Or at least until I ALMOST run out of gasoline...
Showing posts with label Tailing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tailing. Show all posts
20110212
20110204
20100531
Trooper Holiday
Last time I saw Virginia State Trooper Ledbetter was St. Patrick’s Day. Obviously I know who he is, so spotting him this Memorial Day was not excessively wowing. But I did want to find out who his paisano was.
I stroll into Firehouse Subs. Had I been thoughtful rather than spontaneous, I would’ve brought cash in with me. You know, to buy something. The only excuse I’ve left myself for being in there? The restroom. Drats.
I walk the full length of the restaurant. Ledbetter’s buddy is at the fountain drinks. With his back towards me. I can’t exactly spin him around, can I? Drats.
I go through the door marked “Firewomen.” Count in my head what would be an appropriate amount of time to be in there if I were using it as it’s intended. I exit. Only to realize the unidentified Trooper is visiting the men’s toilet. Drats.
By-a-table Ledbetter does a conspicuous double-take of me. Probably because my hair is electric purple. I smile and vacate the eatery empty-nameded. Drats.
Uhm, when’s the next holiday?
I stroll into Firehouse Subs. Had I been thoughtful rather than spontaneous, I would’ve brought cash in with me. You know, to buy something. The only excuse I’ve left myself for being in there? The restroom. Drats.
I walk the full length of the restaurant. Ledbetter’s buddy is at the fountain drinks. With his back towards me. I can’t exactly spin him around, can I? Drats.
I go through the door marked “Firewomen.” Count in my head what would be an appropriate amount of time to be in there if I were using it as it’s intended. I exit. Only to realize the unidentified Trooper is visiting the men’s toilet. Drats.
By-a-table Ledbetter does a conspicuous double-take of me. Probably because my hair is electric purple. I smile and vacate the eatery empty-nameded. Drats.
Uhm, when’s the next holiday?
20100323
20100306
20100223
20100118
Identify. Collect. Preserve. Analyze. Report.
I know nothing about them, not really.
But I’ve seen them at JADE.
One male, one female.
FORENSICS on their jackets.
Won’t forget taking their picture that time.
Still makes me laugh.
They work together, a team.
Inseparable? So it seems.
Blue Jeep Cherokee.
Coming, going, always the same one.
I know nothing about them, not really.
And I’m fine with that, for now.
But I’ve seen them at JADE.
One male, one female.
FORENSICS on their jackets.
Won’t forget taking their picture that time.
Still makes me laugh.
They work together, a team.
Inseparable? So it seems.
Blue Jeep Cherokee.
Coming, going, always the same one.
I know nothing about them, not really.
And I’m fine with that, for now.
20100116
Studies On Squad Cars
I got in a habit of noting vehicles that were evidently connected to the Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement (JADE) Task Force. Included were JADE officers’ and the unmarked rides of other policemen, plus those that may or may not have belonged to informants. Obviously, with the Task Force revolving around law enforcement activities, marked cruisers were part of the equation, too.
Keeping track of patrol cars didn’t appear useful at the start but sometimes the seemingly insignificant will end up insightful. So I diligently, albeit unenthusiastically, took down their tags and photographed them, and after a while, much to my delight, noticed patterns emerging.
Some only dropped persons off, some only picked items up. Some were SWAT, some were Sheriffs. Some frequently appeared, some were a one time only deal.
The prowlers became a game within a game to me.
I got to the point where I could successfully determine what was going on with JADE, or predict what JADE had in store for later, based on particulars relating to any given patrol car and its passengers.
These days I can’t go near enough to the Task Force building to play like I used to but nothing prevents me from executing Squad Car Analysis.
Oh yeah, did I mention it’s a fabulous cold weather activity?
Keeping track of patrol cars didn’t appear useful at the start but sometimes the seemingly insignificant will end up insightful. So I diligently, albeit unenthusiastically, took down their tags and photographed them, and after a while, much to my delight, noticed patterns emerging.
Some only dropped persons off, some only picked items up. Some were SWAT, some were Sheriffs. Some frequently appeared, some were a one time only deal.
The prowlers became a game within a game to me.
I got to the point where I could successfully determine what was going on with JADE, or predict what JADE had in store for later, based on particulars relating to any given patrol car and its passengers.
These days I can’t go near enough to the Task Force building to play like I used to but nothing prevents me from executing Squad Car Analysis.
Oh yeah, did I mention it’s a fabulous cold weather activity?
20090707
Behind The Badge
Sometimes Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement Task Force members will don their swaggin’ black jackets, call for special weapons and drug dogs, and make use of the Virginia State Police.
That guy, right there, the passenger? Has a firearm the size of me.
And the wheels keep rolling.
I’m thinkin’ one of these times we should all just ride together.
What a difference the sunshine makes!
This is where the pictures end for you. I took stacks more but -- you know the drill -- to pro-tect. My. Self. Aaaaaand others… Blah, blah. Blah.
That guy, right there, the passenger? Has a firearm the size of me.
And the wheels keep rolling.
I’m thinkin’ one of these times we should all just ride together.
What a difference the sunshine makes!
This is where the pictures end for you. I took stacks more but -- you know the drill -- to pro-tect. My. Self. Aaaaaand others… Blah, blah. Blah.
20090625
Open Carry Might Not Be Safe
I edge my vehicle to one side of a street near the JADE office, shift to park, and shut the thing down. If the info I got that the Drug Enforcement men are going to be making a bust is correct -- and based on the presence of the multiple police cars I’m seeing at the Ix property, it is -- then I’ve about fifteen to twenty minutes before the Task Force comes out to perform their duties.
Checking oil and transmission fluid seems a practical way to waste the right amount of time so I tilt forward and pull a black lever next to my left knee. I’m rewarded with a plunking sound of the front cover letting loose.
