20100120
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
Practical Advice
After transporting a drunken Ukrainian call girl in your trunk, don’t forget to hose off the bodily fluids left behind.
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?
20100113
It’s Like A Scooby Doo Mystery! Only Without Ghosts. Or A VW Van. Or Daphne. Or A Resolution.
On the first of April 2009, I posted a news report about the arrest of Joniel Renere Edwards by Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement. I’d actually been watching for media coverage of the incident because, well, I’d actually watched the incident. Since I knew no reporters had been at the scene, and the NBC29 tidbit was so bland, I’d guessed they’d gotten their information ala JADE press release. When WCAV and Daily Progress published their versions the rewrite factor only became all the more obvious.
The thing was, the information didn’t match what I’d witnessed. The most glaring discrepancy was the timeline. The dates made no sense. Plus, does this picture look like it was taken at nine o’clock at night?
I got to thinking maybe there were two takedowns around then and I’d just missed one. So I tried checking that theory out. The name -- Edwards -- and location -- Monticello Rd. -- seemed correct. Charlottesville’s General District Court listed 03/31/2009 as the offense date but 04/01/2009 as the arrest date.
If the details had come from the JADE Task Force, how come they’d lie about when their drug operation took place? If they had to fib about particulars, why even bother alerting the public that it happened at all? It’s not exactly a bragalicious event, as if they’d seized kilos of cocaine or rid the area of a notorious murdering gangsta’.
Three days later I published my account of the bust. In it, I called no attention to any of the above, though I did mention “as if the case isn’t mysterious enough, the news coming in about it baffles me beyond belief.”
Today I read the following.
The thing was, the information didn’t match what I’d witnessed. The most glaring discrepancy was the timeline. The dates made no sense. Plus, does this picture look like it was taken at nine o’clock at night?
I got to thinking maybe there were two takedowns around then and I’d just missed one. So I tried checking that theory out. The name -- Edwards -- and location -- Monticello Rd. -- seemed correct. Charlottesville’s General District Court listed 03/31/2009 as the offense date but 04/01/2009 as the arrest date.
If the details had come from the JADE Task Force, how come they’d lie about when their drug operation took place? If they had to fib about particulars, why even bother alerting the public that it happened at all? It’s not exactly a bragalicious event, as if they’d seized kilos of cocaine or rid the area of a notorious murdering gangsta’.
Three days later I published my account of the bust. In it, I called no attention to any of the above, though I did mention “as if the case isn’t mysterious enough, the news coming in about it baffles me beyond belief.”
Today I read the following.
County man pleads guilty to drug charge; could get 40 yearsSheesh. The Daily Progress wasn’t even consistent with its own earlier piece. And what are the chances anyone got 53 ounces of crack at that cost? Brings a-whole-nother meaning to “rock-bottom prices,” eh? Also, the “similar charge” is the exact same charge -- something I learned when I searched Albemarle Circuit Court records. The difference is, while the offense date is identical to the City of Charlottesville’s, the County arrested Mr. Edwards for this alleged felony on 08/30/2009. The best explanation I’ve for Cville and Albemarle prosecutors ganging up on Edwards after that much time passing is JADE members must’ve feigned being in fear for their lives.
From staff reports
Published: January 13, 2010
An Albemarle County man is facing prison time for selling crack cocaine to a police informant.
Joniel Renere Edwards, 26, pleaded guilty Tuesday in Charlottesville Circuit Court to possession of cocaine with the intent to distribute. Edwards faces up to 40 years in prison when he is sentenced June 30.
Joseph Platania, assistant commonwealth’s attorney, said in court that an informant for the Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement task force purchased about 53 ounces of crack cocaine for $2,800 on March 31. Edwards was arrested as he left a Monticello Road apartment. Platania said in court that authorities found more than 40 grams of crack cocaine in the freezer in Edwards’ home.
According to court records, Edwards has pleaded not guilty to a similar charge in Albemarle Circuit Court and will stand trial on Jan 19.
20100111
20100109
Google Makes Me Giggle
Search terms of two recent visitors:
1. I HEarTe 8 Jade BLOG
Clearly the result of miscommunication, yes? I can hear it now...
Gooooood question.
