it was meant, dare I say FAIL? I’m mountains more interested in the possible technical aspects of how he knew of the sale. They have a DMV flag on me, maybe? Because, is that even a for real thing they can do?

Speaking of can do, why do these officers appear to be of the opinion that just because I can do something it must mean I did? Actually whether I can do or not seems largely irrelevant, all it really takes is for them to feel I can. (This other brief exchange I had with Agent Trent about his telephone number is perhaps a decent, albeit minor, example of what I mean.) Don’t even get me started on their similiar nutball notion that just because I can do something it must mean I will. I find both very confusing. And annoying; I find both very annoying. Hphft!

Mr. Trent made a point to point out he admitted he’d lied to me, as if that makes his lying Ooooo Kkkkkk. Just a thought, but Logic: You’re Doing It Wrong. He also pointedly stated most people who are being investigated don’t know they are (I guess until the point of arrest?), as if that… yeah, I’ve not a clue what his point there was, but, somehow, I feel like I’ve been enlightened and, for that, I’m grateful.

Three For Trent

1.

What's this? I do believe it's, among other things, you giving me that particular phone number of yours. Huh. Imagine that. 434-352-3445. Yep.

2.

Main Entry: re·la·tion·ship
Function: Noun
Date: 1741

3a: a state of affairs existing between those having relations or dealings with each other. He had a good relationship with his family.

The foundation of our relationship is based, Mr. Trent, on your liesssss. Plural. So you see, it's perfectly correct -- in all senses.

3.

Doesn't it just make your day go peachy to know that you are the only person who truly is being forced to read iHeArTEjade? Oh, no, wait; it's me whose day goes peachy to know that.

50-50 I Come Up With The List, You Come Up With The Title

• If Paul Best were an informant he wouldn’t work for JADE.
• Jon McKay has a red RAM 2500.
• Jon Seitz carries a blue lunchbox.
• Granville Fields’ middle name begins with Q.
• John Stoltz often parks his Charger in front of eloise.
• Joe Hatter drives the JADE van home sometimes.
• Brian O’Donnell doesn’t do “street stuff.”
• Don Campbell is an active participant in Task Force drug raids.
• Jimmy Bunch uses a leg holster.
• John Baber wears New Balance brand tennis shoes.
• Joe Fleming buys coffee at Starbucks.
• I swapped the pseudonyms formerly in these bullet lists to real names because of Google.

Following Cars Is So, Like, Yesterday; Today’s Trend Is All About Following Cases.

Absolutely I’d find all of them interesting but I don’t pay a great deal of attention to many of the Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement cases once they make it to court. Can you imagine trying to keep up with the multiple multi-jurisdictional courtroom proceedings of eleven individual Task Force Officers? Oi Mi! I do stick with some though because this, that, or the other, cause me to and I want to know the end result of JADE’s actions. The “cause” may be watching a raid by Truck, Longhead, Dasani (if memory serves), and a SWAT team, on a rainy mid-December night. The “result” -- for the Black male who gets busted -- a sequence of six court dates over a duration of five months.

I've Decided

Dasani is a flake. Or perhaps he’s secretly been a recipient of an Obie. There are a handful of possibilities I’ve thought of, which I won’t delve into here, for why, on two occasions with me now, Dasani has acted like he has the intellect of a regurgitated rice crispy.

A few weeks ago the cool drink of water himself left me a voicemail asking that I call him.

I’ve kind of got it in my head that Dasani’s one of those guys who could bare-handed take down a rhinoceros if he felt like it. There’s just no doubt the rugged Task Force Sergeant’s insides are surging with Testosterone. So when I rang him back I expected he’d skip the passive-aggressive approach the other Law Enforcement Officers have tried with me -- pretty please, miss, it’d be gracious nice if you’d be so kind as to forget all about JADE otherwise we’ll have to start spite-ticketing you for any minor offenses we can drum up, or arrest you for obstruction of justice, or beat you by the side of the road until you’re black-eyed and bloody and compliant with us -- and go straight to a stormy “take down the effin’ picture of my wheels.” Only Dasani would use the real F-word ‘cause he’s tough like that.

Didn’t go that way in the slightest. After swiftly swapping how-are-yous, the first thing out of his mouth was “hey, are you in town by chance?” as if the thought had sprung into his mind that exact second. My brain half-jokingly translated: JADE has a drug bust planned and they want to know if I’ll be around to crash it. After I told him I was not there, the next line from him was “ummm… one day when you’re in town, give me a call, and, I’ll take you out to lunch, or, take you out for some coffee or sumthin’.”