As I reach for the handle to get out, the car’s sunshield above my brow vibrates. I wiggle my cell phone out of the container clipped to the visor. Uckf! I don’t want to talk to him right now. I shove the stirring object back in its holder, swipe the case down and secure it to a ribbon on my skirt. I swing open the door and step outside into the fair weather. Hey, is that…? Two people have exited together from the workplace in front of me.
I don’t know who the one male is but the dude he’s with is a Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement detective. I duck the top half of me inside the car to snatch a camera off the arm rest. The gadget powers on quickly. I plant it on the roof for steadiness and push the shutter once. Twice. A few more. The twosome, discernibly in no hurry, disappear from view. I could get some way better pictures of them if I move closer. The ideal place to relocate flashes to mind and, camera clasped in hand, I dash my way to it. Once there I speed-click about ten more photographs. They’re amazing oblivious.
Sudden motion draws my attention to the glass double-doors of the Ix building. Sinewy officers are spilling down the steps and fanning out towards their respective vehicles. I recognize some of them; some I do not. Some of their cars are marked; some not. I capture as many on camera as I can -- the men, their rides. I’m tempted to further prolong the picture-taking but it’s not a smart thing to do if I plan on successfully following them.
Dang, man! They’re loadin’ up fast. I’m racing for my wheels. At like ten feet away from my car my cell phone buzzes. Keys! Who is calling me at this very wrongest time? Door. Look back! Which direction are they going? Throw the camera in the console. I start the motor right as the last pair of policemen sweep out of sight.
Find me sixteen seconds later tagging ‘long at their rear. We navigate the local streets at a fairish rate, then hit 64. I’ve been making good use of my camera throughout but merging on the Interstate and brisk acceleration prompts me to put it away. I get comfy, prepare to give my undivided attention to the LEOs ahead. Now that I’m barreling down the road, I...
OH.
My Dear.
Lord. In Heaven.
The hood! I forgot to shut MY HOOD!
It’s noticeably quaking. Of all the stupid…
Officers Him and Him, now in the left lane, are picking up the pace. I curve my steering wheel to join them there, tip down the gas pedal as I assess the situation with my auto. Can I make it? But how far? Ehhh, I can make it. At this high-velocity the covering finally stops its agitated jerking up and down. Because the wind has taken complete control of it, straining the shield full-force. Agh! Should I keep going? What. Should I. Do? Visions of the giant metal sheet ripping off, flying into or over my car, and murdering most of the people behind me, win out. I activate my hazards, slow down and pull over with no deaths.
I check the time. Leap from the car to smash down the lid. It closes. Whew! Then springs immediately back open. Huh? I try again. It rebounds again. No! No. No. No. Noooooooo. I decide unlatching it, opening it all the way then dropping it, will do the trick. My fingers aren’t finding the hasp. Any other moment this would not be a problem. Eventually, with a reverberant bang, I get the hood closed.
Reseated inside, I look at the clock again. The number actually hasn’t changed. But, still. Those guys have made it to the ocean by now. I mindfully file this adventure under “learning experience” and move on.
Checking oil and transmission fluid seems a practical way to waste the right amount of time so I tilt forward and pull a black lever next to my left knee. I’m rewarded with a plunking sound of the front cover letting loose.
As I reach for the handle to get out, the car’s sunshield above my brow vibrates. I wiggle my cell phone out of the container clipped to the visor. Uckf! I don’t want to talk to him right now. I shove the stirring object back in its holder, swipe the case down and secure it to a ribbon on my skirt. I swing open the door and step outside into the fair weather. Hey, is that…? Two people have exited together from the workplace in front of me.
I don’t know who the one male is but the dude he’s with is a Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement detective. I duck the top half of me inside the car to snatch a camera off the arm rest. The gadget powers on quickly. I plant it on the roof for steadiness and push the shutter once. Twice. A few more. The twosome, discernibly in no hurry, disappear from view. I could get some way better pictures of them if I move closer. The ideal place to relocate flashes to mind and, camera clasped in hand, I dash my way to it. Once there I speed-click about ten more photographs. They’re amazing oblivious.
Sudden motion draws my attention to the glass double-doors of the Ix building. Sinewy officers are spilling down the steps and fanning out towards their respective vehicles. I recognize some of them; some I do not. Some of their cars are marked; some not. I capture as many on camera as I can -- the men, their rides. I’m tempted to further prolong the picture-taking but it’s not a smart thing to do if I plan on successfully following them.
Dang, man! They’re loadin’ up fast. I’m racing for my wheels. At like ten feet away from my car my cell phone buzzes. Keys! Who is calling me at this very wrongest time? Door. Look back! Which direction are they going? Throw the camera in the console. I start the motor right as the last pair of policemen sweep out of sight.
Find me sixteen seconds later tagging ‘long at their rear. We navigate the local streets at a fairish rate, then hit 64. I’ve been making good use of my camera throughout but merging on the Interstate and brisk acceleration prompts me to put it away. I get comfy, prepare to give my undivided attention to the LEOs ahead. Now that I’m barreling down the road, I...
OH.
My Dear.
Lord. In Heaven.
The hood! I forgot to shut MY HOOD!
It’s noticeably quaking. Of all the stupid…
Officers Him and Him, now in the left lane, are picking up the pace. I curve my steering wheel to join them there, tip down the gas pedal as I assess the situation with my auto. Can I make it? But how far? Ehhh, I can make it. At this high-velocity the covering finally stops its agitated jerking up and down. Because the wind has taken complete control of it, straining the shield full-force. Agh! Should I keep going? What. Should I. Do? Visions of the giant metal sheet ripping off, flying into or over my car, and murdering most of the people behind me, win out. I activate my hazards, slow down and pull over with no deaths.