1. I HEarTe 8 Jade BLOG
Clearly the result of miscommunication, yes? I can hear it now...
"Dude, you gotta check out this blog!"2. why have albemarle county police been out so much lately
"What blog?"
"About JADE."
"Jade who?"
"No no no. It's about -- It's got -- Aw just go look, you'll see."
"What's the name of it?"
"It's like, um, I heart jade. Only it's got an e after heart. And some of the letters are bigger. So it spells hate too. Yeah, ya know sorta like when people use h and 8 instead of the word hate? Like that."
Gooooood question.
20100107
Stay Tuned; Your Regularly Scheduled JADE Programming Will Return After This Brief Message.
Meet 37-year-old James Chad Vernon.
Guess he’s shy. That might explain his managing to avoid any media coverage.
Ah, here he is. Much better.
James Chad Vernon is a Virginia State Police Trooper.
Though Trooper Vernon lives in Fluvanna County, Palmyra to be exact, I’ve been informed he’s attached to the VSP Division I Area 4 office which covers counties Goochland and Louisa. He works midnight shift -- this week, at any rate.
Ordinarily I ignore the spouses of officers I’m researching but it happens that Trooper Vernon’s lady is quite the cyber-chatterbox. Honestly I wasn’t sure there was a connection ‘til I saw the patch in the picture she put up on the ‘net of the laundry pile.
On one of his wife’s blogs, among banal posts about her kids, Project Runway, and Britney Spears not being newsworthy, she snubs the “gross” homeless and objurgates a VSP Trooper for ticketing her.
“Actually, it was two tickets, but I got out of both of them in court. This guy was a jerk, and some of Chad's fellow troopers have razzed him for ticketing another trooper's wife.”
I tend to believe that “I got out of” is not the way an innocent person would put it. Even better, I think, though, is her next statement concerning the citation-giving Trooper.
“I have a feeling some not-so-nice words about his roadside demeanor will somehow eek [sic] out.”
That stuff right there, nifty people, is a mighty fine display of what I like to call a crack in the notorious Thin Blue Line. Most folks probably don’t notice them, or believe they exist, but me? I live for cracks like that. Why? Because the best sources leak from those cracks. Sweariously. So good are they, a person can even overlook the wrongness of a woman who feels she’s above the law merely because she’s married to someone who, ironically, is sworn to uphold the law.
Mrs. Trooper Vernon has other sites but she’s got them under lock and key. Of course there are ways around those “invited readers only” things. After her privilegistic -- hush, it should be a word! -- attitude on the formerly unblocked blog, I did wonder what was behind her trooperswife.blogspot.com. But once I discovered on it that Oprah tells her what stories to get excited about, my inquisitiveness slacked to a standstill. The overall blandness of LEO wives is something I cannot tolerate for long.
Last thing I checked was Facebook. Hi Chad!
Guess he’s shy. That might explain his managing to avoid any media coverage.
Ah, here he is. Much better.
James Chad Vernon is a Virginia State Police Trooper.
Though Trooper Vernon lives in Fluvanna County, Palmyra to be exact, I’ve been informed he’s attached to the VSP Division I Area 4 office which covers counties Goochland and Louisa. He works midnight shift -- this week, at any rate.
Ordinarily I ignore the spouses of officers I’m researching but it happens that Trooper Vernon’s lady is quite the cyber-chatterbox. Honestly I wasn’t sure there was a connection ‘til I saw the patch in the picture she put up on the ‘net of the laundry pile.
On one of his wife’s blogs, among banal posts about her kids, Project Runway, and Britney Spears not being newsworthy, she snubs the “gross” homeless and objurgates a VSP Trooper for ticketing her.
“Actually, it was two tickets, but I got out of both of them in court. This guy was a jerk, and some of Chad's fellow troopers have razzed him for ticketing another trooper's wife.”
I tend to believe that “I got out of” is not the way an innocent person would put it. Even better, I think, though, is her next statement concerning the citation-giving Trooper.
“I have a feeling some not-so-nice words about his roadside demeanor will somehow eek [sic] out.”
