We didn’t know what would happen after the Circus contracts, so we kept it on the down-low that we’d moved out of San Diego. We didn’t want the agents and bookers we’d worked with to take us off their rosters just in case we ended up moving back.

So it wasn’t surprising when the Fern Street Circus called to see if we were available for a high-end corporate event. The money was good, and the event was on our one day off from Circus, so we accepted it. 

Pulling it off, though, would be pretty breakneck. We’d have to drive to San Diego, bust the show, then drive back to Reno, all in one day. We talked about it and decided to rent a car to avoid putting wear and tear on our own cars. They’d always been reliable, but the fear of breaking down was real. So we rented a car in Reno and drove to San Diego to do the show. After the gig, around 11:00 pm on Sunday night, we left San Diego to return to Reno. It was a ten-hour drive, and we had shows the next morning, so there was no time to lose. 

With me behind the wheel, we passed Los Angeles, Bakersfield, and Stockton. By then, it was so late there were hardly any cars on the road, and I didn’t want it to take the whole ten hours to get back, so I let my foot get heavy on the pedal. The rental car we’d gotten was a luxury sedan, not what we’d reserved initially, but they’d offered a free upgrade, so we figured, why not? As we crept up to ever higher speeds, it remained smooth, even into triple digits. After a bit, I glanced down and realized we were going 117 mph. Ekk, that’s not safe, so I slowed us down to a more reasonable 109 mph. The miles were ripping past, but then I saw a car’s lights in my rear-view mirror. 

It was taking the on-ramp with intent, like it might be giving chase. 
Uh oh, I immediately dropped us down to 90 mph in case it was an officer. Yes, still speeding, but at least a defendable speed. Once the car caught up, it swung over behind us and got really close. Based on this vehicular body language, I figured I was about to get zapped. Looking over at the passenger seat, I saw that Jonathan was dead asleep, so I tapped him and said, “Hey, take the radar detector down and hide it.” 

Jonathan woke and slipped the anti-speed-trap device off its windshield mount and threw it under his seat. A few moments later, the telltale cherries and berries lit up the night, and we were being pulled over. 
I pulled to the side of the road, and the officer walked up to my window.
“License and registration?”
“Yep, here’s my license, and here’s the rental car paperwork.”
“This is a rental?”
“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, sit tight,” the officer said as he walked back to his car. 
He was gone for a while, so I was sure I was getting a ticket. 
A little later, a second police car pulls in behind the first. But I didn’t think much of that; it was the middle of the night, and hardly anyone was out, so maybe the second guy was just popping by to lend support. 
The original officer returned to my window and asked, “You say this is a rental?”
“Yes, sir.”

“Where’d you rent it?”
“Reno.”

“When were you in Arizona?”
“We weren’t in Arizona.”

“Where are you coming from?”
“San Diego.”

“So you weren’t in Arizona?”
“No, sir.”
The officer nodded, but seemed troubled by this. He raised his flashlight and aimed it through the windshield while scribbling in his notebook. His beam kept drifting back toward us, quick little sweeps like he wasn’t sure what we might do. Once he’d finished writing, he turned and walked to his car.

He was gone for a long time. Then I heard a crackling sound, and a voice rang out over the police car’s loudspeaker, “Driver, drop the keys out the window.”

Jonathan sat up straighter in his chair, “Here we go.”

I rolled the window down and dropped the keys out on the asphalt. 

“Driver, with your right hand, reach out the window and open the door from the outside.”

I did as commanded. 

“Step out of the car with your hands up.”

I complied. As I stood, I put my hands on top of my head and turned to face the blinding spotlights and headlights.
“Hands higher, and turn around.”

I raised my hands higher and turned my back to the voice.

“Walk backwards towards the sound of my voice.”
I started walking backwards. 
“Stop right there.”

I did, and waited. I hear footsteps, then an officer grabs my right wrist and twists it behind my back. “Spread your legs,” he commanded.

I took a step out to widen my stance. The officer then kicked my right leg out, with an angry shout of “WIDER!” 
I turned to look over my right shoulder and said curtly, “I’m not giving you any trouble.”

His face was backlit, but I could see he’d heard me. He reached up and grabbed my other hand, twisted it behind my back, and put me in handcuffs. The cold sensation of the metal encircling my wrists was foreign; I’d never been in cuffs before. He gave me a pat-down and went through my pockets. Satisfied I wasn’t armed, he grabbed my now connected wrists and lifted my arms to force me into a half bow, then turned me around to walk towards the cop cars. As we passed through the spotlights, I realized there were now five police cars in total, all with officers posted, guns drawn and pointed downrange. Damn, I thought, they take their speeding really seriously around here, then I was pushed into the back of a car. I was shirtless, and the cold plastic seat made my skin jump, so I tried not to lean against it all at once.

