The Life & Times of a Lawman

The night was hot, humid, and pitch black. The patrol car wasn't equipped with an air conditioner, so Quentin had the windows down, trying to pick up a little breeze. There was no traffic, and no sounds other than the radio, the hum of the car engine, and the rush of air past the window. He was cruising south at about 45 MPH when he noticed twin headlights suddenly appear in his rear view mirror, moving up at a high rate of speed. He figured whoever was driving that car had it wide open, at about 100 MPH. He cursed his luck that they were behind him instead of in front of him. There was no way to clock their speed and no other way to prove they were exceeding the speed limit. The charge wouldn’t stand up in court, otherwise.

Oh well, he thought, as soon as he gets up close enough, I'll pull him over and give him a warning ticket for speeding and reckless driving. At least I'll have something to show for the shift.

Just as he whizzed past, Quentin hit the siren and threw on the top lights of his patrol car. The man tried to brake, nearly lost control, and with tires squalling, skidded to a stop on the right shoulder of the road, throwing gravel and dust everywhere. Quentin pulled his patrol car close up behind and flipped on his bright headlights. That’s when Quentin recognized the car and tag number. It was supposed to be in Tallahassee but it wasn't. There it sat, big as day. Apparently the Tallahassee police officers were getting set to scare the poop out of two innocent stranded motorists. 

Quentin sat there for an instant, trying to decide what to do. He was definitely in one hell of a predicament. There he was, on an isolated road, with two armed and dangerous criminals, and no back-up help available. Just him and them. The nearest on-duty trooper was down near the Suwannee River, too far away to help. He quickly decided his only chance, and it was a slim one, was to bluff it.

He pulled up close to the rear of the black Continental convertible, left on his high-beam headlights and turned off the top light. Now he could see them clearly but they couldn't see him. In the few seconds of darkness he had, he grabbed his microphone and called the Cross City patrol station, which was nearest to his location.

"I'm 1050 (stopping) signal 18 out of Panama City. South of Salem."

That's all he had time to transmit because he wanted to be out of the car first. He took his service revolver in his right hand and stepped out behind the open car door. In a laughing, jovial tone of voice, he called to the driver, "Hey, Ole Buddy, are you trying to see how much you can get out of that crate? Whatcha tryin’ to do, see how fast that ole piece of junk will go? Step on back here and let's discuss the speed limit in these parts.”

Both men sat there for a few seconds. Quentin could hear them talking, it was a quiet night and their voice carried. The driver was telling the passenger that they were being stopped for speeding, and they were laughing about it. And that’s exactly what Quentin was hoping for.

The driver got out with a big grin and sauntered back toward the patrol car, squinting his eyes against the bright lights. When he was within a foot of the door, Quentin stepped out with the pistol at waist level, where the driver could see it but the passenger couldn’t. He motioning him forward, turned the man around, handcuffed him, then pressed his pistol against the man's spine and cocked it.