Accumulation

This is the problem when one doesn’t post frequently: stuff piles up. Hmm... let’s see... where to begin?

According to City of Charlottesville General District Court records, on June 2, 2011, the sexy hot -- my adjectives, not the judicial system’s -- Granville Fields was deemed not guilty of his March reckless driving charge. Surprise! Oh, no, wait; a surprise would’ve been the opposite verdict. Naturally he had an attorney, Jessica Phillips, which, regardless of if you aren’t an officer and are darn certain you’re going to get away with your misdeeds, is always a sharp move.

Not a sharp move is agreeing to let Law Enforcement without a warrant search your property. Granted, they’ll invariably be granted the necessary paperwork, but, no matter how persuasive men with badges can be -- and they can, indeed, be persuasive -- and how innocent you’re positive you are, sheesh, assert your rights people!

Philip Cobbs consented to a warrantless search and look where it got him. The majority of ‘net commentators on his ordeal seemed to have either gotten sidetracked by the least significant part: the amount of marijuana discovered on Mr. Cobbs’ land -- as if two pot plants aren’t as illegal as a dozen or a thousand -- or turned it into yet another excuse to rail about legalization. Hello? Members of the Virginia State Police and Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement Task Force didn’t even bother to document alleged evidence. Since it wasn’t a pat-on-the-back-worthy bust, they, I believe, plunked it in toto on the lap of County Officer Trevor Ross a month later. I surmise, true to their typical cocky selves, the Boys In Blue knew a judge would merely take them on their word for the way it went down, how they behaved, and what precisely they saw. They were correct the first round. I wish the Rutherford Institute best of luck battling against such odds in the next.

Settled out of court was the Gerry Mitchell vs Albemarle County Police Department lawsuit. One of their fine officers, Gregory Davis, while in his patrol car struck a wheelchair-bound man crossing the road. Originally when I watched the cruiser cam video of the incident, I was willing to give the cop the benefit of the doubt; I thought perhaps the ACPD driver hadn’t seen Mr. Mitchell because the front frame of the auto at the left of the windshield on his vehicle obscured the view of the area the pedestrian was in. Then I heard Davis was texting a woman at the time of the hit. This was later confirmed. Speaking from experience, mobile phones can be quite distracting to lawmen especially when a kitty is on the other end. Me-yow.

Eric Abshire was convicted in October of murdering his wife Justine. I’d been mildly interested in the case and my State Policeman, Tony Gattuso Jr., having worked on it a bit, kindly provided me inside details. VSP Special Agent Gattuso also told me that since the evidence was circumstantial he thought Mr. Abshire would likely walk away from the crime a free man; I disagreed, simply because juries are incredibly stupid and have no concept of “reasonable doubt.” I’d published on the web some of the information supplied to me by my darling Tony and one site I posted it on promptly deleted it. Hilarious that media are more concerned about what a leaky Virginia State Policeman did or said than the Agency he belongs to is.

I haven’t recently added anything to the My State Policeman blog. I need to type a narrative of a disturbing phone conversation Tony and me had about his living situation and girlfriend, but, frankly, I haven’t been much inspired to write -- obviously. Once I get around to it though I can hark back to the mundane copying and pasting of our email exchanges. I’d intended to wrap up the site at the point our relationship ended, however, upon a subsequent three-month-long investigation of my former sweetheart’s activities pre- and post-me, there’s uber oodles of fabulous turpitudes that I unearthed for me to terminate it there now. From my contact with Troopers’ wives he used to bang back in the days when he was a lowly Trooper himself to tracking multiple craigslist sex ads hookups he’s had, I’ve been rather a busy detective slash spy. Can ya believe I was not Tony’s sole other lover from February 2010 on? I reiterate: thank heavens I documented every ounce of “us.” There’s a couple of loose pieces his ex-pseudo-wife Brenda Priebe could help tie up for curious me if she’d be so inclined; shame she’s one of those uppity things, a big important person who strictly associates with clones of herself. I guess he didn’t lie about everything.

Sadly it’s apparent Tony never actually liked me. I’ve concluded he deliberately targets females to con that he feels -- erroneously or not -- are super intelligent. Keeping the wool pulled over their eyes is his idea of reassuring himself he’s smart. Unfortunately for him, he’s not bright enough to pull it off with everyone. Funny, he probably would’ve been successful on that front with Miz Priebe had it not been for me. Hoo-ah! Yeah, that completes my psychoanalyzing Anthony Gattuso.

An unidentified-to-the-public Albemarle County officer shot his own hand during weapon training at the Rivanna Rifle and Pistol Club. Numerous ACPD officials state accidents of this type wouldn’t occur if their department had its own facility to practice at, thereby increasing the amount of firearm preparedness.