Blink. Blink. “Why wouldja do that?” Blink.

“Cause I need t’… talk t’you about some things.” A length of silence, broken by his querying “is that ah-right?”

I inquired, chuckling because of his question, if he’d talk to me about them over the telephone. He refused with a solemn-sounding utterance he’d “rather do it face-to-face.” I told him I’d consider it. Sort of funny because there I was genuinely promising to weigh out an offer I suspected was for the most part fraudulent on his end.

From dial to disconnect the duologue was done and over in, truly, a minute. I, naturally, scrutinized everything about the conversation. Especially his odd one-day-get-in-touch-with-me bit. That made no sense. Whatever it is is so important it couldn’t be said over the phone, but when it’s said is irrelevant? He might’ve reasoned I’d contact him but he’d have no way of knowing if that would be in six minutes or six months.

No matter what were Dasani’s actual motives, I’d never reject a ripe opportunity to interact with someone in the Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement Task Force. Everyone knows that. Therefore I’d called him a couple of times since. Like any properly conditioned JADE Charlottesville operative, he never picked up. Third -- and my resolved final -- time I left him a frivolous message. “Well you tell me to call when I’m in town and then you don’t ever answer your phone.”

The cell on my hip vibrated many minutes later -- digital ID displayed JADE hyphen Dasani’s last name. I was in the middle of trouble-raising and wasn’t prepared to bandy with the TFO right then. As soon as I’d finished my mischief, I buzzed him back. When he greeted me with “hello” I playfully let loose a skeptical “so you will return calls but you won’t take them.” Know what he said about it? This tripping over his tongue ramble.

Uhhmmkay… huh what?

Sadly the rest of the exchange never really rose above that level. The discussion lasted a trifling thirty seconds or so more than our previous one and was less productive.

Dasani made a half-hearted attempt to find out how long I’d be around while simultaneously, without me giving him any information, telling me he wouldn’t be able to meet until hours afterward. Then he implied that he’d be doing me a favor if he came out to talk at me. What. The. Hell. He initiated this; it hadn’t been my idea. Sure I was interested in hearing what’s on his mind but him not gracing me with his presence affects me about as much as a chicken’s hiccup. I delivered a sugared “never mind, that’s okay” about the possible one-on-one later and he responded apathetically “ah-right well I guess next time.”

Next time? Oh hell to the no.

Either the portentous subject matter the man alluded to earlier had depreciated over the last three weeks or it was, as I surmised, a charade from the get-go. I can’t remember why I took Dasani seriously in the first place. Ah, yeah, it’s coming back to me, something about his ability to pin a massive horn-nosed beast to the ground. Fortunately, there’s nothing he can say to crush that illusion.

Testing, Testing 1 2 3

Years ago ‘twas the clutches of desperation that first prompted me to buy this little device:

While it wound up being absolutely useless in every possible way for my original intentions, its recording abilities are undeniably fantastic. I don’t want to say it picks up everything because that wouldn’t be a favorable evaluation for such a contraption -- more like it picks up exactly what’s needed.

On a newspaper, it’s caught the words of a softly-speaking police chief; from inside a car, the exchange I had with a smokin’ sexy detective; over the phone, conversations with torrents of ethically-questionable people.

During my encounter with two Drug Enforcement investigators, Porn Star, with Longhead standing six inches away, explicitly stated to me that I was no longer permitted on the property where the Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement office is located. Longhead, with input from Herb, less than an hour later, tells me on the phone that I am still allowed there. Gosh, it’s a good thing I know these guys would never deliberately give me conflicting information or commands.

Speaking of JADE Task Force members, apparently all of them, and an unknown quantity of folks connected to them, are aware of my penchant for the object, as several men I’ve spoken with recently have either asked if they’re being recorded or outright declared they know they are.

I inquired of one of them if it mattered I was recording him. I was very surprised to hear him reply it did. In my opinion, if you’re on the up and up, it shouldn’t bother you one flippin’ bit that you’re being recorded. And if you’re changing your candor because of an Olympus WS-100, well, then, you’re a shining example of why I carry one.