Looking through the thick wire security screen separating the front seat from the back, I saw that the officer who’d initially pulled me over was in the driver’s seat. He lifted his right hand to his mouth and, pressing a button with his thumb, said, “Passenger, reach out the window with both hands.” The words shot through his speaker system downrange to where Jonathan was still in the car. I saw Jonathan reach out of the passenger side window.

“Passenger, open the door from the outside and step out.”

I saw Jonathan open the door, but he didn’t get out; instead, he just held his hands out so they could see them.
Realizing the problem, I leaned forward and said through the security screen, “His seatbelt is still on.”
The officer didn’t acknowledge me; he just waited for a moment, then he pressed the button again: “Passenger, take your seat belt off and step out of the car.”

One of Jonathan’s hands disappeared from sight, then he stepped out of the car with his hands up. 
I saw that Jonathan, just as I had moments ago, wasn’t reaching his hands very high up. So I said from the back seat, in my most authoritative voice, “Passenger, put your hands higher and turn around.”

Again, the officer did not acknowledge me, but he pressed the mic button and said, “Passenger, put your hands higher and turn around.”

Jonathan did this, then, knowing what was coming next, I continued my impersonation, “Passenger, walk backwards towards the sound of my voice.”

The officer pressed the button and echoed me, “Passenger, walk backwards toward the sound of my voice.”
I watched as Jonathan made his steps backwards, and when it looked like he’d gone about as far as I had, I said, “Passenger, stop right there.”

The officer pressed the button and said, “Passenger, stop right there.”
To the officer, I said, “This is kinda fun.”

The officer glanced back at me over his left shoulder with a look that was half stern and half bemused. I got the feeling I wasn’t responding the way typical detainees do.
Jonathan stood there with his hands up. The officer pressed the button and said, “Passenger, slowly reach down and lift your shirt.”

Jonathan reached down and lifted his shirt, presumably, so they could see if he had a weapon. I piped in and said to the officer, “Ah, you got me on that one, but I didn’t know because I’m not wearing a shirt.”
Despite himself, the officer smiled at this. 

I watched as one of the officers walked towards Jonathan. Once there, the process was repeated; they put him in cuffs and put him into one of the other cars. 

Now that we were both “in custody,” the officer seemed to relax, if only slightly. Without looking at me, he asked, “Are there any weapons in the car?”
My head exploded at this question: “Uh, yeah, a bunch.”

“Really?” He lifted his notebook and, with a pen at the ready, asked, “What do you have in there?”
“Oh geeze, there’s six machetes, two swords, a couple of whips, a blowgun, a chainsaw, a big saw blade with a handle attached to it, seven torches, and a gallon of fuel in the back. Let’s see… Oh, there’s two backpacks in the backseat, and each of them has a pocket knife. Umm, yeah, I think that’s all, but I guess it depends on what you consider a ‘weapon.’”

He’d written down the first couple things I’d said, but he stopped writing somewhere around “blowgun.” For the first time, he genuinely turned around to look me in the eyes. “Okay, we’re gonna search your car. Anything else you wanna tell me?”
I thought for a second, “Uh, no, I think that’s everything.”

He picked up the intercom and pressed the button. “One Adam Victor Vector 48, Gobbledygook 157,” police-speak came out of his mouth, but I didn’t know what any of it meant. 

As one, four officers rushed our vehicle with guns drawn. The two in the lead tore open the driver’s and passenger’s side doors, while the support officers covered them in case someone was still in the car. Then a fifth officer with a shotgun jogged forward and posted up by the trunk. He shouted something to the officer by the driver’s side door, and that officer popped the trunk. As it flew open, he jabbed the shotgun into the truck, ready to apprehend someone, but all that was in there were our show cases. Satisfied that no one was hiding in our vehicle, they pulled all of our bags out of the car and started going through them. Out came the knives and swords, and whips, all the stuff I’d told him about. Then I saw one of the officers pick up one of our juggling clubs and look it over carefully with his flashlight. The officer next to him said something I couldn’t hear, and the first officer shrugged as if to say, “I dunno what it is?”
Now the officer with the shotgun signaled to the officer in the car with me, and he started asking me more questions.
“When were you in Arizona?”
“We weren’t, we were in San Diego.”

“Uh-huh, and who’s the other guy?”
“That’s Jonathan.”

“What’s his last name?”
“Root.”

“How long you known him?”
“Uh, about six years.”

“How do you know him?”
“He’s my teammate.”

“Your teammate?”
“Yeah.”

“You like a sports team or something?”
“No, we do a juggling show.”

The officer wrote down this important piece of information. “Right, so when were you in Arizona?”
“We weren’t in Arizona. Why do you keep asking that?”
“If you weren’t in Arizona, why do you have Arizona plates?”
“I told you, it’s a rental; those are just the plates it came with.”
“So you were never in Arizona?”
“On this trip, no.”

