Georgia: The Police State
On a recent journey to Atlanta I discovered why Georgia should no longer be called the “Peach State.” Maybe they should try “Police State.”
I was driving nicely on Interstate 75 northbound on a glorious Tuesday morning in late September, just when the trees were beginning to turn and the clay was still red. I was about 15 miles into Georgia when I noticed two County Sheriffs parked in the median. One was out of his car leaning on the hood with his foot propped up on the bumper, eyeing the traffic as it went by.
Like everyone else, my heart jumped up into my throat as I glanced at my speedometer—a natural, human reaction. I was traveling at around 73 MPH, a safe speed anywhere in the world you can find a wonderful stretch of road like the Georgia State Interstate system. It’s one of the best in the country, making it very tempting to hammer down and haul ass. But it’s well known throughout the Southeast that this particular piece of highway is one of the most heavily patrolled by both the local Sheriffs as well as the State Highway Patrol for that very reason, and maybe because they can only eat so many pecan rolls with their coffee.
As I went by, I glanced over at a young deputy leaning on his taxpayer-provided ride. I must have had a devious look in my eye, or maybe he has something against Mazdas. Anything is possible on this particular stretch of road. He got off the hood and headed for his door. About a mile later he was trying to hide in my blind spot on the left. You know the game, I slow down, and he slows down. I speed up, and he speeds up. Cat and mouse. I'm the mouse.
After this childish game continued for another mile or so, the Storm trooper pulls in behind me and lights me up.
I'm in the middle lane of three and signal to the right shoulder. I safely park the car with the engine still running, roll down the window and started getting the usual paperwork—license, registration and insurance—when I hear over the patrol car’s PA speaker, "Driver, please get out of the car on the driver's side."
Uh oh.
Now, this is highly unusual for a patrolman to ask a driver to get out of the car unless he wants to flex his police-power muscles. I didn’t really have anything to worry about. It was around 11 o’clock in the morning so I hadn’t started drinking yet and knew I wasn’t on any most wanted lists. So now I was confused. Three miles an hour over the speed limit and I was being asked to get out of my car. I complied with his request and left the paperwork on the front seat.
I put both hands on the door as I slowly opened it and stepped out, just like they tell you to do on “Cops.” (And they say you can’t learn anything from cable TV.) With the car still idling I walked back towards the officer dressed in my usual travel-casual attire; cargo shorts, un-tucked fishing shirt, flip-flops and Tampa Bay Rays hat. I was unshaven of course and in a real need of a haircut. Comfortable.
“Go stand over there,” the young deputy commanded pointing to the right font corner of the patrol car, which happened to be in the grass off the shoulder.
He was a kid really. About six feet tall, 175 pounds or so, with a military haircut exposed to the elements because he didn’t wear a hat. He was wearing sunglasses that kind of made him look like an insect. He was about 25-years-old I would guess and either a pissed-off veteran who returned without getting to kill anyone in Iraq or just a backcountry Georgia bully who even the Army wouldn’t take.
At any rate, I complied. And as I did, he spoke into the squawk box that is mounted near his shoulder so he can turn his head slightly and talk into the mike and look cool doing it, I guess. I have about as much clue as to why he had that thing as I did wondering why I was standing on the shoulder of an Interstate highway that fall morning.
“Is this your car,” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” I said. And before I could tell him I left the registration on my front seat to prove it to him, he asked, “Are you from Boca,” meaning Boca Raton. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t asking if I was on the Bar Of Contemporary Art.
“No, sir. I’m from Bradenton.”
All he had to do was ask for my license and registration and he wouldn’t have to ask so many other questions. Instead he garbled something into his shoulder, looking cool.
A female voice, I think, came back from his shoulder absolutely butchering my last name. Chiaffredo is hard to say with a southern drawl.
“Are you James She-a-fray-do?”
“Yes, sir.” I didn’t want to go into the phonetics with this guy. Besides, I’ve been called worse.
“Where yew headed?”
“We’re headed to Atlanta for a golf tournament up there this week,” I said, making reference to my car and me as first person plural, which was a mistake. The deputy looked towards my car and, of course, not seeing anyone else traveling with me asked the most logical question, “You travelin’ alone?”
“Yes, sir. I just make reference to it as ‘we.’ My car and me, we’re a team.”
“Uh-huh,” he said as he walked up to my car and looked through the windows.
