The French Quarter. Ken JD Mask
tempo was fast for several miles, and I had the two-lane country highway to myself. Everything was smooth, everything was copasetic.
Suddenly I felt as if the bayou breeze sprayed a misty-fog into my face, and the next thing I knew, I found myself swerving blindly out of control into a sharp curve. My heart raced and I felt my face flush, my hands sweat and my stomach drop like on a roller coaster.
This uneasiness ushered in a rush-type feeling, like being in court and knowing that a particular case was turning in my favor, and that I was about to make a point of contention which would guarantee a win, allowing me a feeling of composure. Somehow I never lost my cool. I felt in control. Once I gained power over the steering wheel and straightened out the car, I threw back my head and chuckled.
Nothing could disturb me. I had so much to look forward to; life couldn’t be any better. Just like the highway in front of me- a flat calm: ‘just recently starting as lead the biggest case of my short stint as a lawyer, ‘a special lady in my life, ‘smooth, solid.
Earlier that Sunday afternoon, I had worked on something I really didn’t want to have to do on a weekend. Deb and Walt, friends since moving down here for my law school years, needed help with forms on estate planning. I spent the weekend with them, visiting, relaxing, and chilling.
Now I headed back up to New Orleans feeling great. The setting sun cooled my long afternoon drive, and I pushed the button to raise the top on the convertible. Alert, my eyes scanned the countryside and the marshes. This was a path I had driven many times before, but the sun was shifting in a different direction, and, in the blink of an eye the day had darkened. The shadows lengthened on the winding lanes of this country road, and my vision dropped considerably.
Now driving through a rural setting called Venice, homes dotted about the area like patches of cotton, scattered a few acres apart, on long dusty country roads. Star spangled banner spirit.
Glimpsing a blinking yellow light at the intersection ahead, I slowed down, aware for the first time that I was driving over 80 miles per hour. I reached a sloped gravel juncture onto the adjoining road with tall thick pine trees and blooming dogwood bushes obscuring the inter-section, but I was careful to look both ways before turning right down the country road that headed towards New Orleans.
Just as I continued, the tune from “Body and Soul” pierced my consciousness. ‘Bean’ was dealing with something. ‘All right now,’ I popped my fingers to the rhythm.
About two country blocks from the inter-section, just as I picked up speed, a distant clamor interrupted my music. At first I wasn’t sure if it was my CD player making some popping sounds, but then the noise grew louder and more insistent, so threatening that I sat up in the seat, straightening my posture. Peering in my rear view mirror, a siren and flashing, alternating red and blue lights appeared. The black and white police vehicle was fast approaching. I figured that it was going past me, after someone else, so I approached the shoulder.
The patrol car darted sharply in front of me, swerving, abruptly cutting me off. To keep from a collision, I quickly braked and slid over to the seashell, dusty-clay embankment. A swirl of dust rose, circling my car, partially obscuring my view.
Two police officers, a Buddha-shaped white officer in his mid-50s and a younger, muscular black officer, got out of their vehicle. As they swaggered to my car, their hands swung loosely at their sides. I noticed, however, that one meaty, thick-fingered hand belonging to the white officer remained close to a holster. I felt my knees trembling, again like in the curve a few miles back, my palms rapidly became sweaty, my face got flushed, my heart raced …
I didn’t know quite what was going on, but I felt uncomfortable.
‘Okay, just cooperate, just be cool,’ I said to myself as I rolled down my window.
The white police officer spoke first. “Did you see that stop sign back there?”
“What are you talking about? It was a yield sign.” I tried to steady my voice.
“Get out of the car,” the black officer barked.
“No problem, sir.” I hoped things would work out, since this white police officer was partnered with a brother. I slowly stepped out of my car, my fingers splayed out where they could clearly see them with each motion. I carefully reached into my back pocket for my wallet, which I figured they wanted.
The black officer said, “What are you doing?”
“I’m just reaching for my wallet.”
“…You don’t even know why we stopped you.”
“…Yeah, I don’t, but . . .”
“Where are you coming from?”
“I’m an attorney, Jake Matos. I’m coming from a friend’s house, not too far from here.”
“Just where did you get this Mercedes? We have a report of a stolen vehicle,” the white officer said.
“I own this car. The pink slip’s in the dash-board, I mean, not the pink slip, the certificate of registration.”
“Ya trying to be funny?”
“Don’t move.” The white officer spoke through clenched teeth. “I’m in charge here.”
I don’t know what possessed me, and I hated to sound so cowardly, but I began to name people I knew.
Involuntarily shifting my feet and leaning on the car, blowing through puffed-out cheeks, lips puckered, my head tilted to the side. “Listen, I’m friends with the mayor in New Orleans. You know, Hess, and I practice law there with my brother, Job.”
I wanted them to think that I knew people. That I wasn’t just a regular cat, like it would make a difference.
It did. Both officers became irritated. The white officer’s face turned scarlet Texas Pete hot sauce red, and the black officer’s lips twisted to a smirk, sucking his teeth.
The black officer snapped, “Just what do you think you’re talking about, son?”
I thought to myself, he’s calling me son, and he’s about my age or even younger.
“Sir, I fear for my life,” I mumbled humbly.
In a wide-eyed, almost crazed manner, the white police officer shouted, “Well, I fear for my life!”
At that moment, thoughts raced through my head in a James Joycean stream of consciousness. What should I do? Do I throw myself on the ground and spread my limbs out with the hope that he will not shoot me in the back? Or would such a motion cause them to react and maybe give them cause to shoot? Or do I run? But if running, would I only fuel this raging maniac and his partner and give him another reason to shoot? Or do I beg him right here and now and plead for my life?
Showing weakness, which though uncharacteristic and unmanly of me, would like save my life, or would that be the thing which these police officers wanted more than anything else on this boring weekend afternoon? And if so, what? Give them that, right? Or would that anger them and disgust them at “poor game” …? What’s going on here? Why won’t the brother help me? Why did they stop me? This can’t be happening to me!
At that moment, opting for my first thought, I dropped to my knees and fanned out, prone on the dusty seashell road- legs, arms, hands and all fingers spread wide.
I heard the white officer walk away. I felt it was the white officer because the footsteps were heavy. The other was kicking some stones and dirt, almost playing with the shoulder of the road, maybe ignoring the situation and having some fun with it. The black officer was staring at me as I looked up. He didn’t try to fuck with me; he just looked around, whistling nonchalantly.
Within seconds I heard heavy footsteps as he returned to where I was stretched out on the seashell-graveled shoulder. I held my breath, it felt like five minutes.
I felt a sharp kick in my side, and let out a groan, not a grunt, more of a holler. The white police officer’s