“So you have been to Arizona?”
“Well, yeah, like 9 years ago on a trip with my mom.”
“But not on this trip?”
“No.”

“Right…” He seemed unconvinced.  “Hang tight,” he said, then exited the vehicle. 

Through the window, I saw my officer huddle up with another officer; they seemed to be exchanging notes. 

I didn’t know it at the time, but Jonathan had been getting the same treatment: they asked him the same questions, and when they didn’t like the answers, they asked him the same questions again to see if his story would change.

After some time, two more officers joined the huddle. One of them spoke into his shoulder mic, and I heard cross-talk coming from the police radio in the front seat of the car I was in. A dispatcher responded, but it was more code I didn’t understand.

​

Then two officers returned to the rental car, pulled everything out of the glove box, and went back to the front windshield, where, with flashlights glowing, they took more notes. One of these grabbed his shoulder mic, and the radio came to life as he read off numbers to the dispatcher. More time passed, and my hands started to get uncomfortable behind my back. I suddenly wondered whether I could swing them under my legs so I could put my hands in front of myself. I really wanted to try but decided against it, thinking my Houdini-like display of flexibility might piss them off. Now the four officers huddled again, and I could tell from their expressions that something was troubling them. Police cars must have some sort of super-insulation that keeps outside sounds out, though, because I couldn’t hear anything they were saying. Now the big guy, the one who’d covered the trunk with the shotgun, joined the huddle. The other officers gave their reports, and I realized he was some sort of authority, maybe a Sergeant or something. As they spoke, he nodded his understanding, but he seemed to be getting mad. When they were done reporting, he raised his right hand and stabbed his index finger at one of the officers. I don’t read lips, but he seemed to say, “If we don’t have anything on these guys, we need to get them out of here NOW.” Then he turned and looked at me through the back window. Feeling included for the first time, I leaned close to the glass and flashed him my most winning juggler smile. 

His brow furrowed at this, then he pulled something out of his belt. With a twist, a flashlight came to life, and he shone it at me through the glass. Realizing he hadn’t been able to see what I did, I leaned close to the glass and gave him another angelic smile. I hoped this second one didn’t come off as contrived; the first one had been organic and in the moment, whereas the second one had been an act.

The big man shook his head side to side at my antics, an air of, “This can’t be happening,” in his demeanor. 
He turned off his flashlight and returned it to his belt. Then he turned to the officers, gave some instructions, and marched stiffly off to his car.

Two of the officers came over to my door, while the other two went to Jonathan’s car.
My officer, the guy who’d originally pulled us over, leaned in with a smile, “Let’s get you out of those cuffs,” and, grabbing my arm, helped me out of the car. I stood up, and he held my arm to steady me (not that I needed steadying) while the other officer unlocked my cuffs. My officer continued, “Seems this was all a big misunderstanding. When we ran the VIN number, the vehicle came back as stolen. And the plates didn’t match the VIN, so we thought you’d switched the plates to try to hide that it was stolen.” 

The other officer said, “We thought we had a couple of car thieves.”

My officer continued, “Turns out the dispatcher got one of the numbers wrong, so you gentlemen are free to go.”
The second officer piped in again, “Yeah, but look on the bright side, it got you out of an expensive speeding ticket.”
They both laughed nervously, and I laughed along with them.
“You gentlemen have a good night now.” 

As if someone had hit the end-of-shift alarm, all of the police cars fired up, and the officers quickly disappeared into the night. I got the feeling that they wanted to get out of there and away from us as quickly as possible. 

Their haste left me with the distinct feeling that our rights had been trampled on. I wasn’t mad, though, just happy it had all worked out. I appreciated the opportunity to experience the inner workings of our law enforcement system, without having to go to jail in the process.

Jonathan and I now stood on the side of the highway at 4:00 am, alone and cold, but free to go. 

As we walked to the car, Jonathan said, “Well, that was fun.”

“Exhilarating,” I responded with a laugh.

When we got in the car, our stuff was EVERYWHERE. They hadn’t been super careful unpacking. In the backseat, our backpacks were spilled out. I saw our two pocket knives on the seat between the backpacks, right where I said they’d be. Oh well, I thought, let’s get home. I started the car and pulled back onto the road. As we drove, Jonathan did his best to put everything back in order. He looked down at the floor by his feet and laughed. 
“What’s up?” I asked.

He reached down and picked up our radar detector. “They pulled this out from under the seat, so they know we’re speeders.”
I laughed out loud. Indeed, that was one thing we were genuinely guilty of. 

We were still in the Stockton city limits, and I knew they wanted nothing more to do with us tonight, so I let my foot get heavy on the pedal again. At least until the next city line, I knew we could drive as fast as we wanted.