Today’s Entry Brought To You By The Letters ATF

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ultimately I let the men in.

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

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

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

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

(Their business card. Yes, really.)

Trio Of Time-Takers

Subtitle: Explanation For Infrequency Of Entries

The State:

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

The County:

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

The City:

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

Yeah, I Got Nothin’

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

No Post Title

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silhouette

Operation Summer Sports

Inside Joke

Serendipity

Anyone who thought no good could come from this venture was oh so very wrong.

Traffic Thursday

If Ya Didn’t Already Know It Was A JADE Op, Ya Would Never Know It Was JADE Op

Guilty plea for dealer of cocaine
June 2010

A 25-year-old man arrested earlier this year as part of a drug bust in Albemarle County has pleaded guilty to possession of cocaine with intent to distribute.

Abidan Pimentel entered the plea during a hearing Tuesday in Albemarle Circuit Court, according to court records. Pimentel was arrested Feb. 4 on Timberwood Boulevard during a special operation, during which officers seized about 124 grams of cocaine and more than $2,700.

Pimentel and his co-defendant, Fidel Martinez-Cortez, are scheduled to be sentenced Sept. 15. Martinez-Cortez, 36, was convicted of the charge last week, court records show.

(Source)

Jeez, You Don’t Have To Make A Federal Case Out Of It!

I’ve gotten a few inquiries about my fresh string of John Stoltz posts. I know it’s completely cheezball to quote oneself but sometimes I kinda do feel like pressed curd surrounded by nuts, so this is one of my responses from last week to a reader to semi-explain the esoteric entries:

John Stoltz is the local ATF agent who works with the JADE Task Force -- whenever JADE is investigating dealers and there are guns and such involved. I found out Mr. Stoltz has files under my name on his computer so I thought it'd be funny to let him know that I know that -- much like I'd carry milk and cookies out to an undercover officer if I caught one watching me.

Apparently one girl’s humor is another guy’s affliction?

Through a couple of inerrant sources I’ve confirmed the ATFer is now resorting to filthy tactics in response to the modicum of attention I’ve recently shown him. I should’ve realized it’d be the route he’d take, him being a Detective Brian O’Donnell knockoff and all.

Since Mr. Stoltz is not a member of the Task Force, I am free to contact him -- both directly and indirectly. This would be the direct approach:

Dear Special Agent Stoltz,

You must be aware you won’t be able to have me locked up forever nor is Google going to cyber-assassinate I HeArTE JADE merely at your whim and behest. Please settle down and reconsider your strategy. Seriously, I really don’t want to have to pick on you for the rest of eternity. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m not interested in concentrating on you for even like a whole month. I mean, I’m already spread thin keeping up with JADE, tabbing the Virginia State Police, teasing various City of Charlottesville and County of Albemarle lawmen, et cetera.

You could keep trying to handle me the very same way your buddies did, but, c’mon, anyone can see how that worked out for them. I don’t believe you’ve yet crossed the line into bullying -- not me, anyway -- thus I’m not opposed to backing off if you’re not opposed to being reasonable. I’ll give you some time to think it over. You decide to truce, have your people call my people. ‘Til then, expect my minute occasional, one hundred per cent. legal, tweaking of you to continue.

So Much, So Little

Y’all thought the Feds arrested me, huh? Not yet. But they’re working on it. More on that later. Maybe.

“Stoltz DOJ blog entry”

Yes, yes, I do have a leaf on the US Department of Justice’s grapevine.

Love My Little Birdies

What do you do when you learn somebody in the United States Department of Justice (USDOJ) has an active file with your identity on it, last name first? You roll your eyes, laugh out loud, and post another “Charger photo” for his jastoltz collection:

Kid Kudro

It Was A Dark And Stormy Night...

Hideaway

Eric Kudro: Psychic Superhero

Michael Dennis Hogberg, the guy that ACPD Officer Eric Kudro tasered back when, has made the news again. This latest story on him -- basically a drunk driving incident -- isn’t much interesting to me per se, though I do find one of the multiple charges he’s facing iffy. (If not crashing into a Virginia State Policeman’s cruiser warrants attempted capital murder of a police officer, then there ought also be a count of attempted murder for each and every other innocent person Mr. Hogberg passed but didn’t hit during this dangerous alcoholic stunt behind the wheel.)

However, I figured the marvelously hubristic Mr. Kudro, still indignant at people’s unsupportive reaction to his own takedown of Mr. Hogberg, would try to use this arrest as vindication to justify those earlier actions of his. Sure enough, I found his post on Topix, so, wow, I must be clairvoyant like Mr. Kudro as well! (Hey, maybe we could get, like, a whole X-Men thing going on -- Kudro… me… that County cop who I heard has a Spiderman symbol tattooed on his upper arm…) Naturally it will not occur to the unthinking public that Mr. Kudro had no possible way of knowing what Mr. Hogberg would do in the future and therefore is absolutely still lacking in the area of self-control. Hmm… maybe Mr. Kudro is putting that high IQ of his to good use.