That stuff right there, nifty people, is a mighty fine display of what I like to call a crack in the notorious Thin Blue Line. Most folks probably don’t notice them, or believe they exist, but me? I live for cracks like that. Why? Because the best sources leak from those cracks. Sweariously. So good are they, a person can even overlook the wrongness of a woman who feels she’s above the law merely because she’s married to someone who, ironically, is sworn to uphold the law.
Mrs. Trooper Vernon has other sites but she’s got them under lock and key. Of course there are ways around those “invited readers only” things. After her privilegistic -- hush, it should be a word! -- attitude on the formerly unblocked blog, I did wonder what was behind her trooperswife.blogspot.com. But once I discovered on it that Oprah tells her what stories to get excited about, my inquisitiveness slacked to a standstill. The overall blandness of LEO wives is something I cannot tolerate for long.
Last thing I checked was Facebook. Hi Chad!
Gee, He Should’ve Gone To Work For JADE; Surely They Pay Better Than A Donation Jar
Nelson Man Accused Of Donation Jar Theft
Posted: Jan 06, 2010 12:30 PM EST
Updated: Jan 06, 2010 12:30 PM EST
A Nelson County man is behind bars accused of stealing from a donation jar.
49-year-old Wilmot “Bill” Packard of Schuyler has been arrested for petty larceny. The sheriff’s office says Packard took money from a jar at a Food Mart on January 2.
The money was supposed to help a family pay for funeral expenses.
Packard is being held without bond at the Albemarle - Charlottesville Regional Jail.
20100104
Misadventures With The Magistrate
(Continued from here)
Special Agent Jason Trent, VA State Trooper Smurfette, and I stood in an over-lighted cubby inside the Blue Ridge Regional Jail.
Mr. Trent and Potentate Magistrate, the law administrator seated behind protective laminated glass, nonchalantly carried on about work, who’d been up latest the night before/earliest that morning, and, oh, have you talked to so-and-so lately?
Uhm, hello? There’s a person -- who doesn’t care how your wives are doing -- standing in handcuffs here, waitin’ on y’all.
The BCI man, thick arms crossed casually near his waistline, monotonously recited to Potentate Magistrate the charge I was facing. He followed it up with the most damning summary possible for what led to said charge. Roughly translated: she’s practically a cop killer, sir!
Potentate Magistrate made some inquiries that, this time, were relative to why we all might be breathing the same air here in the first place. Most of the questions were directed at Mr. Trent, and even the few asked of me seemed to be directed at the Special Agent. Once, when I didn’t respond to something instantly, Mr. Trent jumped on me, saying “he’s talking to you.” I raised my eyebrows. No reason for me to answer him; you’re apparently my mouthpiece at this event. I might as well have been a tile on the excessively glossy floor.
For the majority of our being there Potentate Magistrate said very little. He fidgeted with loose paperwork, wiggled a pen between his fingers, swiveled in his chair. Wiped his nose with his arm and adjusted his shirt collar. Stared blankly at a ornamental calendar on the wall, fiddled absentmindedly with a telephone cord. It was like watching an incessantly bored, bad employee. The kind of fellow who got hired for being the son-in-law of the boss. And my fate is in the hands of this ass sperm?
Agent Trent, on the other hand, did plenty enough speaking. Including fudging on details during the dialogue. One of the things he stated about the supposed offending post on I HeArTE JADE was that the picture I’d published of Task Force Officer Joe Hatter was of him getting into his car at his place of residence. Huh? That’s not true. I wanted to get to the bottom of the prevarication. Immediately. I blurted out “he wasn’t in front of his house!”
Mr. Trent flashed a smirk, then, with wide innocent-like eyes, swore Sgt. Hatter had told him that the picture was taken of him in front of his home. Talk about confusion; at that point I didn’t know if Trent was lying to me or if Hatter had lied to him. Maybe they conspired. How could Hatter not know what where he lives looks like? “But he wasn’t in front of his house; he was in front of a store!” I retorted. Loudly, since everyone knows the truth is better when told at a higher volume. Right?
You have to understand, Mr. Trent’s assertion wouldn’t have been a big deal if it weren’t for the fact that the key component in the statute I was accused of violating has to do with the residence. I liken it to an officer trying to justify an arrest by saying the suspect held a gun to a postal worker’s head for the purpose of robbing him when, in truth, it was a camera and a paperboy for the purpose of an editorial; one is a felony, the other isn’t even a crime.