I check the time. Leap from the car to smash down the lid. It closes. Whew! Then springs immediately back open. Huh? I try again. It rebounds again. No! No. No. No. Noooooooo. I decide unlatching it, opening it all the way then dropping it, will do the trick. My fingers aren’t finding the hasp. Any other moment this would not be a problem. Eventually, with a reverberant bang, I get the hood closed.
Reseated inside, I look at the clock again. The number actually hasn’t changed. But, still. Those guys have made it to the ocean by now. I mindfully file this adventure under “learning experience” and move on.
20090607
Club Mouse
Mouse is such a good driver I can even follow him if I’m in front of him. The way traffic is flowing, I’m forced into that very situation right now.
A tricked-out old red Honda is separating us. Using my mirrors I pay extra careful attention to Mouse’s vehicle rolling along in the background. I know the Sergeant will give me the visual cues I need to clue me in to his upcoming moves; I just have to watch for them.
Sure ‘nuff. After miles with no change in speed, I notice the Dodge slacks off an itsy fraction and drifts nearer to the single solid line painted on the road’s right shoulder. I wait a few seconds to be convinced he’s not going to scootch back over to the center of the lane. He holds tight to his course. Eyup, he’s definitely takin’ the next exit. When the marker for the off-ramp comes into sight, I put my right signal on and peer in my rearview. 4… 3… 2… Mouse’s blinker suddenly lights up. Told ya so. I told ya so! I bop about in my seat with delight.
Sweeping past the green and white sign, I process the location. Partially up the track I’m pretty certain of the man’s destination. I look to minivanned Mouse for confirmation. His right flasher dies, his left one promptly comes to life. Yes -- two for two!
I want to stop being in the lead so I hustle underneath the traffic controller, going right. In my wake I eye what’s happening with Mouse, enough to verify he’s going where I expect, then I slowly U around in the middle of the street. I’ll give him some extra room just in case. In case of what, precisely? I have no idea.
There are no cars to prevent me from proceeding after Mouse but since I’m unprepared for a brush with the lean Drug Enforcement Officer today, I hang in one of those so-called suicide lanes for a mo to allow the fellow time to settle in. Perhaps a minute passes before I make the same turn Mouse has and wind my way up the lane to the Birdwood Country Club as he did.
Mouse’s transportation is parked at the left side in the front row. I drive by it and enter the lot from the other direction to park near the right side in a neighboring row. From here it’s easy to tell his van is unoccupied. Lessee… where’s he playing this afternoon?
Outside, it doesn’t take me long to find him even though he looks a little different. I guess because of the chilly weather he’s swapped out his baseball cap for a black pullover hat. Unrelated to the climate he’s traded his tennis shoes for golf shoes. He’s all, like, Pro ‘n stuff.
I don’t know what the temperature is but, me being 100% cold-intolerant, after placing Mouse I flee to my warm car to defrost myself. I know he comes here often but I’ve never stuck around to find out how long he actually stays. On this occasion I decide to.
I pay several bills over the phone, read “Cops” by Mark Baker cover-to-cover, and lower my window to say to a tiny, cute gal wearing a tiny, cute golfing skirt I think she’s insane to be that bare-legged at whatever iceberg degree it is. She giggles and lifts her micro to show me her short-shorts beneath. Why, there’s nothing like thermal panties to make it seem like it’s positively Summer out there.
The digits on the clock ooze from one number to the next. This is worse than watching Porn Star watching a dealer. More than two hours elapse before Mouse returns to the lot, loads up his sports accessories, and changes into his original attire.
I figured he’d be here a while, but two freakin’ hours? I mull over these recurrent excursions of Mouse’s as he drives, with me close behind, right smack back to the JADE office where we started. I swear I will never again just sit there and wait like that after tailing one of these guys. Unless…
A tricked-out old red Honda is separating us. Using my mirrors I pay extra careful attention to Mouse’s vehicle rolling along in the background. I know the Sergeant will give me the visual cues I need to clue me in to his upcoming moves; I just have to watch for them.
Sure ‘nuff. After miles with no change in speed, I notice the Dodge slacks off an itsy fraction and drifts nearer to the single solid line painted on the road’s right shoulder. I wait a few seconds to be convinced he’s not going to scootch back over to the center of the lane. He holds tight to his course. Eyup, he’s definitely takin’ the next exit. When the marker for the off-ramp comes into sight, I put my right signal on and peer in my rearview. 4… 3… 2… Mouse’s blinker suddenly lights up. Told ya so. I told ya so! I bop about in my seat with delight.
Sweeping past the green and white sign, I process the location. Partially up the track I’m pretty certain of the man’s destination. I look to minivanned Mouse for confirmation. His right flasher dies, his left one promptly comes to life. Yes -- two for two!
I want to stop being in the lead so I hustle underneath the traffic controller, going right. In my wake I eye what’s happening with Mouse, enough to verify he’s going where I expect, then I slowly U around in the middle of the street. I’ll give him some extra room just in case. In case of what, precisely? I have no idea.
There are no cars to prevent me from proceeding after Mouse but since I’m unprepared for a brush with the lean Drug Enforcement Officer today, I hang in one of those so-called suicide lanes for a mo to allow the fellow time to settle in. Perhaps a minute passes before I make the same turn Mouse has and wind my way up the lane to the Birdwood Country Club as he did.
Mouse’s transportation is parked at the left side in the front row. I drive by it and enter the lot from the other direction to park near the right side in a neighboring row. From here it’s easy to tell his van is unoccupied. Lessee… where’s he playing this afternoon?
Outside, it doesn’t take me long to find him even though he looks a little different. I guess because of the chilly weather he’s swapped out his baseball cap for a black pullover hat. Unrelated to the climate he’s traded his tennis shoes for golf shoes. He’s all, like, Pro ‘n stuff.