The same county has a fresh armada of police vehicles coming in. Chief Steve Sellers said “To our officers it represents a new beginning, a fresh start as a police department and a commitment to the community.” I’m not certain what anybody else in his community thinks but I’d prefer to have cops who know how to handle their guns than have ones with new cars.

At least one lawyer I’m acquainted with is doing a happy dance that Randall Snead did not get elected Sheriff of Greene County.

In a strange twist, I got a lada nada to report on the Charlottesville Police Department as a whole. Individually? Loose lips revealed that CPD Chief Timothy Longo has been compelled to remark in specific company that Officer Brian N. O’Donnell and I were not involved sexually. Whatever. Despite Joe Hatter having had a few personal issues subsequent to my last update, none of them belong here. Rumor has it that Paul Best and his fiancée broke up. Or they got married. Perfect example of why two sources are not necessarily better than one.

A daily visitor to I HeArTE JADE has offered yours truly a round-trip ticket to Europe. I’m still considering the invitation. On the one side, I’m all for meeting regular readers. On the other, I’m not particularly interested in Germany.

Search Engine results, featuring names, from yesterday:

chad vernon
charlottesville Scott Cox
chip rilley albemarle police
detective DJ HArris, charlottesville
eric kudro
"investigator snead" virginia
lieutenant don campbell charlottesville
logan woodzell charlottesville p
logan woodzell charlottesville police
lt. odonell charlottesville
marc brake charlottesville
mark greene charlottesville
"michael moore" agency
michael flaherty
officer chip riley albemarle county virginia
rodney snead va
trooper parham vsp

Aren’t They All?

As readers might have noticed, here I am once more.

There’s a long, complex, story behind my absence but, for the sake of prudence, I’ll keep it quasi-short -- for now. I’ve always maintained I would blog as long as nobody got hurt. A few months ago I was led to believe that someone I cared very much about was being harmed because of my activities with I HeArTE JADE. I felt I couldn’t, with good conscience, continue to update. I never would have guessed that I would become a victim of my own con, nor that I would be mulcted in such a way by Law Enforcement, but, like most folks, I’ve been conditioned to believe whatever handsome men with shiny badges in positions of authority tell me. You’d think I’d know better by now. Ha! Fortunately I’ve deduced the entire thing was capital B capital S, thus… hello again! At the moment expect sporadic entries.

Hmm... what else is there to share?

I have continued throughout to periodically post on my VSP site. Well, hell, I never implied I would abandon my other projects. By the way, if there’s a Virginia State Policeman out there who isn’t deceitful or a moron or a coward, or, worse, all three, I’d love to talk to him. I have arrant faith he indeed exists. Somewhere.

On 03/29/2011, the fantastically sexy Granville Fields was cited in Charlottesville for reckless driving. Do you know how bad what he did had to be for that to happen?! Naturally he got himself a lawyer, Jessica Phillips, and probably, much like former Albemarle County Policeman Eric Kudro did when he was charged with the same, he’ll get out of it. His next court date is scheduled for 06/02/2011, 9:05AM.

Speaking of cutie Kudro, last word I got on him was that his resignation from the ACPD stemmed from his refusal to submit to a random drug test. Since he does have a bit of a reputation as a “partier,” I’m inclined to buy this as a valid explanation.

The Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement Task Force has only minimally made the news during my down time. I’m not convinced the stuff is at all worth mentioning, although any reference to JADE boosts my stats.

I am dying for a new scanner. The ones I’m eyeballing cost the big bucks, which means I may actually die before I accumulate the necessary funds.

Last and least relevant, I’m plumb gaga over The Voice. Plus SouthLAnd, in all its killerism, has been renewed for another season -- hoorah!

Smart People Don’t Get Bored

I’m revisiting old files of Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement. Thought maybe I’d spot whatever and be inspired to, honestly, I don’t know what.

I need a clever challenge, an innovative plan, a tactical strategy, something indisputably exciting that’s mentally and physically demanding. Task. Force. Tied. I’m learning stock officers, with few exceptions, without deliberate provocation are mega-not stimulating enough; those who surely are intriguing, perhaps it’s merely the infrequency of interaction that’s making them, too, seem unsatisfactory to me.

Befriending JADE targets and victims -- yes, there is a difference -- is a separate game -- brought on by confining me to an environment where I would encounter such -- and an unbloggable one at that.

Where does this leave me? Eyeballing 2008-110 and 2008-113. What are they? June 3rd and 4th onset cases worked by Detective Granville Fields, who is infinitely more attractive than the men those investigations are titled:



Maybe I should just start a band. Any of my readers play guitar?