I figured I could clear the matter up, so I naively rattled off particulars about the image -- where, when, why, et cetera. A twinkle in the gaze of the suddenly suspiciously-tight-lipped Mr. Trent caused me to mentally flicker back to the brief sneering smile he’d laid on me only seconds before. I really need to stop forgetting how devious cops can be.
Off and on I’d strove to keep circulation in my still-shackled hands and though I stopped short of wailing, I’d given several hints I was aching. Somewhere in here Agent Trent mercifully removed the metal binds.
I examined the deep wraparound indentations and rapidly darkening bruises that had developed on my wrists over the ten or fifteen minutes the restraints were on. When I held my released limbs up in display, Agent Trent promptly sniped the damage wouldn’t have happened if I “hadn’t been moving around.” I never realized handcuffs aren’t designed to withstand changes in position without inflicting severe injuries.
If the state policeman’s disdainful sigh was anything to go by, I was apparently supposed to suck it up and shut up. Did he just… “Did you just roll your eyes at me?” I asked Mr. Trent. I was shocked. Does this guy seriously have that much contempt for me? The thought indisputably dismayed me.
Upset, I sought a distraction. Potentate Magistrate was, I believe, searching youtube for Steely Dan videos. My eyes fell to a paper Mr. Trent had been holding, now sitting on the counter directly in front of us. I think it was the arrest warrant. A line with a black, bold “S/A J. Trent 4097 VSP” popped out at me. 4097? Is that his badge number? Because Joe Fleming’s badge number is 4098. They’re both Virginia State Police. Both Bureau of Criminal Investigation Agents. But how is it possible their badge numbers are only one digit apart? Did they join at the same time? Start at the same place?
The curiosity was irresistible. I tapped the document with a long sparkle-covered fingernail. “Is this your badge number?” I queried. Mr. Trent scoffed “I really don’t care if you know my badge number. I’m sure you know all about me.” Actually I don’t. Does it not occur to you that if I did, I probably wouldn’t need to ask you questions like “is this your badge number?” I exhaled pensively and shook my head at the man for him finding drowning in a megalomaniacal pool of his own ignorance so satisfying.
At last Potentate Magistrate appeared to realize I was present. He asked me if I knew what the difference between an “unsecured” bond and a “secured” one was. When I let him know I did not, he proceeded to explain it. I assumed that one lets you walk out of the detention center forthwith, and one forces you to share a cell with Lucy Larceny et al until you miraculously procure the appropriate funds for freedom.
When I was told that my bail amount would be $7500.00, I about fainted. Seventy-five hundred dollars! That’s ridiculous! When I learned I would definitely be caged ‘til I came up with the sum, I went numb.
I turned to Agent Trent in disbelief. Ohmigod. He looks as stunned as I am. In that split second I thought for sure he had not expected me to actually be locked up. But then everything he’d ever said to and about me came roaring through my brain like a helicopter on fire and my mind changed. No. He’s not surprised. He knew this would happen.
I was informed by Potentate Magistrate that he’d decided the two things because I’d shown no remorse. No… remorse? What the what? How exactly is someone supposed to show remorse for something she didn’t do?! I was abysmally incredulous.
Potentate Magistrate, in essence, not only convicted but sentenced me, too, on nothing more than the words of a single biased officer. My lack of unlawful history? Irrelevant. That it was a non-violent crime alleged? Didn’t matter. View the website in question? Not even a peek at it. Innocent until proven guilty? Ha!
I am profoundly grateful the despicable man lacked the authority to order the death penalty. I’ve heard there are no computers in Hell.
(Continued here)
Special Agent Jason Trent, VA State Trooper Smurfette, and I stood in an over-lighted cubby inside the Blue Ridge Regional Jail.
Mr. Trent and Potentate Magistrate, the law administrator seated behind protective laminated glass, nonchalantly carried on about work, who’d been up latest the night before/earliest that morning, and, oh, have you talked to so-and-so lately?
Uhm, hello? There’s a person -- who doesn’t care how your wives are doing -- standing in handcuffs here, waitin’ on y’all.
