True Detective Stories

Allow me to regale you with a story about my good friend Diego. Obviously, Diego is not good, not a friend, and not named Diego in real life. He is, however, a pustule on the rear end of humanity.

One of the first things I do when I walk into work is check the court notice queue. Our Soros-installed DA has been sending unnecessary court notices to detectives, so they are stuck downtown all day instead or working on cases. It’s been their plan all along; if there are no cops or detectives working, chaos will reign.

Anyway, Diego the Idiot Detective receives court notices almost every day, and they are usually cited as “Must Be Tried”(MBT). We assume he gets so many notices because he’s a screw-up, and he needs to appear in person to explain his idiocy. Anyway, he had two court notices Friday morning. One was for a stolen auto – which was not MBT – and another was a gun arrest, which was MBT.

I always check Diego’s notices because he uses the occasion to stay downtown all tour so he doesn’t have to actually work. When I checked the gun notice, I noticed something rather strange. Diego received the notice on August 24th, but the notice was canceled on October 20th. By this time it was 7:15am, and Diego still wasn’t in the office…

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True Detective Stories

Well, it’s day four of my week-long court case, and at this point I am exhausted. My best friend – bed – and I are not on speaking terms, and I am averaging five hours’ sleep this week.

You see, I arrive home from night work at around 11:30pm. It takes me at least another hour to wind down, so I am not actually in bed until nearly 1am. The alarm is set for 6:30am so I can get in the shower before Kyle.

The drive to court takes an hour – screw you, rush hour – and when I’m finished in court, it’s another hour home. I get a couple hours at home before getting ready for night work again. It’s a vicious cycle, which has me completely drained.

I am so very tired. I just want to sleep for ten hours and recover. One of my coworkers saw me leaning against the corridor wall with my head back and said, “Dude, are you sleeping standing up?” Since I don’t remember what said initially, the answer was yes.

Today and tomorrow are my days off this week, and I’ll be spending them downtown. Saturday morning Ballroom Dancing Class for Kevin starts at 9, and I go back to work Saturday night. At this point, my only chance of more than five hours’ sleep is Saturday into Sunday.

Look, I know court appearances are part of the job, but when the ADAs send you a week’s worth of notices while you’re working night work, the money doesn’t seem worth it.

True Detective Stories

homer-sinpson-duiYou may remember this post from February, where I lamented receiving a court notice for a fifteen-year old DUI case. After ten months of continuances, the case is supposed to go on this morning.

So here I sit outside the courtroom, impatiently waiting for my fifteen-year old case to be called.

The trial should go swimmingly, since I cannot remember the facts of the case, the full name of the defendant, or what the defendant looks like. Fifteen years ago I had only one child, was a patrol officer, and involved in a steamy affair with Naomi Watts, so there is no way I can accurately testify to what happened that evening.

Of course, that hasn’t stopped out DA’s Office from sending out court notices. They won’t follow through on robbery or burglary jobs, but a fifteen-year old DUI, oh they’re all over that!

True Detective Stories

Jury NoticeSo yesterday afternoon I was lying in the recliner, anxiously awaiting another sweat-soaked broken fever, when I received a text message from my sergeant. The message said I have court tomorrow – which would be today – at 10am. I acknowledged the text and let him know I’ll go if I’m able. Since I am supposed to be working the night shift, the court appearance guarantees overtime, and since my second book isn’t finished – and not enough people bought the first – I need the scratch.

As I plan on hitting the sack early – bed, not someone’s groin – the cellulitis reminds me I have other plans. The rash became much more painful yesterday, so much so that I cannot wear khakis without seething in pain. I realize I will have to call out sick for court – and for work today – and sulk penniless in front of the TV.

At 11pm, my old patrol partner sent me a text which read, “Hey, did you get a court notice for tomorrow, 1003 at 10am?” I replied yes, but told Gerry I doubt I’ll be able to go because this virus knocked me on my ample ass.

He replied, “Oh, no biggie. It’s a DUI arrest from 2001.”

Eh, what???

To refresh your memory, when this person was arrested, I had only one child, George W. Bush had just been inaugurated, Windows XP was launched, Joey Ramone was alive, and the World Trade Center was still standing. This assistant district attorney wants to call us in, put us on the stand, and start with the obligatory first question, “Detective, can you tell me where you were on this date in 2001?”

“Sure, I was in the lobby of a Howard Johnson’s and I was wearing a pink carnation.”

Now, I’m no detective, but I’m pretty sure fifteen freakin’ years violates the guarantee of a speedy trial. There is no way my partner or I are going to recognize this pickled putz after a decade and a half. Neither of us will be able to recall the events without memorizing the police report, and make no mistake; that is what it will happen if the city wants a conviction.

If the ADA was smart, she would just apologize to me with pity sex, read my report into the record and save the city all the OT.