For Your Listening Entertainment

I've got a couple things in the works; boy, do I think they’re awesome too! But I have some stuff to iron out first and in the process of doing so I had an unplanned, completely unexpected, dealing with JADE.

I’d been in the area near the Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement office for, believe it or not, reasons unrelated to the Task Force. Seemed a fine time to try to tie up one of those loose ends. To do that, I needed to check out the lot where the officers park. I drove down one of the roads that cross with 6th Street SE -- think it’s Blenheim maybe? Whatever the name, the street’s well-sloped and at that intersection one has a very good view of most of the standard places JADErs put their vehicles.

I was slightly more than halfway down its hill when I saw Skoal’s Altima coming out mid-right-turn across the street from me. On a whim, I turned left to get behind him. Funny thing though, like three seconds later he’d passed a couple of parked cars, sidled over to the right, and stopped. But he hadn’t quite pulled all the way over to the curb. It was not only an odd thing to do in general, it was also problematic for other traffic as the road is especially narrow at that spot.

Presumably doing what any driver under normal circumstances would’ve done, I slowed to a standstill about five, maybe ten, feet back from him to make sure I could safely navigate around him, then I zigzagged by him. The moment my back bumper was flush with his front one, his headlights went out. Curious, I thought, because they flicked back on in a jiffy once I was a few feet ahead of him. He pulled right out after me.

With him at the rear of me, he made the next two turns same as me. I tried not to read too much into it -- it was a way he could go home and it was about his going-home time. Funny thing though, his driver’s side front window never went beyond my passenger’s side back window. It was like he didn’t want to pass me. I don’t know if that was the case but, regardless, I forced him to go by me when, at the last possible second I could, I braked suddenly and swung into a left turn lane. He coasted by. I waited to see if he’d hop into another lane himself and come back. He didn’t. I watched until the lights of his sedan completely disappeared in the distance. It didn't occur to me until later all he'd had to do was call his buddies to give them a heads up.

The sun had finished setting and, now mid-evening time, the moon was faintly illuminating the city. It was too dark for me to do what I’d had in mind before I’d gotten side-tracked by Skoal but, just for the hell of it, I went back to the Drug Enforcement building.

Normally I would’ve noted every Task Force vehicle I recognized, from whose it was, to where it was located, right down to the direction it was situated. On this occasion though, having no agenda, I hadn’t done that. I’d noticed Pringle’s car given that it was in such a remarkably out of the ordinary space for him and Porn Star’s since it was, albeit far away, directly in my line of sight.

My just being present there wasn’t accomplishing a darn thing and I couldn’t drum up anything explicit to do that I thought would be productive. I opted to head on out. That’s when I saw Porn Star come out through the double doors and go to his car. I couldn’t drive by him; I’d have to wait to leave.

I guess I was in an inattentive frame of mind or I just didn’t particularly care or some blasé mood.

He tossed… this and that… into his Honda on the passenger side then went to the back and opened the trunk. There I think he did something with his police radio antenna. Either he took the magnetized object out and plunked it on the top of the trunk, signifying whatever he was up to he needed a line of communication open, or he yanked it off and put it back in the trunk, indicating he was finished with business. He moved to the sidewalk and fiddled with his cell phone -- text or talk, I’m not sure which. When he was done, he went back through the double doors into the building.

I was in a quandary. True, he wasn’t outside to observe me but after all his activity I thought it was a safe bet he’d be resurfacing shortly. How was I to know when? And because I hadn’t paid close attention, I had no sense of whether he was about to go arrest a dangerous felon or if he was headed home for steak and potatoes. Maybe you’re thinking “what difference did it make what he was up to?” Oh, it makes a big difference. Believe me. I’ve watched ‘em long enough to know. Anyway, I thought it best to wait until he departed before I tried to get out of there.

I don’t recall how much time passed before he returned. I mean hours didn’t go by or anything but it wasn’t mere seconds either. As soon as I spied him, by the time he’d made it to his car I’d already gotten my engine started and was shifting into reverse. I was ready to call it a night. Since I wasn’t in the mood to purposely follow him, I thought nothing of exiting the same way he had. If we wound up traveling along the same route, it was going to be a coincidence. Besides, I believe I’ve previously mentioned he’s like Speedy Gonzalez on wheels so no matter where he’d went it wasn’t like I thought I’d catch up to him.