The BCI man, thick arms crossed casually near his waistline, monotonously recited to Potentate Magistrate the charge I was facing. He followed it up with the most damning summary possible for what led to said charge. Roughly translated: she’s practically a cop killer, sir!
Potentate Magistrate made some inquiries that, this time, were relative to why we all might be breathing the same air here in the first place. Most of the questions were directed at Mr. Trent, and even the few asked of me seemed to be directed at the Special Agent. Once, when I didn’t respond to something instantly, Mr. Trent jumped on me, saying “he’s talking to you.” I raised my eyebrows. No reason for me to answer him; you’re apparently my mouthpiece at this event. I might as well have been a tile on the excessively glossy floor.
For the majority of our being there Potentate Magistrate said very little. He fidgeted with loose paperwork, wiggled a pen between his fingers, swiveled in his chair. Wiped his nose with his arm and adjusted his shirt collar. Stared blankly at a ornamental calendar on the wall, fiddled absentmindedly with a telephone cord. It was like watching an incessantly bored, bad employee. The kind of fellow who got hired for being the son-in-law of the boss. And my fate is in the hands of this ass sperm?
Agent Trent, on the other hand, did plenty enough speaking. Including fudging on details during the dialogue. One of the things he stated about the supposed offending post on I HeArTE JADE was that the picture I’d published of Task Force Officer Joe Hatter was of him getting into his car at his place of residence. Huh? That’s not true. I wanted to get to the bottom of the prevarication. Immediately. I blurted out “he wasn’t in front of his house!”
Mr. Trent flashed a smirk, then, with wide innocent-like eyes, swore Sgt. Hatter had told him that the picture was taken of him in front of his home. Talk about confusion; at that point I didn’t know if Trent was lying to me or if Hatter had lied to him. Maybe they conspired. How could Hatter not know what where he lives looks like? “But he wasn’t in front of his house; he was in front of a store!” I retorted. Loudly, since everyone knows the truth is better when told at a higher volume. Right?
You have to understand, Mr. Trent’s assertion wouldn’t have been a big deal if it weren’t for the fact that the key component in the statute I was accused of violating has to do with the residence. I liken it to an officer trying to justify an arrest by saying the suspect held a gun to a postal worker’s head for the purpose of robbing him when, in truth, it was a camera and a paperboy for the purpose of an editorial; one is a felony, the other isn’t even a crime.
I figured I could clear the matter up, so I naively rattled off particulars about the image -- where, when, why, et cetera. A twinkle in the gaze of the suddenly suspiciously-tight-lipped Mr. Trent caused me to mentally flicker back to the brief sneering smile he’d laid on me only seconds before. I really need to stop forgetting how devious cops can be.
Off and on I’d strove to keep circulation in my still-shackled hands and though I stopped short of wailing, I’d given several hints I was aching. Somewhere in here Agent Trent mercifully removed the metal binds.
I examined the deep wraparound indentations and rapidly darkening bruises that had developed on my wrists over the ten or fifteen minutes the restraints were on. When I held my released limbs up in display, Agent Trent promptly sniped the damage wouldn’t have happened if I “hadn’t been moving around.” I never realized handcuffs aren’t designed to withstand changes in position without inflicting severe injuries.
If the state policeman’s disdainful sigh was anything to go by, I was apparently supposed to suck it up and shut up. Did he just… “Did you just roll your eyes at me?” I asked Mr. Trent. I was shocked. Does this guy seriously have that much contempt for me? The thought indisputably dismayed me.
Upset, I sought a distraction. Potentate Magistrate was, I believe, searching youtube for Steely Dan videos. My eyes fell to a paper Mr. Trent had been holding, now sitting on the counter directly in front of us. I think it was the arrest warrant. A line with a black, bold “S/A J. Trent 4097 VSP” popped out at me. 4097? Is that his badge number? Because Joe Fleming’s badge number is 4098. They’re both Virginia State Police. Both Bureau of Criminal Investigation Agents. But how is it possible their badge numbers are only one digit apart? Did they join at the same time? Start at the same place?