I don’t know what the temperature is but, me being 100% cold-intolerant, after placing Mouse I flee to my warm car to defrost myself. I know he comes here often but I’ve never stuck around to find out how long he actually stays. On this occasion I decide to.
I pay several bills over the phone, read “Cops” by Mark Baker cover-to-cover, and lower my window to say to a tiny, cute gal wearing a tiny, cute golfing skirt I think she’s insane to be that bare-legged at whatever iceberg degree it is. She giggles and lifts her micro to show me her short-shorts beneath. Why, there’s nothing like thermal panties to make it seem like it’s positively Summer out there.
The digits on the clock ooze from one number to the next. This is worse than watching Porn Star watching a dealer. More than two hours elapse before Mouse returns to the lot, loads up his sports accessories, and changes into his original attire.
I figured he’d be here a while, but two freakin’ hours? I mull over these recurrent excursions of Mouse’s as he drives, with me close behind, right smack back to the JADE office where we started. I swear I will never again just sit there and wait like that after tailing one of these guys. Unless…
20090527
What else would a Drug Enforcement guy do other than something hyper-cool, right?
A lot is coming up ahead on my right. I see Mouse’s minivan at rest in one of the rows. I also see the mysterious JADE man is watching my auto wheeling toward his. I don’t want to stop anywhere near him. Neither do I want to pass immediately back by him.
I nudge my coupe onwards and stop in an arced drive. There I get out and walk inside a building that has its door propped open.
From two young guys at a desk I ask for directions to a place I already know the location of. “I go left? At… where -- the gas station?” I waste approximately three minutes of life with this type of pseudo-ditzy nonsense. The boys beam at me when I thank them for being so helpful. I dally back to my car.Pulling away I scope out Mouse’s vehicle again. He’s vacated it. I’m tempted to park but then what? I’m not sure I should go looking for him. Maybe he’s buying an 8-ball from some ghetto grub. I don’t want to mess that up.
I vamoose, vividly imagining Mouse is doing something hyper-cool.
I’ll find out later this is a trip he makes frequently and what he does here ain’t hyper-cool. For that matter, it can be summed up using one letter:
Zzz Zzz Zzz
20090425
Not A Tailless Mouse
Maybe a taillightless one.
Not that you’ll get a ticket, or anything, but please, Sergeant, fix. The lack of a lamp makes it that much easier for me to follow your vehicle and I’m sure you’d want that sort of thing to be a little more of a challenge for me these days.
20090422
Pringle and Spot
The pair have dumped a pile of miscellaneous police paraphernalia into the back seat and trunk of Pringle’s Altima.
I guess they’re up to something more than a coffee break and promptly follow them out from the parking lot when they leave.
I’ve learned a few things about the immediate area, so, as far as these nearby square miles of streets go, I’m lacking the anxiety I used to have about getting lost. But I’m not accustomed to Pringle’s driving, and it’s he who’s behind the wheel of his car.
There’s a block or more of distance between us, not so much that I don’t see them turn right at the same place I lost Porn Star the first time I followed him. I pull up to a stop sign and with no oncoming traffic I immediately turn the way as the two Task Force Officers.
There are several cars in front of me; none of them is the Altima. I’m unconcerned. I know that shortly up ahead the road will go from two lanes to four and, again having gotten familiar with the area, have no reason to believe Spot and Pringle would stray off the main drag beforehand. They wouldn’t have gone this way just to get to a side street up here. Sure enough, as I round the bend and see the stretch of highway beyond, I can make them out up yonder. Soon though they’ll have the ability to go in any number of directions and if I don’t catch up fast I’ll likely lose them.
I expeditiously crank between lanes to pass traffic, breaking out of the congestion to really lay on the gas. I watch Pringle and Spot ignore two major turns, essentially leaving two ways they can go, as the gap between Pringle’s vehicle and mine goes from momentous to nearly insignificant. Up ahead they join other drivers in a left turn lane waiting for the signal to turn green.
I have a flashback that causes me to reconsider how I lost another JADE agent once. The short of it is, because I hadn’t seen him on the straightaway when I came around the curve, I’d assumed he’d turned off onto I-64. But rethinking the moment again, he probably just hadn’t gotten stuck at the traffic light his fellow detectives are sitting at currently.
I transition my mind from earlier events to the here and now as it dawns on me that I’m coming up to the red light faster than a flaming comet through the earth’s atmosphere. I hit the brakes -- my speed going from insane to moderate -- just in time to easily make the turn with Pringle and Spot who are now directly in front of me.
Back on a two-lane I allow four car lengths between the investigators and me. Okay; more like room for two cars and maybe a bicycle. Maybe.
For some reason Pringle keeps slowing down then speeding back up. He’s doing this ostensibly without tapping his brakes. With no taillight warnings from him, this of course unexpectedly puts my front tires practically on top of their trunk a couple of times. If he was any old random stranger driving like this in front of me I’d be singing a string of tame swear words at him by now.
As it is I come up with only one interpretation for the man’s abrupt unpredictable driving. They’re on to me. I back way, way, off.
I’m recollecting times when I’d later assessed I jumped the gun -- SeeSee, for instance. Determined to not add this experience to the Ode de Paranoia list, I move up behind the boys with badges again. Suddenly it must look like I’m the one driving erratically. I imagine the guy behind me is cussing me right about this point.
Pringle signals they’re about to make a left. The street we’re nearing is virtually invisible due to the thickness of woods surrounding it. I see a black and white sign with a route number: 1102. I know nothing about the road. The Altima makes its intended turn.
I can’t explain it but something about this doesn’t feel right. Thousands of red flags are waving in a frenzy all the way ‘round my insides. You should not go down that road. I already overlooked my instincts moments earlier with the two policemen, but I have the sensation that disregarding my intuition this time would be foolish of me.