Lessons Learned

It’s nighttime, late. I turn left onto Rayon St. then go right on Robinson Pl. As I wind the curve, which puts me on Ware St., I see headlights across the road moving in my direction. After all my surveillance it’s nearly unimaginable for me to not recognize the vehicle of a Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement Task Force Officer.

The advancing auto is exactly too far away to catch the tag number. By the shape of the front lamps, the outline of the vehicle, the streetlights hinting at the color, it’s the Chevy of either Joe Fleming or Granville Fields. Unless one of us tosses a variable in our course we’re inevitably going to converge at Elliott Ave. Not what I want to happen.

I calmly ease my car into a parallel parking spot in front of a residence just as the Impala rolls to a stop at the intersection. After all my surveillance it’s nearly unimaginable for a Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement Task Force Officer to not recognize my vehicle. My brain sends my body the obligatory warning signals -- hair-raising spine-tingling attacks -- when it computes the unknown JADE cop’s car is sitting over there just a wee bit longer than necessary.

Unfortunately I can’t make out his license plate because of a crazy glare from -- who knows what?

On the chance that he, like me, isn’t entirely certain of who he’s looking at, I snap off my headlights and cross my fingers he’ll think I’m really just someone who lives in one of these buildings. The Impala doesn’t budge.

It occurs to me that if I was someone who truly belongs here, about to get out at my home, or whatever, I would probably not continue to hold down the brakes as I’m doing. I shift the gear to “P” and remove my foot from the offending pedal. The red rectangles disrupting the darkness behind me wink out. Still the JADE man waits.

I’m running out of ways to wordlessly justify my activities to the officer so that he’ll be reassured enough to leave. Assuming he assumes if I am, in fact, me, I would not want to be seen, I flip on the interior light above me. I follow up my bluff with a deliberate display of packing items “to carry inside.” The Impala doesn’t bat a wiper blade.

I’m not sure what to do at this point. In frustration I flick the switch above restoring blackness. All of a sudden the Chevy zooms forward and comes charging at me. I laugh at the driver’s belated exhibition of virility. I also completely forget about what I might do and instead let curiosity about the objective of the guy operating the Impala consume me.

Examining the tag of the fast-nearing sedan is rendered unnecessary; I can tell the driver is Granville Fields because his Impala has tinted windows whereas Joe Fleming’s does not. At the instant his front bumper kitty-corners mine the detective decelerates. In movie-style slo-mo he creeps by me. When we are glass to glass I feel him staring into my eyes. For a spilt second I wonder if he’ll dare to put his window down and confront me but, no, he merely crawls on by. I don’t wait for him to change his mind. The moment the rugged policeman clears my auto, I’m out of there.

____________ ♥ ____________

When you know where someone is, then you know where he is not. This is important because if someone isn’t where he’s supposed to be, then he might show up somewhere you don’t want him to. On this particular night, Granville Fields is not where he’s supposed to be. This throws the monkey of all wrenches in my plans so I’m forced to go looking for him.

I head into the isolated neighborhood. I haven’t gone far before I note another vehicle has turned here also and is traveling down the street after me. Knowing I’ll be cruising carefully, or possibly stopping entirely, and not wanting to hold up another driver I veer off on a narrow side road to wait for the other person to pass by. I gather too late this is a poor choice of pavement to be on; it’s not going to be simple to return to the main drag from it. Using the nearest of the skinny lane’s imitation driveways as a turnaround, I vaguely acknowledge the lights of the aforementioned car have come and gone.

Back on track, I slowly ease up on the junction I mean to make a turn at and scope it out. On the shoulder, down a distance, at precisely the location I intend to check out, sits a car, facing me, with its lights aglow. A surge of adrenaline shoots through me.

When it comes to this neck of the woods a person can pretty much determine traffic activity in, like, thirty second increments. Plus, there’s only one way in or out of the area. I conclude that car is probably the one I let go by me. Furthermore, it likely belongs to none other than Granville Fields. Adrenaline skyrockets to sickening levels inside me. I absolutely cannot let him catch me here, now, no way!

I can’t very well pull a U right in front of officer Fields nor is it smart for me to race off the way I’m already going. It is possible the reason he’s hovering in that completely anomalous way has nothing to do with me. My tummy is tight with anxiety but I coast on as if all is dandy. No such luck. Through a sparse wall of trees I distinguish he’s coming after me.

I step on the gas hard to gain some ground before he makes it to his turn joining me on this road. Two different impasses are all I have to choose from. The first is straight-on and not only coming up quickly but leaves no room for anything less than a blatant encounter. My heart is boomin’ louder than my stereo. I go left, aiming for the remaining dead end, while visions of that one previous face-off with him replay in my mind. I have an idea.