The curiosity was irresistible. I tapped the document with a long sparkle-covered fingernail. “Is this your badge number?” I queried. Mr. Trent scoffed “I really don’t care if you know my badge number. I’m sure you know all about me.” Actually I don’t. Does it not occur to you that if I did, I probably wouldn’t need to ask you questions like “is this your badge number?” I exhaled pensively and shook my head at the man for him finding drowning in a megalomaniacal pool of his own ignorance so satisfying.
At last Potentate Magistrate appeared to realize I was present. He asked me if I knew what the difference between an “unsecured” bond and a “secured” one was. When I let him know I did not, he proceeded to explain it. I assumed that one lets you walk out of the detention center forthwith, and one forces you to share a cell with Lucy Larceny et al until you miraculously procure the appropriate funds for freedom.
When I was told that my bail amount would be $7500.00, I about fainted. Seventy-five hundred dollars! That’s ridiculous! When I learned I would definitely be caged ‘til I came up with the sum, I went numb.
I turned to Agent Trent in disbelief. Ohmigod. He looks as stunned as I am. In that split second I thought for sure he had not expected me to actually be locked up. But then everything he’d ever said to and about me came roaring through my brain like a helicopter on fire and my mind changed. No. He’s not surprised. He knew this would happen.
I was informed by Potentate Magistrate that he’d decided the two things because I’d shown no remorse. No… remorse? What the what? How exactly is someone supposed to show remorse for something she didn’t do?! I was abysmally incredulous.
Potentate Magistrate, in essence, not only convicted but sentenced me, too, on nothing more than the words of a single biased officer. My lack of unlawful history? Irrelevant. That it was a non-violent crime alleged? Didn’t matter. View the website in question? Not even a peek at it. Innocent until proven guilty? Ha!
I am profoundly grateful the despicable man lacked the authority to order the death penalty. I’ve heard there are no computers in Hell.
(Continued here)
20100102
There Will Be No Back To The Drawing Board For Me
Way back when, before I became the old and senile misfit I am today, I used to draw. A lot. On everything. Everywhere. When my scribbles began appearing as permanent exhibitions on the bodies of my teenaged peers -- including a fabulous design on the leg of her son -- a friend’s mother even offered to pay any or all expenses for me to attend a kickin’ art institution. She was that convinced I was talented. As was the school. Me? Not so much.
It’s been years since I picked up a pencil with the intention of sketching anything specific but, out of curiosity, I thought I’d try my hand at it again. Is it possible to forget how to do it?
My first stab was VSP Special Agent Jason Trent. (Edited to remove image.) Might’ve passed for a sorry police composite, I guess. Mr. Trent is actually handsome for a young guy, and I thoroughly completely failed to capture that in my rendering. It didn’t help that the picture I took of it was all blurry, either.
Second shot, JADE Detective Granville Fields:
Better, I think. But mainly just a reminder of why I turned down the college proposal.
It’s been years since I picked up a pencil with the intention of sketching anything specific but, out of curiosity, I thought I’d try my hand at it again. Is it possible to forget how to do it?
My first stab was VSP Special Agent Jason Trent. (Edited to remove image.) Might’ve passed for a sorry police composite, I guess. Mr. Trent is actually handsome for a young guy, and I thoroughly completely failed to capture that in my rendering. It didn’t help that the picture I took of it was all blurry, either.
Second shot, JADE Detective Granville Fields:
Better, I think. But mainly just a reminder of why I turned down the college proposal.
20100101
20091231
Do You Realize There Is Almost An Endless Supply Of Virginia State Policemen?
I swear some law enforcement factory in an undisclosed location is just spitting these guys out by the gray and blue cruiserfuls. I’m certain of it, because, as promised, I’ve been accumulating information on, oh, this one and that one, and, like, every time I blink, up pops another this one and that one I know nothing about. I mean check out the amount of employees this Appomattox site lists. 171. In one area? And 32 Special Agents. 32! I don’t know if it’s up-to-date but, based on what I’ve gathered so far, I’m doubting it’s off by a lot.
I’m trying to learn as much as I can about as many as I can before they end the game. If you remember, I only started keeping tabs on them after they wouldn’t stop keeping tabs on me. Consider it my way of leveling the playing field.