I approach the turn, casually peering down where they’ve gone. I expect to see nothing. Instead I see their car’s back end, almost out of range but, with brake lights engaged, clearly at a stop on the road. Gosh, it kinda seems they’re waiting for someone. Someone like… me! Yikes.
Diagonally across the road is Michie’s Tavern. I pull forward into the entrance and park in the nearest open space. Route 1102 -- a narrow, green sign lets me know it’s also called Michie Tavern Lane -- is fully visible from where I am. What’s down there, other than the energetic enigmas? Stumped over what else to do I take photographs of both of the signs and the road itself.
My fingernails lightly tattoo the console between the seats as ideas form in my head. There must be some sensible reason they turned there; since they haven’t come back out yet I figure the real explanation has nothing to do with me.
I doubt Michie’s provides Wi-Fi and I don’t want to go through the hassle of dragging out my laptop to find out. I yank my cell phone out of its holder on the visor and ring the one person I know who’s always of service and, even better, used to odd calls from me.
“Hey” I say when he answers. He repeats the word back to me and I tell him I don’t have time to talk. “You gotta help me with something.”
I ask him if he’s in front of his computer and when he responds agreeably I instruct him to go to Google Maps and look up 1102. I give him all the info I have and he begins providing me with all the info he thinks I need. I’m absentmindedly scribbling comments on one of the yellow notepads I carry with me everywhere these days.
First thing: 1102 is a dead end road. Learning that makes me think about the consequences of getting trapped in a set-up by suspicious TFOs. Ugh! That would bite. Thank goodness I didn’t go down there.
Next my over-the-phone assistant gives me the mileage and counts off the amount of buildings or houses. He uses a search engine to get an address to one of them and, from it, starts conveying to me what all the other places are. Nothing sounds like anything I’m interested in.
He’s mumbling off mediocre information. Land values? I remain mystified. “Fraternal Order of Police building there.” He continues without taking a breath, saying something about their property being donated. I’ve already latched onto the key word. Police? Aha!
I remain quiet while he carries on but he must feel my excitement shoot like static electricity through the phone. “Are you cop watching, little missy?” he pauses his data transmission to inquire. I smile at how tuned in to me he is but snub his question and ask instead “Where’s the FOP located at, exactly?” When he replies, I do a quick calculation in my head. That would be… erm… approximately fifty, sixty, yards onwards of where Pringle and Spot stopped their vehicle. “You rock!” That’s my way of thanking my friend. I tell him I’ve got to go. He advises me “be careful.” Indeed. I’ll wait until Pringle and Spot aren’t there before I go exploring Michie Tavern Lane.
I guess they’re up to something more than a coffee break and promptly follow them out from the parking lot when they leave.
I’ve learned a few things about the immediate area, so, as far as these nearby square miles of streets go, I’m lacking the anxiety I used to have about getting lost. But I’m not accustomed to Pringle’s driving, and it’s he who’s behind the wheel of his car.
There’s a block or more of distance between us, not so much that I don’t see them turn right at the same place I lost Porn Star the first time I followed him. I pull up to a stop sign and with no oncoming traffic I immediately turn the way as the two Task Force Officers.
There are several cars in front of me; none of them is the Altima. I’m unconcerned. I know that shortly up ahead the road will go from two lanes to four and, again having gotten familiar with the area, have no reason to believe Spot and Pringle would stray off the main drag beforehand. They wouldn’t have gone this way just to get to a side street up here. Sure enough, as I round the bend and see the stretch of highway beyond, I can make them out up yonder. Soon though they’ll have the ability to go in any number of directions and if I don’t catch up fast I’ll likely lose them.
I expeditiously crank between lanes to pass traffic, breaking out of the congestion to really lay on the gas. I watch Pringle and Spot ignore two major turns, essentially leaving two ways they can go, as the gap between Pringle’s vehicle and mine goes from momentous to nearly insignificant. Up ahead they join other drivers in a left turn lane waiting for the signal to turn green.
I have a flashback that causes me to reconsider how I lost another JADE agent once. The short of it is, because I hadn’t seen him on the straightaway when I came around the curve, I’d assumed he’d turned off onto I-64. But rethinking the moment again, he probably just hadn’t gotten stuck at the traffic light his fellow detectives are sitting at currently.
I transition my mind from earlier events to the here and now as it dawns on me that I’m coming up to the red light faster than a flaming comet through the earth’s atmosphere. I hit the brakes -- my speed going from insane to moderate -- just in time to easily make the turn with Pringle and Spot who are now directly in front of me.
Back on a two-lane I allow four car lengths between the investigators and me. Okay; more like room for two cars and maybe a bicycle. Maybe.
For some reason Pringle keeps slowing down then speeding back up. He’s doing this ostensibly without tapping his brakes. With no taillight warnings from him, this of course unexpectedly puts my front tires practically on top of their trunk a couple of times. If he was any old random stranger driving like this in front of me I’d be singing a string of tame swear words at him by now.
As it is I come up with only one interpretation for the man’s abrupt unpredictable driving. They’re on to me. I back way, way, off.
I’m recollecting times when I’d later assessed I jumped the gun -- SeeSee, for instance. Determined to not add this experience to the Ode de Paranoia list, I move up behind the boys with badges again. Suddenly it must look like I’m the one driving erratically. I imagine the guy behind me is cussing me right about this point.
Pringle signals they’re about to make a left. The street we’re nearing is virtually invisible due to the thickness of woods surrounding it. I see a black and white sign with a route number: 1102. I know nothing about the road. The Altima makes its intended turn.
I can’t explain it but something about this doesn’t feel right. Thousands of red flags are waving in a frenzy all the way ‘round my insides. You should not go down that road. I already overlooked my instincts moments earlier with the two policemen, but I have the sensation that disregarding my intuition this time would be foolish of me.