But if our Superhero’s plan was for everyone to pat him on the back now, well, I think he forgot to let me and, uh, someone in Korea in on it.

YAW ENO

Facades

Pearls of sweat trail down his face under the scorching heat of the day as the sun prepares to set. With his broad shoulders reflecting years of good posture, he sits outside in the chair across from me and says he is nervous. He is, I remind myself, an area officer meeting with the purported “enemy,” the infamous operator of I HeArTE JADE. I give him an opportunity to put his anxiety into words, all the while visually siphoning in as many details as my brain can process without hazarding cerebral spillage.

He’s dressed casual rugged, but there’s a scent of hauteur that betrays the working-man impression his clothes are meant to convey. His footwear likely cost more than a new set of tires.

He’s handsome; not really my type, but no doubt the bulk of the female population would find him incredibly appealing. Definitely a Badge Bunny’s dream. I already know good looks run in his family. In fact, I know a lot about him -- probably much more than he thinks I do; then again, probably much less than he thinks I do.

He tells me he’s unarmed, lifts his shirt to prove it. Too bad -- the presence of a firearm paired with the sight of his belly would’ve been ultra sexy. I tell him I’m not recording this, but I don’t bother baring body parts to verify it. This exchange, in all its oddity, I suppose is our individual way of establishing trust with each other.

I’m not certain why he wanted to meet me; I’m even less certain why I agreed to it. Long before we part ways, what I am certain of is this little hook-up of ours is a one-time thing.

Granted, he’s very nice. Only, when I combine his cordiality with his striking physique, illusory blue-collar attire, and decent intellectual level, and pit it against my pink and black hair, tattoos, loosely-fitted T with jeans and high heels, and deficient gray matter, the overall effect is that he’s hopped off his pedestal to interact with the gutter girl. Whether he’s looking down his nose at me or not or has some inscrutable ulterior motive isn’t the point though, what matters is how to make the most of him before he retreats to his version of higher ground.

The conversation is enjoyable. He, I believe, does most of the talking, which suits me ducky. The problem is the more he speaks, the more human he becomes. Like he’s not some cardboard cookie-cut cop to make fun of or pull a Use ‘n Toss on. He is still a policeman however, and has every ounce of that peculiar-to-Law-Enforcement fusion of ego and humility.

The bright rays from the sky are sneaking around the building and before we completely lose our shade -- my companion’s already been perspiring enough to create a salty wading pool at our toes -- I suggest we move our Talkabout elsewhere.

We spend some of our time together in my parked vehicle with the AC running. He is bothered by the aroma of oil coming from the engine through the vents but at least he is no longer troubled by the stares of strangers, both discomforts I don’t gather he has until he openly announces them. I feel bad for him, but I’m not a darn mechanic and how was I to know he’d be so embarrassed by my appearance?

In short order I sense his life is exactly how he likes it, perfect, with everyone and everything in it positioned just so. I suspect meeting me secretly is about as big of the kind of rebellious risk as he’d dare take; my opinion solidifies when he seeks acknowledgement that this get-together is truly a “courageous” move on his part.

Amusing, the idea that after I’ve viewed so many of these guys as my personal guinea pigs now it seems one of them is doing the same to me.

Over the extent of our socializing I sporadically try to test or fluster him. He takes it all in stride, offering blah to no reaction. It doesn’t even faze him when I coquettishly remark on his admirable derriere -- nope, not even a hint of blushing. Cool, he is. Plus fascinating. I’m sorry he doesn’t find me… interesting? entertaining? attractive? whatever it is he was looking for. Can’t keep a man’s attention for the long term without allure of some sort. No further attention means no further information. Which bites.

Our visit is ending. I’m generally pleased with the whole experience, although I believe he would’ve preferred to be in the company of, hell, anyone else. Oh, he says all the appropriate things, mind you, but I’m no twit. He serves up an “I’ll call you” and I force myself to repress a grin. Men really do this I’ll-call-you thing? My gosh, I thought that was fiction! And I didn’t even have sex with him before hearing it!

I ring him up later in the week, purposely choosing a day he’s already mentioned he’ll be free. He totally brushes me off. This time I don’t hide the huge smile that hits my face.

6, In The Morning

Thirty Roads

City Sidewalks

Resurrected

Fixed. Guess I won't be using pictures of their houses after all.

VSP Chevrolet 8-397