So, what’s your reason for speeding?

Posted 9/2/14

What is it that intrigues us so much about traffic ticket stories?

Is it that just about every motorist has a story about being stopped for some infraction and about the interaction with the …

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So, what’s your reason for speeding?

Posted

What is it that intrigues us so much about traffic ticket stories?

Is it that just about every motorist has a story about being stopped for some infraction and about the interaction with the officer that followed? Is it that we all (well, maybe not all) have a story about getting out of a ticket when by all rights we should have been written up? Is it that we love to hear how cops can be sympathetic or even cajoled into putting away the pad?

I found myself considering those questions when my niece, Laurel, described her recent encounter with a Washington, D.C. policeman who stopped her for speeding.

From the moment she was pulled over, she knew he had her dead to rights. She really didn’t have a reason, other than she was running late and somehow “racing to get to the dentist” isn’t a convincing argument. What self-respecting cop would buy that?

As she told the story, the policeman was all business and seemingly in no mood for idle conversation. She expected him to write her up, tell her to slow down and go on to nab the next offender. Meanwhile, little consolation, she’d have an excuse for why her daughter was late for her dentist.

Then the unexpected happened.

She explained she was running late and her 7-year-old, Ellie, filled in the information they were on their way to the dentist. The officer’s demeanor suddenly changed. He was interested. He inquired what dentist, the time of the appointment and the address.

Surprised by the turn in events, Laurel provided the information. The officer then suggested a shortcut and let her off. Still stunned, not to mention relieved, Laurel related what happened to the dentist’s office. They concluded the cop was also one of their patients.

My mother, a head-turning blonde who never lost her French accent, had three or four “ticket stories” that got progressively better with each account. One of my favorites ended up having the officer providing her with an escort. To this day I question if it occurred on the Connecticut Thruway, as we used to call Route 95. She was speeding, as she often did, with Victor, a possible mix between a Great Dane and a lab, and a Corgi named Tico. Victor was young, rambunctious and one of those dogs that just loves meeting people. Tico was in his “golden years,” with an ample girth from too many treats, including camembert cheese that he especially loved.

My mother obediently pulled into the breakdown lane and opened the window when the officer arrived. Victor was thrilled to have company and practically launched himself at the trooper. The officer, who must have been a dog lover, was startled at first and then obviously intrigued by the explanation this flamboyant woman offered. She came up with a beauty.

Breathlessly, she said she had to get to the vet.

What was the emergency?

My mother explained it was the dog lying on the back seat. Tico, as fat as a sausage, was fast asleep. The officer looked. He could see no reason for concern.

“She’s about to deliver,” my mother said.

She explained that, being a purebred Welsh Corgi, the pups would have to be delivered by cesarean section, adding, “There’s not much time.”

Fortunately, Tico didn’t roll. The gig would have been up. The trooper didn’t hesitate. He provided an escort to the next exit.

Another story, the one my father loved to tell, occurred on their wedding day. My mother was speeding when they were pulled over. The officer asked for her license, which she handed him, and then promptly declared, “That’s not my real name.”

He was taken back by her confession. She explained she had just married and had a new name. The officer considered this and went back to his car, where he sat for a good 25 minutes before returning. He handed back the license and then told my mother to follow him. Before returning to his car, he turned to my father and wished him luck and then proceeded to drive the next 20 miles at about 15 miles an hour.

Somehow, my mother never told that story. It was always my father’s.

I have a few stories of my own, including the time I was stopped for making an illegal left on Wickenden Street in Providence. I had no grounds to argue – the No Left Turn sign was as big as a door. As I opened my wallet to get my license, the officer immediately spotted the card with my photograph and the State Police seal in the corner.

“What’s that?”

I pulled out my press card with a flourish and full of expectation.

“You work at the Warwick Beacon?” he asked.

I was feeling hopeful: maybe he grew up in Warwick; maybe he was a subscriber.

“Ever cover Providence court?” he asked.

“Well, no,” I replied, “We don’t cover Providence court.”

The policeman handed back the card and my license.

“You’re going to be covering it now,” he said, as he proceeded to write me up.

I told Laurel that story. She laughed, but somehow my story fell flat. Ticket stories are really only good when you get off.

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