I approach the turn, casually peering down where they’ve gone. I expect to see nothing. Instead I see their car’s back end, almost out of range but, with brake lights engaged, clearly at a stop on the road. Gosh, it kinda seems they’re waiting for someone. Someone like… me! Yikes.
Diagonally across the road is Michie’s Tavern. I pull forward into the entrance and park in the nearest open space. Route 1102 -- a narrow, green sign lets me know it’s also called Michie Tavern Lane -- is fully visible from where I am. What’s down there, other than the energetic enigmas? Stumped over what else to do I take photographs of both of the signs and the road itself.
My fingernails lightly tattoo the console between the seats as ideas form in my head. There must be some sensible reason they turned there; since they haven’t come back out yet I figure the real explanation has nothing to do with me.
I doubt Michie’s provides Wi-Fi and I don’t want to go through the hassle of dragging out my laptop to find out. I yank my cell phone out of its holder on the visor and ring the one person I know who’s always of service and, even better, used to odd calls from me.
“Hey” I say when he answers. He repeats the word back to me and I tell him I don’t have time to talk. “You gotta help me with something.”
I ask him if he’s in front of his computer and when he responds agreeably I instruct him to go to Google Maps and look up 1102. I give him all the info I have and he begins providing me with all the info he thinks I need. I’m absentmindedly scribbling comments on one of the yellow notepads I carry with me everywhere these days.
First thing: 1102 is a dead end road. Learning that makes me think about the consequences of getting trapped in a set-up by suspicious TFOs. Ugh! That would bite. Thank goodness I didn’t go down there.
Next my over-the-phone assistant gives me the mileage and counts off the amount of buildings or houses. He uses a search engine to get an address to one of them and, from it, starts conveying to me what all the other places are. Nothing sounds like anything I’m interested in.
He’s mumbling off mediocre information. Land values? I remain mystified. “Fraternal Order of Police building there.” He continues without taking a breath, saying something about their property being donated. I’ve already latched onto the key word. Police? Aha!
I remain quiet while he carries on but he must feel my excitement shoot like static electricity through the phone. “Are you cop watching, little missy?” he pauses his data transmission to inquire. I smile at how tuned in to me he is but snub his question and ask instead “Where’s the FOP located at, exactly?” When he replies, I do a quick calculation in my head. That would be… erm… approximately fifty, sixty, yards onwards of where Pringle and Spot stopped their vehicle. “You rock!” That’s my way of thanking my friend. I tell him I’ve got to go. He advises me “be careful.” Indeed. I’ll wait until Pringle and Spot aren’t there before I go exploring Michie Tavern Lane.
20090407
Law, A Note To Follow So
At no time did I think surveillance in motion would be a slam dunk but, seriously, I never thought it would be quite so challenging. In the beginning I even added a few points to the degree of difficulty considering who my targets were and had still apparently been off the mark on the devil of it.
Early on, after enough recognizably sorry failures shadowing Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement, I’d gone and done some eyes-to-paper research on the subject. In my opinion nothing beats true hands-on experience -- you know, “live and learn” -- but I poured over dozens of articles and scanned countless books regardless. It never hurts to study.
I came away with what I thought were especially handy pointers from a hardback written by a private investigator, and smart tips from an editorial that, even though it was geared towards a person on the receiving end who wanted to lose a tail, could apply to what I’m doing.
I’ve also spent an entertaining amount of time trying to ameliorate my driving skills. Just me in my car, a couple dozen fluorescent orange and white barrels, a very remote abandoned parking lot, and I’m good to go. Okay I did have to repair that one blowout. And maybe I can’t make a J-turn as good as this but I in spades do better than this. Will I ever need to rapidly whip my car around to go in the opposite direction? Doubtful. Is it fun to practice anyway? You betcha.
With each effort, I imagine I get a tad more knowledgeable and figure I’ll do at least a tad better. The ideation has proven to be true in most cases of me following the Drug Enforcement agents, albeit pre-established stupid things occasionally trip me up when, by now, really they shouldn’t, and I often stumble into unforeseeable problems, thus reminding me of the fundamental cognitive latter portion of live and learn. Mistakes induce improvement.
Sometimes they whom have unwittingly taught me most of what I know about pursuits have themselves made repeated errors. I’ve been multi-subjected to a few tricks JADE has that I feel they ought to smoosh back in the hat with the rabbit as the illusions are arrant cheezball. Such as…
Needless to say tracking them isn’t getting less manageable, though the mechanics are definitely changing. Most of my undoings in the hound dog department are admittedly unintentionally self-inflicted but in recent commentary I touched briefly on the amplifying complexity of the Task Force Officers. Their above idiosyncrasies aside, I believe it’s safe to assume that they are indeed stepping up their game. I’ll try to keep up. If I can’t, there’s always extant document invasions.
Early on, after enough recognizably sorry failures shadowing Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement, I’d gone and done some eyes-to-paper research on the subject. In my opinion nothing beats true hands-on experience -- you know, “live and learn” -- but I poured over dozens of articles and scanned countless books regardless. It never hurts to study.
I came away with what I thought were especially handy pointers from a hardback written by a private investigator, and smart tips from an editorial that, even though it was geared towards a person on the receiving end who wanted to lose a tail, could apply to what I’m doing.
I’ve also spent an entertaining amount of time trying to ameliorate my driving skills. Just me in my car, a couple dozen fluorescent orange and white barrels, a very remote abandoned parking lot, and I’m good to go. Okay I did have to repair that one blowout. And maybe I can’t make a J-turn as good as this but I in spades do better than this. Will I ever need to rapidly whip my car around to go in the opposite direction? Doubtful. Is it fun to practice anyway? You betcha.