Approaching the circle, I observe most of the houses have outside lights in full burn. I whisk into the driveway of one that doesn’t and pray there’s no motion sensor. This time I don’t hesitate; I jump out of the car and begin strolling to the unilluminated house literally like I own the place. I’m halfway down the path when the ensuing sedan appears. It slows, stops short of entering the cul-de-sac, scoots into the last drive before it. The detective then reverses and departs. Triumph!

I return to my ride and kill twenty-five minutes in case he also has learned a thing or two from our prior brushes and is hiding somewhere along the sole exit route waiting for me. Relieved I didn’t have to concoct a fairytale for the actual homeowner, I finally take my leave.

I Get By With A Little Help From My Your Our Friends

What’s nifty?

Acquiring a photograph of a group of hardcore officers who get decked out in camo green.



What’s niftier than nifty?

Acquiring that same photograph from a hardcore officer who gets decked out in camo green.

Too bad I had to black out JADE Task Force members Granville Fields and Joe Hatter.

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.

CAR Keeps JADE And Area Arrestees On Course

45-year-old Jeanette Joan Houchens is just one of several participants in the JADE Task Force’s “Catch and Release” program. The Waynesboro resident, who was arrested last month in a buy/bust operation conducted by Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement, was not prosecuted in Albemarle County General District Court this morning.

An unnamed spokesman for JADE says the CAR program was initially offered only to confidential informants but, after its growing success in letting drug peddlers back out on the streets, it expanded to include most females and other minorities. “It makes sense. Many of these people will be rearrested. If we can’t win the War on Drugs, we can at least make it look like we are” he said.

Authorities hope to eventually have all but upper-level dealers benefit from CAR. According to court records JADE is well on its way to making that happen. When asked how the project had helped her, Houchens snorted and replied “Want to buy an 8-ball?”

Car Phone

Fortunately for the JADE Task Force the cell phone was invented.

Paul Best: 434-531-8321

Granville Fields: 434-531-8318

Brian O’Donnell: 434-531-8765

Then News -- Now With Original Notes By JADE!

September 2008

The Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement Task Force arrested one man after finding what they call a “sophisticate marijuana grow operation” in a Crozet basement.

Members of JADE served a search warrant at 5692 Wayland Drive. According to JADE, detectives found the marijuana growing in the basement of that home.

Detectives seized two pounds of processed marijuana, 72 marijuana plants, $8,812, and three firearms.

57-year-old Melvin Michael Lee [pictured] was arrested and charged with manufacturing marijuana with the intent to distribute, possession of a firearm while being a convicted felon, and possession of a firearm while in possession of a pound or more of marijuana.

Source.

Press Hard... There Are Three Copies

City officers Kyle Boynton and Otis Collier were in the struck Charlottesville Police Department’s unmarked car that I primarily associate with TFO Granville Fields. According to The Hook, which has a piece on the November 17th collision, Boynton, the driver, was charged with “failure to yield.” A search on VCCI evidences the citation was issued by Robert L. McCormick.

I Recognize That Ford!

November 17, 2009

A police officer on the way to Tuesday's bank robbery at the Wachovia on 10th Street NE was injured in a wreck. The wreck happened on Route 29 in front of the Seminole Square Shopping Center in Albemarle County.

Police say two officers were in an unmarked vehicle when the[y] pulled into traffic and the car was broadsided. One of the officers was taken to the hospital and his condition is not known right now.

Investigators have not said if the squad car’s lights and sirens were activated at the time of the wreck.
Source.

Video link.




That’s Granville “Hot. As. Hell.” Fields’ Taurus!



The tag’s the same. XZT-6767. See?

Got other pictures of it here, and here.

I mentioned the whole crashin’ cop cars thing like just a week ago, too. How weird is that?

sEE wHAT aLL tRANSPIRED

“You see that man, over there, wearing the camouflage pants?” the gesturing little girl asked me. “That’s my dad” she bragged.

“That one?” I responded, pointing my finger like her. “In the green shirt?”

“Yeah.” She nodded, but then, as though to make absolutely sure I’d gotten the right one, she repeated me. “In the green shirt?”

“Yes. Green shirt. I see him.”

“Mmhm. With sunglasses?”

“Sunglasses, yes.”

“Yep. That’s him.”

I was trying to keep a straight face -- as were the four people lounging on the bleacher around us -- while I teased the unknown chatterbox who’d attached herself to me. The area we all were looking at was packed with about a hundred males, nearly every one of them decked out in camouflage pants, a green shirt, and shades.