First one of their officers I decided to familiarize myself with was Joe Rader:
Cute, isn’t he? Turns out I couldn’t have picked an easier subject. I was done and over him in less than 8 seconds. I amassed stacks of facts on him in ½ that time. What -- you think I’m kidding? Let me show you how nearly effortless it can go.
I’ll demonstrate with someone who’s VSP-connected but irrelevant to what I’m doing.
So that’s the basic process I go through when I resort to using the Internet for investigating.
One of these days I should write about how I found out what BCI Special Agent Jason Trent’s wife looks like. I was trying to dig up something completely different, which makes the whole story extra cool. I have to tell you I was totally expecting his Mrs. to look like a Kendra Wilkinson clone. She doesn’t at all. Not that his spouse isn’t pretty, she’s just lacking the sexpot Bunny-esque-ness that I figured was more his ideal. From what I read she probably outweighs him by a good twenty IQ points, too. Right; I should hop out of the gossip gutter now.
Gosh, I haven’t even gone into what I’m up to with the Virginia State Police when I’m not on the computer. Suffice it to say it doesn’t interfere with Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement, for it’s that, not the VSP, I HeArTE.
I’m trying to learn as much as I can about as many as I can before they end the game. If you remember, I only started keeping tabs on them after they wouldn’t stop keeping tabs on me. Consider it my way of leveling the playing field.
First one of their officers I decided to familiarize myself with was Joe Rader:
Cute, isn’t he? Turns out I couldn’t have picked an easier subject. I was done and over him in less than 8 seconds. I amassed stacks of facts on him in ½ that time. What -- you think I’m kidding? Let me show you how nearly effortless it can go.
I’ll demonstrate with someone who’s VSP-connected but irrelevant to what I’m doing.
- This is the Police Link Law Enforcement Community. A search under the term VSP produces a fair number of results. Deliberately aiming for the least difficult to uncover is no fun; I like a challenge. I’ll ignore the ones with real identities and/or pictures of themselves.
- This is vsp221. No name, no picture. He does give his city. Wytheville. Retired. Also he likes ham radio and his callsign is W4VSP. That actually sucks. Because that is a name.
- This is QRZ.com. An online callsign database. Enter W4VSP into the search box. Go on, I’ll wait. Whadda ya know? Told you it was a name. Alvin E Crane, Jr. With an address. In Wytheville, VA.
So that’s the basic process I go through when I resort to using the Internet for investigating.
One of these days I should write about how I found out what BCI Special Agent Jason Trent’s wife looks like. I was trying to dig up something completely different, which makes the whole story extra cool. I have to tell you I was totally expecting his Mrs. to look like a Kendra Wilkinson clone. She doesn’t at all. Not that his spouse isn’t pretty, she’s just lacking the sexpot Bunny-esque-ness that I figured was more his ideal. From what I read she probably outweighs him by a good twenty IQ points, too. Right; I should hop out of the gossip gutter now.
Gosh, I haven’t even gone into what I’m up to with the Virginia State Police when I’m not on the computer. Suffice it to say it doesn’t interfere with Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement, for it’s that, not the VSP, I HeArTE.
20091230
I WANT This!
This 12 foot ladder only weighs 31 pounds and folds up to 23½ inches wide by 13 inches high by 3½ inches thick. Cost? A mere six hundred-something dollars. Still... I want it.
20091228
Are Pictures Really Worth 1000 Words Or Does Society Simply Prefer Illiteracy?
Evidently I HeArTE JADE is becoming more “show” than “tell.” Folks who persist in visiting this word-polluted site when they have no discernable ability to read need love too.
Yeah. No. Truth is, this has little to do with analphabetism; I’m just in a picture-y mood.
What started as one of my experiments without explanation has become its own collection under the label “Random Photographs.” But those are mostly of officers. Mostly.
Therefore I thought I’d launch another category featuring police cars. Hmm… that’s kind of disingenuous. Because, really, an accurate description would be “Personal vehicles Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement Task Force and other Law Enforcement members have been in. Or near. Or on.”
I’m going to call it “RAP.” Seriously. Random Automobile Photographs.