In the meantime, I felt something stinging my left ankle. As I looked down not just something, but a whole damn colony of fire ants, a known hazard along highways in the South were having a relative feast on my extremity. I jumped up on the asphalt shoulder and began slowly brushing the fire-breathing bastards off my ankle and foot so as not to spoil their lunch anymore than I had already. They just needed to eat somewhere, or someone, else.
During my battle with the ants the Deputy returned. I stood up.
“Yew awright?”
“Yes sir. You had me standing in some fire ants.”
“Uh huh. Yew still got some on ya,” he pointed out as I went back to work, getting the remaining couple off my foot and toes, which were already beginning to swell. I stood back up again.
“How long yew gunna be in Atlanta,” he asked, even in my pain.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I might come back Friday or wait until Sunday, depending on how it goes.”
“Uh huh. If yew stayin’ that long where’s yore suitcase?”
“In the trunk,” I said, wondering where most people stow their gear. “I can show you if you want.”
“What are you gunna do in Atlanta,” he asked me again.
“I’m a golf writer.”
“A wha’?”
“A golf writer. I talk with the players and write stories about them so golf fans can read about them if they want to.”
This pool was getting more and more shallow as this line of questioning continued. But the pool of possibilities this yahoo was looking for became deeper and more ominous.
“Yew don’t have no guns in there, do ya,” he asked out of that clear Georgia sky catching me a little off guard.
“No, sir. I don’t even own any guns,” I said. “I have a couple fishing poles, though.”
No response.
“Yew have any marijuana in that car.”
“No, sir. I haven’t had any marijuana since I was in college, and that was about 30 years ago.”
He stared at me.
“How ‘bout cocaine.”
Now he was getting scary. All of a sudden I had this giant frame job going through my head. Guns? Pot? Coke? What did I look like, a smuggler? Well, maybe. Must have been the fishing shirt.
“No, sir,” I replied, biting my tongue before issuing my usual response whenever I was asked if I wanted to do a bump or two, which was always, “No thanks, I don’t like the way it smells.” But I figured that might just put this young S.S. officer over the edge and send me to Nuremberg to take a shower.
“How about Xtasy,” he continued.
“No, sir. I’m way too old for that.” I couldn’t resist.
“So you wouldn’ mind if I searched yore car?”
This was getting weirder and weirder. I was probably a few bad jokes from what is known in Storm Trooper School as a “Terry stop.” That’s when an officer has reasonable suspicion that criminal activity has been, is being, or is about to be committed, giving him the right to personally frisk the suspect and look through my car for the aforementioned contraband. I kept my smart-assed, yet clever, mouth shut for once. I just wanted to get back in my car and get to wherever I was going as long as it wasn’t the Louwden County jail.
I said, “No, go right ahead if you have reasonable cause. You want me to open the trunk for you?”
He froze for a moment. I was lucky this kid was present the day they went over the Fourth Amendment in Storm Trooper School.
Immediately he redirected. “Yew know why I stopped you,” he asked.
The smart-assed responses were pinging through my head like an electrical storm—“Sure, officer. You’re a Red Sox fan and you saw my hat.” “You ran out of peanuts and want me to go get you some at Stuckey’s at the next exit.” “You wanted to see if you could get the numbers and letters off a Florida license tag correctly this time.” “You were bored and wanted to ask me for a date.”
I shook my head that I didn’t know.
“I pulled yew over ‘cause you were following that semi in front of you too closely. If he had to slam on his brakes yew’d go right up underneath him and we don’t need no accidents ‘round here,” he explained. “Can I see yore license?”
By this time, my tongue was about ready to be bit completely off as I slowly reached in my pocket for my wallet. I didn’t want to explain the laws of inertia to this guy—how it would take a 20,000-pound truck a helluva lot more of that pristine Georgia Interstate to stop than a 2,300-pound car.
“I’m gunna give yew a warnin’ this time,” he said. “It ain’t gunna cost yew no money or nuthin’.”
Now that was mighty white of him.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I’ll do that two-second count thing between my car and the one in front of me from now on.” I folded like a cheap suit. I hope all my brothers in the anti-war effort of the 70’s forgive me, but I really have neither the time nor energy for the fight anymore. I’ll leave that for fighters with fewer scars.
“Yew do that,” he said as he handed me the warning.
I took the small sheet of paper he tore off a pad and walked back to my car, got in and carefully drove away. He followed me until the next exit and got off the freeway, probably headed for that Stuckey’s. It was, after all, lunchtime, and somewhere around there was a chicken samm’ich and Dr. Pepper waiting on him.
