True Detective Stories

This isn’t your normal TDS, mostly because it has to do with yours truly. But first, some background.

My division is located in North Philadelphia, arguably the most violent, lawless section of the city. The neighborhood is mostly African-American, and they are split into two categories; the good people who just want to live their lives, and the thugs who shoot those who just want to live their lives. We have had shootings a block away from the division, had officers assaulted outside the building, the occasional bomb threat and many, many traffic violations.

Apparently, the citizens of North Philadelphia drive like it’s Death Race 2000. They drive through the streets at ridiculous speeds, cut people off constantly, and blow red lights at the drop of a hat. You wouldn’t believe the way these a-holes drive. Anyway…

I started my drive home Friday afternoon when I came to a large intersection. I had the red light, and when it changed, I do what I always do – wait a few seconds – because there’s always some POS blowing the light. After the three seconds, I started the left turn when a black female blew through the red light at about 60mph, missing the front of my car by maybe a foot. The speed limit on the road was 35mph.

When my heart started beating again, I threw out some choice words at this bitch, who was already a block away. Apparently, she must have had something akin to a heart attack, because when I looked to see where she was, her car was on the side of the road with her hazard lights on. It also appeared that one of her tires was flat; maybe from her swerving to avoid killing me. I considered going up to her, showing my ID and telling her what a twat she was, but she wasn’t worth the trouble.

The best part? The woman had a Driving School Instructor sticker on her rear windows.

Transferred To The Strike Force

This is what’s left of the vehicle who plowed into the rear of my car yesterday. From what I could surmise, the front of the vehicle was totaled. Let’s backtrack a bit.

One of the main roads I take to work includes a century-old bridge. The bridge spans a small creek, and it is due for repair. Unfortunately, the construction covers all three roads in the area, so I need to find alternate – and lengthier – routes. The route I chose yesterday was one with a steep downhill, and it is always congested with traffic.

A group of cars were stopped at a red light in front of me, and I decided to be nice and allow a few cars to cross in front of me to make a tricky turn. I was stopped, listening to the radio, when it felt like a runaway train hit me from behind. No screeches, no horns, just peace and quiet… before the violent strike.

My neck flew back against the headrest, but I kept my foot on the brakes so as to not hit anyone else. I’m sure the car wasn’t traveling too fast, but it felt like the other driver was flying down the hill at 55 miles per hour. I pulled over and made sure this jackass followed me. I stepped out of the car – with my police jacket on – identified myself, told the man not to wander off, and screamed F-bombs for about thirty seconds.

You see, I was not driving my car, per se; I was driving my mother’s 2005 Jeep Liberty. Since she went into the home, we’ve had the Jeep at our house and are currently getting it transferred to us. Kyle can use my Saturn, and I will use the Jeep. I’ve been driving it for about two weeks, and someone plows into me. Awesome.

When I calmed down, I called police radio and let them know an off-duty officer was involved in an auto accident. I told them to NOT put out the call as an assist officer, because I was fine – more or less – and the other driver was not fleeing. I demanded the man’s license, registration, and insurance. I received two of the three. Guess what he didn’t have? Insurance.

The man was alone in the vehicle, probably looking at his phone when he struck me. He was also a Jamaican national, and presented a “Jamaican driver’s license,” which usually turns out to be fake. That’s specifically why I asked for a patrol officer.

The officer arrived after about a half hour – the crash occurred in a busy part of the city – and (shock) he used to work in my division. The officer looked at Bob Marley’s car (above), then at mine, and said, “Do you even have damage?” The rear bumper had a small crack, but nothing more. I swore from then on, I am always going to buy a Jeep. Those mothers are tough. Marley complained about his damage – even though he was at fault – and the officer replied, “Next time, buy a Jeep.”

So, despite the accident, and the tiny bit of damage, my head hurts, my neck hurts, and I have a splitting headache. I obviously didn’t make it to work, and today is up in the air. If I don’t feel well by 2pm, I’m staying home, but I think I’ll be good.

So, how was your weekend?