Shut up. The name practically squeaks originality. It’s not like anyone read any of this anyway. Here, have a snapshot:
Yeah. No. Truth is, this has little to do with analphabetism; I’m just in a picture-y mood.
What started as one of my experiments without explanation has become its own collection under the label “Random Photographs.” But those are mostly of officers. Mostly.
Therefore I thought I’d launch another category featuring police cars. Hmm… that’s kind of disingenuous. Because, really, an accurate description would be “Personal vehicles Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement Task Force and other Law Enforcement members have been in. Or near. Or on.”
I’m going to call it “RAP.” Seriously. Random Automobile Photographs.
Shut up. The name practically squeaks originality. It’s not like anyone read any of this anyway. Here, have a snapshot:
Kudro Konductivity
So I thought by now someone in Mediawood might’ve perhaps hinted at the outcome of the “internal review” Albemarle County Police Officer Eric Kudro purportedly was facing. Especially since the Taser incident was all the rage less than a month ago.
Am I the only one who doesn’t frequent Short-Attention-Span Theater?
(Eric Kudro, left, pictured with Officer William Kavanah)
Am I the only one who doesn’t frequent Short-Attention-Span Theater?
(Eric Kudro, left, pictured with Officer William Kavanah)
20091223
Shall I Eat My Crow With A Fork Or A Spoon?
Okay. There’s a chance that I HeArTE JADE is not above embellishment.
Like, I might exaggerate how attractive I believe Granville Fields is. I may say that I would crawl a mile and a half on scalding tar with bloody skinned hands and knees through anthrax-tinged toxic industrial waste just to have a three second glimpse of the beautiful JADE Detective’s perfectly shaped powerful calf muscles, whereas, in actuality, I’m only willing to crawl a mile and a quarter.
But when it comes to incontrovertible facts, I try very, very, hard to keep it real. That way, any given person at any given time could check any given information I provide and find it solid. Credibility is way high on my list.
So I was massively ticked off to find out I’d made a mistake. A stupid mistake. A stupid and avoidable mistake.
I’m sure you’re dying to know what I was wrong about, aren’t you?
Jeffrey M. Terry.
To recap: I was told by somebody who’d definitely be in the know -- ahem, Officer JumpOut -- that Mr. Terry, a Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement target, had escaped prosecution. Since I, also a Task Force target, ostensibly did not fair as well as the dope man, I composed a whole bewilderment-inspired comparison in which I waxed poetic about injustices.
Now here I am with a shovel scooping up the poo left by my high horse.
Yes, I realize it’s completely my fault. I didn’t put the same effort into verification as I usually do. For one, the details I’d gotten seemed plausible; two, I had a tremendous amount of faith in my original source; and three, what can I say? I was riled up!
It just didn’t enter my mind that Jeffrey Terry would be pleading guilty in Federal Court.
Like, I might exaggerate how attractive I believe Granville Fields is. I may say that I would crawl a mile and a half on scalding tar with bloody skinned hands and knees through anthrax-tinged toxic industrial waste just to have a three second glimpse of the beautiful JADE Detective’s perfectly shaped powerful calf muscles, whereas, in actuality, I’m only willing to crawl a mile and a quarter.
But when it comes to incontrovertible facts, I try very, very, hard to keep it real. That way, any given person at any given time could check any given information I provide and find it solid. Credibility is way high on my list.
So I was massively ticked off to find out I’d made a mistake. A stupid mistake. A stupid and avoidable mistake.
I’m sure you’re dying to know what I was wrong about, aren’t you?
Jeffrey M. Terry.
To recap: I was told by somebody who’d definitely be in the know -- ahem, Officer JumpOut -- that Mr. Terry, a Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement target, had escaped prosecution. Since I, also a Task Force target, ostensibly did not fair as well as the dope man, I composed a whole bewilderment-inspired comparison in which I waxed poetic about injustices.
Now here I am with a shovel scooping up the poo left by my high horse.
Yes, I realize it’s completely my fault. I didn’t put the same effort into verification as I usually do. For one, the details I’d gotten seemed plausible; two, I had a tremendous amount of faith in my original source; and three, what can I say? I was riled up!
It just didn’t enter my mind that Jeffrey Terry would be pleading guilty in Federal Court.
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