I drove on, counting, “one-thousand-one, one-thousand-two,” every time I came upon a slower moving vehicle all the way to Atlanta.
I was driving nicely on Interstate 75 northbound on a glorious Tuesday morning in late September, just when the trees were beginning to turn and the clay was still red. I was about 15 miles into Georgia when I noticed two County Sheriffs parked in the median. One was out of his car leaning on the hood with his foot propped up on the bumper, eyeing the traffic as it went by.
Like everyone else, my heart jumped up into my throat as I glanced at my speedometer—a natural, human reaction. I was traveling at around 73 MPH, a safe speed anywhere in the world you can find a wonderful stretch of road like the Georgia State Interstate system. It’s one of the best in the country, making it very tempting to hammer down and haul ass. But it’s well known throughout the Southeast that this particular piece of highway is one of the most heavily patrolled by both the local Sheriffs as well as the State Highway Patrol for that very reason, and maybe because they can only eat so many pecan rolls with their coffee.
As I went by, I glanced over at a young deputy leaning on his taxpayer-provided ride. I must have had a devious look in my eye, or maybe he has something against Mazdas. Anything is possible on this particular stretch of road. He got off the hood and headed for his door. About a mile later he was trying to hide in my blind spot on the left. You know the game, I slow down, and he slows down. I speed up, and he speeds up. Cat and mouse. I'm the mouse.
After this childish game continued for another mile or so, the Storm trooper pulls in behind me and lights me up.
I'm in the middle lane of three and signal to the right shoulder. I safely park the car with the engine still running, roll down the window and started getting the usual paperwork—license, registration and insurance—when I hear over the patrol car’s PA speaker, "Driver, please get out of the car on the driver's side."
Uh oh.
Now, this is highly unusual for a patrolman to ask a driver to get out of the car unless he wants to flex his police-power muscles. I didn’t really have anything to worry about. It was around 11 o’clock in the morning so I hadn’t started drinking yet and knew I wasn’t on any most wanted lists. So now I was confused. Three miles an hour over the speed limit and I was being asked to get out of my car. I complied with his request and left the paperwork on the front seat.
I put both hands on the door as I slowly opened it and stepped out, just like they tell you to do on “Cops.” (And they say you can’t learn anything from cable TV.) With the car still idling I walked back towards the officer dressed in my usual travel-casual attire; cargo shorts, un-tucked fishing shirt, flip-flops and Tampa Bay Rays hat. I was unshaven of course and in a real need of a haircut. Comfortable.
“Go stand over there,” the young deputy commanded pointing to the right font corner of the patrol car, which happened to be in the grass off the shoulder.
He was a kid really. About six feet tall, 175 pounds or so, with a military haircut exposed to the elements because he didn’t wear a hat. He was wearing sunglasses that kind of made him look like an insect. He was about 25-years-old I would guess and either a pissed-off veteran who returned without getting to kill anyone in Iraq or just a backcountry Georgia bully who even the Army wouldn’t take.
At any rate, I complied. And as I did, he spoke into the squawk box that is mounted near his shoulder so he can turn his head slightly and talk into the mike and look cool doing it, I guess. I have about as much clue as to why he had that thing as I did wondering why I was standing on the shoulder of an Interstate highway that fall morning.
“Is this your car,” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” I said. And before I could tell him I left the registration on my front seat to prove it to him, he asked, “Are you from Boca,” meaning Boca Raton. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t asking if I was on the Bar Of Contemporary Art.
“No, sir. I’m from Bradenton.”
All he had to do was ask for my license and registration and he wouldn’t have to ask so many other questions. Instead he garbled something into his shoulder, looking cool.
A female voice, I think, came back from his shoulder absolutely butchering my last name. Chiaffredo is hard to say with a southern drawl.
“Are you James She-a-fray-do?”
“Yes, sir.” I didn’t want to go into the phonetics with this guy. Besides, I’ve been called worse.
“Where yew headed?”
“We’re headed to Atlanta for a golf tournament up there this week,” I said, making reference to my car and me as first person plural, which was a mistake. The deputy looked towards my car and, of course, not seeing anyone else traveling with me asked the most logical question, “You travelin’ alone?”
“Yes, sir. I just make reference to it as ‘we.’ My car and me, we’re a team.”
“Uh-huh,” he said as he walked up to my car and looked through the windows.
In the meantime, I felt something stinging my left ankle. As I looked down not just something, but a whole damn colony of fire ants, a known hazard along highways in the South were having a relative feast on my extremity. I jumped up on the asphalt shoulder and began slowly brushing the fire-breathing bastards off my ankle and foot so as not to spoil their lunch anymore than I had already. They just needed to eat somewhere, or someone, else.