In the course of leaving I caught sight of Pringle’s Altima in motion. Jeez I must have mega-been in La-La-Land because I’d totally not seen him come outside. For inexplicable reasons he’d pulled into the upper lot and was making loops around it real slow. Bizarre, but I wasn’t going to worry about it. I snaked around a speed bump, got to the stop sign, made a right, and had Spot’s Impala on my tail. I’d missed Spot coming out of the building too?! For realiously?! I hadn’t even noticed his car down there. I lightly smacked my forehead with my palm.

I arrived at the 5th Street SW traffic signal, got in the left lane, and waited for the light to change. Immediately behind me was Spot, after him presumably was a second JADE vehicle and possibly a third one. There’s really no way to put into words how I knew they intended to pursue me, but I had no doubt that’s what was going to happen. All I could think about was how I might play with the situation. Oops, yeah, no, I take that back; I was also thinking I think Spot is Hot. As. Hell. Seriously the man is yummy.

Given the green light I’d made my turn, as did they. I leisurely scootched up behind some truck in the left lane then stepped on the gas pedal and snapped into the right lane. Spot jerked the Impala over also and suddenly blasted me with his high beams. Nice.

I slowed down. I sped up. I weaved in and out this way. I squeezed out and in that way. Spot et al followed suit. Yeehaw! We went two and a half miles down the road doing that goofy stuff. I could only imagine what their goal was but surely they had in mind something better than what they were doing. Maybe?

They weren’t going to chase me around indefinitely. I got to scheming. I hadn’t done anything wrong and my car was peachy on the legal front. How would they react if I… stopped? I seriously doubted they’d expect me to do that. I mentally flipped a coin: heads, I’d drive straight up to the front door of the soon handy Albemarle County Police Department; tails, I’d halt at a arbitrary place on an upcoming back road. In my opinion, both were equally perilous should these fellows decide to do somethin’ rotten. Tails won.

The road fast narrowed and everything darkened. The high beams of the Impala which had been tolerable up until then became deadly blinding. Spot evidently had no intention of lowering them and after I took two curves wildly sight-impaired, I determined it was either pull over or wreck. I saw an opportune place: a very short turning lane. I glided into it and stopped mid-way down. Spot came to rest behind me.

I grabbed a nifty little device, powered it on, pushed “REC” and slid it under my bra strap. About ten seconds later Spot activated his emergency lights, at which point I rolled my window down.

I’m providing the recording here, unedited, in its entirety. It’s a tad under four minutes long but our exchange is less than that. By the way, Spot is still Hot. As. Hell. And I definitely want to thank him for shouting, ‘cause the audio? Came out sweet!

There’s a couple of places you can hear me hold my breath or squeak to avoid laughing. For example I do that in response to him calling me ma’am at the get-go, as it was way before it was possible for him to have ascertained what sex I am. Technically, at no time up until he said the words “of Charlottesville” had he been in any position to view anything other than my headrest and seat. Then after the inadvertent oral indication that he already knew who was behind the wheel, to launch into an act that it was an indiscriminate stop of a random unknown person? Pfft.

I’m disappointed he used the pretense of “speeding” -- as I think my tone reflects when I repeat the word -- but I’m not going to rake him over the coals for that since I suppose it’s easier for him to keep with familiar standard cop BS than come up with something that’s clever or, God forbid, true.

One other thing I don’t quite get is why he asked me where I was going to rather than where I was coming from. Both seem logical to me but if I’d been him I would’ve asked the latter on the grounds it might be more advantageous. Think about it: If a cop knows where you were, it’s harder for you to lie about it without getting tangled up in it. If a cop doesn’t know where you’re going, you could name any place, then if you didn’t go where you said, well, you changed your mind. Right?

That’s sort of what I did. Hey, prior to Porn Star’s emergence and Spot’s shot at deterrence I’d planned on going home. I changed my mind.

I’d thought by the end of Spot and my interaction, he’d gotten a bit brusque for his britches. Apparently he missed the memo that I’ve got more tenacity -- perhaps audacity -- than just about anyone else on the planet. I went back to their parking lot.

Truck’s car was the only one I found there that belonged to anyone on the Task Force. A uniformed officer in a marked car came through on patrol. He spotlighted the entire area and lit up all the plates of all the automobiles present. I smiled and waved at him. Gee, I guess he didn’t find who he was s'posed to be looking for. He parked and went in the building I reckon to chat with Truck. I left after a few minutes, satisfied that I’d matched Spot for arrogance.