With each effort, I imagine I get a tad more knowledgeable and figure I’ll do at least a tad better. The ideation has proven to be true in most cases of me following the Drug Enforcement agents, albeit pre-established stupid things occasionally trip me up when, by now, really they shouldn’t, and I often stumble into unforeseeable problems, thus reminding me of the fundamental cognitive latter portion of live and learn. Mistakes induce improvement.
Sometimes they whom have unwittingly taught me most of what I know about pursuits have themselves made repeated errors. I’ve been multi-subjected to a few tricks JADE has that I feel they ought to smoosh back in the hat with the rabbit as the illusions are arrant cheezball. Such as…
- Using a left blinker then making a right turn, or vice versa. I am not following your turn signal; I am following your vehicle.
- Using a blinker, then not turning period. Again I am not following your turn signal; I am following your vehicle.
- Two or more JADE automobiles enigmatically diverging to an impasse? I am not following your turn signals; I am not following your vehicles. Yeah, not even after hell freezes over would I fall for that one.
- Inexplicable U-turns. Those are the biggest waste. I’ll just pull over up the road a bit and wait for you to pass by me, oh, usually less than a minute later.
Needless to say tracking them isn’t getting less manageable, though the mechanics are definitely changing. Most of my undoings in the hound dog department are admittedly unintentionally self-inflicted but in recent commentary I touched briefly on the amplifying complexity of the Task Force Officers. Their above idiosyncrasies aside, I believe it’s safe to assume that they are indeed stepping up their game. I’ll try to keep up. If I can’t, there’s always extant document invasions.
20090403
The Answer Is "Seclusion," The Question Is Orthogonal (Part 3)
(Part 1/Part 2)
It’s not as if the squad is going to go immediately from their vehicle to barging into a dwelling -- they have to get all situated first -- but, still, if they’re already out of the van, I don’t have much time. Obstacles and no shoulder to speak of prevent me from stopping instantly on this unheralded detour of mine. Ugh! I can’t just leave my car in the middle of the doggone road.
One street over has a perfect piece of ground to plant my four wheels. I zip my car in place and shoot out of it like a dart. Don’t slam the door!
As astonishing as it seems, I can be quite lithe on my toes; I sprint along the concrete making barely a sound. When I get to the block the officers are on, I round the corner and stop after about fifteen feet. I take a moment to assess the general state of things. Right off the bat I notice that an overhead streetlight is casting a three thousand foot long shadow of me in the direction I intend to go. I make a beeline for a nearby yard, moving until I trap the silhouette of me completely beneath my shoelaces.
Satisfied I’m currently less at risk of being spied, I have another go at surveying the situation. I see the hulking outline of the Drug Enforcement carrier but I’m unsure of where the men are in relation to it. I don’t know which residence is their target. I don’t have a lot to go on but I formulate a plan -- a partial one, anyway. Phase 1 is simple: just make it to the van.
Working with my surroundings I steal closer to my destination. About three-quarters of the way there I hear harsh pounding that isn’t coming from my heart. It’s jolting in the quietness of the neighborhood. This is it. I scramble furtively through the terrain until I’m flush with the back of the JADE transporter. I wait for more sounds. A deep backwoods-style voice cuts through the air and, to the beat of its words “search warrant,” I step from the grass onto the road immediately at the rear bumper of the Task Force van. Yes!
The shouts have given me their position. Now I know which side of the van I’ll be using for cover. Ha! Not a bad shield, and what a nice plan. I slink upright along the length of it until a panel of window, then pitch of the hood, forces me to stoop to finish inching forward. I crouch by the front bumper contorting my shape to the tire’s, heedful not to touch any part of the vehicle lest I give myself away by its movement.
I study the activities of the search team and simultaneously scan for optional places of concealment to retreat to. I’m glad I did the second thing because at one point I have to skitter elsewhere, a shift that my ‘til then scrunched up body much appreciated.
The thing about viewing a raid is that it will inevitably reach a stage when it’s no longer interesting to be a spectator -- could be anywhere from right around when the officers inside the home are peeking into peanut butter jars and poking their noses in toilet tanks, or whatever mundane procedure they're performing, to hours into it. Also once the epinephrine rush the men had has petered out and their labor-oriented tunnel-vision recedes, I believe the chances of being discovered increase with every tick-tock of the clock.
Having sated my curiosity on numerous levels and remembering the thing back at the JADE office, after an hour of observation I depart from the scene as secretly as I’d gone into it. All I have to evidence the events of that night are my memories and the… well, I’ll tell you the story about those items some night when I’m pushing up daisies.
It’s not as if the squad is going to go immediately from their vehicle to barging into a dwelling -- they have to get all situated first -- but, still, if they’re already out of the van, I don’t have much time. Obstacles and no shoulder to speak of prevent me from stopping instantly on this unheralded detour of mine. Ugh! I can’t just leave my car in the middle of the doggone road.
One street over has a perfect piece of ground to plant my four wheels. I zip my car in place and shoot out of it like a dart. Don’t slam the door!
As astonishing as it seems, I can be quite lithe on my toes; I sprint along the concrete making barely a sound. When I get to the block the officers are on, I round the corner and stop after about fifteen feet. I take a moment to assess the general state of things. Right off the bat I notice that an overhead streetlight is casting a three thousand foot long shadow of me in the direction I intend to go. I make a beeline for a nearby yard, moving until I trap the silhouette of me completely beneath my shoelaces.
Satisfied I’m currently less at risk of being spied, I have another go at surveying the situation. I see the hulking outline of the Drug Enforcement carrier but I’m unsure of where the men are in relation to it. I don’t know which residence is their target. I don’t have a lot to go on but I formulate a plan -- a partial one, anyway. Phase 1 is simple: just make it to the van.