Because it’s precisely the sort of thing I ♥, I went to the 9th annual SWAT competition in Harrisonburg this past weekend.

I got to see representatives from eleven departments, divided into fifteen respective teams, do things like breach doors, maneuver an obstacle course, climb a wall, and shoot.

Firearms-type challenges are always my favorite. So much so, that, on this occasion, the first day I climbed up a scaffold that was on the immediate edge of the range to watch the bullets fly. No better place to be than above participants, right? Too bad the object had been relocated for police use by day two.

Many of the officers could no doubt take out a mouse on an elephant’s tail from fifty yards away, though there were a couple of them that probably couldn’t hit even the elephant. I can’t remember which team it was, but as a sniper climbed down from turf on the roof after obliterating his own targets he good-naturedly said to his teammate below “what -- were you shootin’ blanks?”

I spoke to numerous Law Enforcement, raced a Sergeant on these monkey bars (he beat me by like two seconds!), plus got a new shirt, screensaver, and suntan. Also, I couldn’t help but notice the Charlottesville teams had their names stitched to their asses -- which I think is hilarious.

I could go on and on, and on, about all the awesomeness of the event and how nice the people were but this isn’t the site for that. In fact, the only reason I bring it up here at all is because Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement has SWAT guys and they were in attendance:



Hell-Oh. Stud. It just wouldn’t be an echt I HeArTE JADE entry if I didn’t mention I do believe the most handsome man there was, of course, Spot:

Right News (Wrong/Date)

Subtitle: Didn't I Just Mention JADE's Lack Of Media Coverage Like Two Days Ago? Subsubtitle: This Should Have Been Last Week's Story.

A Mineral man is behind bars facing drug charges.

38-year-old James Hollins III is charged with possession of cocaine with the intent to distribute.

Investigators from the Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement Task Force say they seized about five ounces of cocaine during a bust on Lexington Avenue in Charlottesville Thursday (6/4) night.

The cocaine has a street value of $4800.

WCAV.

Not Only Is Spot Good-Looking, He Makes Me Laugh

Cuz one bad parking job deserves another:

It's Like They Don't Even TRY

When You’re Hot,
Like Spot,
It Oughtn’t Matter
Where You Sat ‘er
In The Lot.

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.

Please 2 C In UR JADE Case File?

What Happens When...

a JADE Task Force Detective looks right at you while you're taking his picture?

You toss the camera in the grass and accidentally get this crazy upside-down photograph of a JADE Task Force Detective's vehicle:

Oops -- I Missed A Spot!

I’m at one of my fave locations, currently surveying Spot -- it gives a whole new meaning to “observation tower.” I sense movement and, looking down, recognize the Black guy from across the street. He’s gotten used to seeing me and he’s nice. We perform what has become our ritual of a nod and wave to each other.

I return my full attention to Spot in time to see him getting into his Taurus. From overhead I keep an eye on him only long enough to gather he’s going to be coming my way. Shouldn’t be too hard to pick him up when he passes by. I climb down from the roof where I’m sitting and scamper to my car.

There he is. I let him make it to the end of the street and choose his direction before easing out after him. He reaches the light at the corner with three cars and me behind him. From there he makes two more turns. I do the same but hang back ever so slightly.

It’s early AM and the road we’re on is filled with morning commuters wired up on coffee and road rage. I watch Spot’s car bounce from lane to lane. I bet he’s one of those drivers who thinks as long as he’s in motion he’s making progress -- kind of like me. I don’t snake back and forth as much as he since I’m having no trouble keeping up with him.

We make another turn. Traffic is heavier and I’m snagged in it briefly. I catch sight of the tail end of Spot’s sedan as it goes beyond a brick building. Exploiting a section of empty parking spaces I cut in front of a bunch of stopped cars to get Spot back in view. Gotcha QT.

I’m at a red light, the first in line. The detective is sitting one block and three vehicles ahead, held up at his own red light. Force of habit: I check my mirrors.

And there in the Ford behind me is Spot.

Are you kidding me?! I spin around in my seat to take a better look. Ya, that’s him. I twist back around, slap my palm over my eyes and chuckle. I return my hand to the steering wheel and stare out my windshield at the identical car I’ve mistakenly been chasing for… who knows how long? I am such a dumb twit.

There's only one JADE Task Force man I can follow from the front and Spot is not him. How do I fix this screw up?

Intending to loop around the block and come up behind Spot, I turn right but fast find out it’s impossible to get at him that way from this street. I hastily retrace my route to return to the original road. He had to have made it through the light by now; all I have to do is go right and I’ll still wind up behind him. But too much time has passed. Spot, and the clone car for that matter, has vanished.