During my battle with the ants the Deputy returned. I stood up.
“Yew awright?”
“Yes sir. You had me standing in some fire ants.”
“Uh huh. Yew still got some on ya,” he pointed out as I went back to work, getting the remaining couple off my foot and toes, which were already beginning to swell. I stood back up again.
“How long yew gunna be in Atlanta,” he asked, even in my pain.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I might come back Friday or wait until Sunday, depending on how it goes.”
“Uh huh. If yew stayin’ that long where’s yore suitcase?”
“In the trunk,” I said, wondering where most people stow their gear. “I can show you if you want.”
“What are you gunna do in Atlanta,” he asked me again.
“I’m a golf writer.”
“A wha’?”
“A golf writer. I talk with the players and write stories about them so golf fans can read about them if they want to.”
This pool was getting more and more shallow as this line of questioning continued. But the pool of possibilities this yahoo was looking for became deeper and more ominous.
“Yew don’t have no guns in there, do ya,” he asked out of that clear Georgia sky catching me a little off guard.
“No, sir. I don’t even own any guns,” I said. “I have a couple fishing poles, though.”
No response.
“Yew have any marijuana in that car.”
“No, sir. I haven’t had any marijuana since I was in college, and that was about 30 years ago.”
He stared at me.
“How ‘bout cocaine.”
Now he was getting scary. All of a sudden I had this giant frame job going through my head. Guns? Pot? Coke? What did I look like, a smuggler? Well, maybe. Must have been the fishing shirt.
“No, sir,” I replied, biting my tongue before issuing my usual response whenever I was asked if I wanted to do a bump or two, which was always, “No thanks, I don’t like the way it smells.” But I figured that might just put this young S.S. officer over the edge and send me to Nuremberg to take a shower.
“How about Xtasy,” he continued.
“No, sir. I’m way too old for that.” I couldn’t resist.
“So you wouldn’ mind if I searched yore car?”
This was getting weirder and weirder. I was probably a few bad jokes from what is known in Storm Trooper School as a “Terry stop.” That’s when an officer has reasonable suspicion that criminal activity has been, is being, or is about to be committed, giving him the right to personally frisk the suspect and look through my car for the aforementioned contraband. I kept my smart-assed, yet clever, mouth shut for once. I just wanted to get back in my car and get to wherever I was going as long as it wasn’t the Louwden County jail.
I said, “No, go right ahead if you have reasonable cause. You want me to open the trunk for you?”
He froze for a moment. I was lucky this kid was present the day they went over the Fourth Amendment in Storm Trooper School.
Immediately he redirected. “Yew know why I stopped you,” he asked.
The smart-assed responses were pinging through my head like an electrical storm—“Sure, officer. You’re a Red Sox fan and you saw my hat.” “You ran out of peanuts and want me to go get you some at Stuckey’s at the next exit.” “You wanted to see if you could get the numbers and letters off a Florida license tag correctly this time.” “You were bored and wanted to ask me for a date.”
I shook my head that I didn’t know.
“I pulled yew over ‘cause you were following that semi in front of you too closely. If he had to slam on his brakes yew’d go right up underneath him and we don’t need no accidents ‘round here,” he explained. “Can I see yore license?”
By this time, my tongue was about ready to be bit completely off as I slowly reached in my pocket for my wallet. I didn’t want to explain the laws of inertia to this guy—how it would take a 20,000-pound truck a helluva lot more of that pristine Georgia Interstate to stop than a 2,300-pound car.
“I’m gunna give yew a warnin’ this time,” he said. “It ain’t gunna cost yew no money or nuthin’.”
Now that was mighty white of him.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I’ll do that two-second count thing between my car and the one in front of me from now on.” I folded like a cheap suit. I hope all my brothers in the anti-war effort of the 70’s forgive me, but I really have neither the time nor energy for the fight anymore. I’ll leave that for fighters with fewer scars.
“Yew do that,” he said as he handed me the warning.
I took the small sheet of paper he tore off a pad and walked back to my car, got in and carefully drove away. He followed me until the next exit and got off the freeway, probably headed for that Stuckey’s. It was, after all, lunchtime, and somewhere around there was a chicken samm’ich and Dr. Pepper waiting on him.
I drove on, counting, “one-thousand-one, one-thousand-two,” every time I came upon a slower moving vehicle all the way to Atlanta.
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