Working with my surroundings I steal closer to my destination. About three-quarters of the way there I hear harsh pounding that isn’t coming from my heart. It’s jolting in the quietness of the neighborhood. This is it. I scramble furtively through the terrain until I’m flush with the back of the JADE transporter. I wait for more sounds. A deep backwoods-style voice cuts through the air and, to the beat of its words “search warrant,” I step from the grass onto the road immediately at the rear bumper of the Task Force van. Yes!
The shouts have given me their position. Now I know which side of the van I’ll be using for cover. Ha! Not a bad shield, and what a nice plan. I slink upright along the length of it until a panel of window, then pitch of the hood, forces me to stoop to finish inching forward. I crouch by the front bumper contorting my shape to the tire’s, heedful not to touch any part of the vehicle lest I give myself away by its movement.
I study the activities of the search team and simultaneously scan for optional places of concealment to retreat to. I’m glad I did the second thing because at one point I have to skitter elsewhere, a shift that my ‘til then scrunched up body much appreciated.
The thing about viewing a raid is that it will inevitably reach a stage when it’s no longer interesting to be a spectator -- could be anywhere from right around when the officers inside the home are peeking into peanut butter jars and poking their noses in toilet tanks, or whatever mundane procedure they're performing, to hours into it. Also once the epinephrine rush the men had has petered out and their labor-oriented tunnel-vision recedes, I believe the chances of being discovered increase with every tick-tock of the clock.
Having sated my curiosity on numerous levels and remembering the thing back at the JADE office, after an hour of observation I depart from the scene as secretly as I’d gone into it. All I have to evidence the events of that night are my memories and the… well, I’ll tell you the story about those items some night when I’m pushing up daisies.
Curiosity Killed the Cat -- Good Thing I'm No Pussy
While the above depicted event was wicked in itself, what’s captivated me way more were the intricate maneuvers executed by Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement in the moments leading up to it.
It only took them approximately an hour to get done what they intended but I found so many complicated elements that arose within that time, it’d take me pages to detail them all. Just a few off-hand oddities to give you the gist:
At roughly four o’clock four different vehicles went in four different directions. I might’ve thought they were going to four different places if they hadn’t… okay, I’m not going to articulate that because if I keep elaborating on what they do, they might eventually maybe-possibly-perhaps ultimately learn something from me and find a way to obstruct my hobby and that, of course, I don’t want. The amount of credit I give them boggles the mind. But if I had to summarize their transportation strategies? They did a whole lotta somethin’, for a whole lotta nothin’.
At some point on Dasani’s route, another car got kind of stuck behind his Monte Carlo. On top of seeming oblivious to the other vehicle, it looked like Dasani was lost. He was driving excessively slow which he next-to-never does; he kept leaning forward, peering all around; and he sat at a stop sign an extraordinary amount of time, glancing back and forth, back and forth, before proceeding. Not until he got rolling again did he give any indication he might’ve noticed the sedan at his rear.
Dasani started veering towards the right shoulder and I thought it was so the other driver could go around him. That guy must’ve thought so too because he aimed to pass. Only he couldn’t, because Dasani without delay coasted back out and took to driving in the center of the road. Now it didn’t look like he was lost; now it looked like he was drunk. Further sluggish weaving widely side to side down the concrete did little to dispel intoxication as a possibility.
What was all that about? Was he lost? Was he killing time? If he had time to waste, why didn’t he stay at the Ix building longer instead? Did he think the car behind him was following him and he was giving it some sort of bizarre test to find out? Or is he just so self-important he didn’t care about the other person at all? Was he waiting for someone or something specific? These questions are the equivalent of a flea’s toe on the dog that symbolizes all the inquiries I have regarding Dasani’s activities.
The scrumptious Porn Star, in his own automobile, divided his time between parking reparking and rereparking in a tiny lot of a business, and patrolling a certain couple of streets. It might’ve made sense except that I never once saw his Honda anywhere close to the apartment building JADE targeted. I'm pretty sure he was part of the operation. If he was doing surveillance or something, what was he supposed to be surveying from half a mile away? But, considering the settings, what assignment could Porn Star have had other than being a look-out? Hell, I’ve been warned Drug Enforcement have been told to keep an eye out for me and yet right on their tails I drove into the immediate area. Under their noses I left my car and walked all up and down and around the block taking photographs.
I totally do not understand.
As if the case isn’t mysterious enough, the news coming in about it baffles me beyond belief.
I’m not sure if the Task Force men have gotten exceedingly complex or if I’ve simply gotten dumber but for the common observer not in the loop -- me, for instance -- the things these guys do don’t always make sense. I’m certain there are valid explanations for their conduct and I believe I could make sound guesses as to what they are. However, I don’t want to speculate; I want to know.
20090402
P.S.
In case I haven’t mentioned it, it’s not easy to tail the JADE Task Force men -- particularly when they can just drive down the wrong dang side of the road whenever they don’t feel like sitting in traffic the way the rest of us have to. I know, I know, they’re taking drugs off the street and curbing the violence associated… blah, blah, blah… we should overlook their unlawful acts. Pfft.
Four Things You Would've Heard Me Say If You'd Been With Me On This Day. Ready, Set,
Go. Go. GO. Gooooooooooooo -- stupid-worthless-you’re-going-to-make-me-lose-‘im-mother -- Go!
_________________________
Don’t go. No! Wait for me. You. Old. Deaf. Punk-Bitch.
_________________________
Rain, rain, go away; come again another… time when I’m not trying to take pictures ‘cause they’re gonna come out like THAT. Uck.
_________________________
I’m tired, cold, and soggy wet. I don’t care if the Task Force is about to make their best bust EVER evereverever, and I’ve been given a personal invitation to it, and Spot will be in shorts at it mmmm... great legs -- if you fold me in half and twist, you could wring out enough water to wash the JADE van. This is where I go home.
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