Speed Trap

I stood in front of the fireplace, warming my hands. Jeff would be home late, after a meeting at the Senate Office Building. I was used to the late hours he'd always kept, ever since he decided so long ago to go into politics. I contemplated the last twenty-five years, and decided that I was content, comfortable, even as I missed the fun and excitement of my college years. I normally don't dwell on things past, but tonight was different: an old acquaintance had called to schedule a time to see me, a time when Jeff wouldn't be around.

The doorbell rang, and I went to greet my late night guest.

His hair was streaked gray now, but his eyes were still a soft blue, his mouth accented with gentle laugh lines: no, he hadn't really changed in twenty-five years. He gripped my hand firmly and looked me directly in the eyes.

"Good evening, Mrs. Blakely," he drawled. "I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice, but I didn't know 'til this afternoon that the conference here in DC would be finished early. You certainly are looking fine!" He looked me up and down, nodding with satisfaction. His familiarity brought back many details of one long night long past that I hadn't thought of for years.

Ever the politician's wife, I was polite. "Well, sheriff, come on in out of the cold. " I took his coat, he insisted on holding on to his briefcase, and I led him into the study, where we could enjoy the fire. "Would you care for a drink? Whiskey, neat, I recall."

"No, thank you, I won't be staying long. I just wanted to return something to you." I motioned to an armchair and he sat down and opened the briefcase. He removed a manilla envelope, the kind with a string that goes around a little tab. As he handed the envelope to me, a ghost of a smile crept into his face, his eyes sparkling as with a secret joke. "I believe this belongs to you. Neither one of us has any need for it anymore, right?"

I took the envelope, my hand shaking slightly, and carefully unwound the string. I looked inside without removing anything at first. I saw a white tape cassette, a sheet of paper with single-spaced typed lines, and a plastic bag sealed with scotch tape. I pulled out the plastic bag, amazed after all these years that it still existed: two now flattened rolls of yellowed tissue paper, brown crumbs resembling dried herbs loose in the bag. I dropped it back into the envelope and took out the cassette: my name, Alice Blakely, neatly printed on the label with the words "Statement: May 23, 1977". I dropped that back also, and pulled out the typed paper, not bothering to read it, but noting my signature at the bottom, then slipping the sheet back. I said nothing, but stood and walked to the fireplace. I held the envelope deep in the fire, watching the paper flare up. When the cassette inside began to send out strange colored flames, I dropped the blazing mess onto the logs. Was it just my imagination, or did I catch a faint whiff of marijuana?

The top was down, the warm late May wind blowing in my short brown hair. I was whizzing south down I-75 in my new red Mustang, on my way home after an exciting, wild week in the big city. This time I'd gone on the pretext of a teacher's conference. True, I had attended conference sessions during the day, but in the evenings I met up with old friends from school. Last night, Thursday, had been especially wild: I'd partied a bit with some sorority sisters, drank a shit-load of wine, even smoked some grass. A little hung over today, I'd had a later start than intended. I called Jeff before checking out, fibbed about having one last meeting this afternoon, went shopping with Carol and Joan, and didn't actually get away until five in the evening. Jeff had suggested earlier that I just stay at a motel somewhere and get into Valdosta on Saturday, instead. "Don't try to call me tonight. The mayor, the asshole, has called a special meeting, and it may run late." So, about 6:30, I pulled off the highway somewhere south of Macon and followed a little two-lane road east, looking for a place to eat and sleep for the night.

"Damn! I thought the sign said 2 miles this way to a motel and diner. Shit! Where the hell am I?" The little highway was going through virtual wilderness, only scrubby pines draped with kudzu on each side. Finally, up ahead, I saw some civilization. First there was a little old-fashioned gas station, the sign above the quaint pumps proclaiming it "Soapy's Service Station". I even thought I saw a guy wearing a baseball cap, maybe Soapy himself, peering out the window as I drove past. Then I was in town, a sign next to the road saying "Welcome to Mayberry". It was a cute town, pedestrians walking about in the dusk, going about whatever business pedestrians have. I passed the bakery, the barber shop (with a couple of old geezers outside in chairs on the sidewalk), and a little brick building with the words "Sheriff's Department" emblazoned over the door. It was getting dark, I was tired, hungry, and headachy. I was glad to put Mayberry behind me, but anxious. Where the hell is the motel?

Then behind me were flashing blue lights, a brief shriek of a siren. It was a black and white police car, probably the only one this town owned.

I pulled over and looked in the rearview mirror as a uniformed man approached my car. He appeared fatherly, maybe in his late forties, hair dark and wavy, square jaw, dark brows, broad shoulders. He stopped behind my car, made note of my tag number, then approached my door in a shambling, casual manner.

"This is some little number you're driving, missy. Can I see your driver's license?"

"Officer, um, Sheriff Griffin," I glanced at his name-tag, "I'm sure I was only going 45!"

"47, to be exact, Miss, but this is still a 25 mph zone." He examined my license. "Did you know this expired last week? I'm afraid I'm going to have to take you in."

My jaw dropped. "You're going to arrest me for an expired license?"

"Well," (he pronounced it "way-ell") "I 'spose you might call it that, but we don't have any reason to keep you long. You'll just have to pay a fine and sign some papers that you promise to get that license renewed."

What a God-awful night this was becoming.

"Now, little lady, you just step on out of that pretty car and come sit in my back seat. I'll radio my deputy to come pick up your car and bring it on back to the station."

He politely opened my door, taking my purse as I got out, and walked me back to his car. After helping me into the back seat, still holding my purse and leaving my door open, he reached through his window for the radio.

"Bernie, you hear me back at the station? Over." Bernie, I assume, squawked that he indeed could hear the sheriff loud and clear. "Whyn't you get somebody to give you a ride out here on 21 east. You know where I mean. We gotta little lady here that needs her car brought in."

After signing off, Sheriff Griffin opened my purse and started digging through it. At that same moment I remembered something and suddenly felt quite ill. The sheriff whistled as he pulled out a little clear plastic box. I thought I'd put it in my suitcase, inside the lining, but obviously last night I had been either too drunk or too stoned, or both, to think that wisely.

"What have we got here?" He opened the box, which at one time had held throat lozenges. Now it contained two nicely rolled joints, a souvenir from Atlanta that I'd planned to enjoy tonight at the motel. He held one up to his nose just as a dusty brown pickup truck drove up, barely slowing down to let out Deputy Bernie.

"Bernie, come here and let me introduce you to this pretty little thing. It seems she's in a heap of trouble now, for sure! Deputy Bernie Sife, meet Miss, or is it Mrs., Alice Blakely of Valdosta. We're gonna be charging her with speeding, expired license, and possession of marijuana!"

Deputy Sife, a gangly little guy whose uniform looked a size too big, though neatly pressed and starched, shuffled over to my still open door and leaned in to shake my hand, his eyes glued to my T-shirt front. He responded "Whoo-ee" when he saw the joint the sheriff held out for him to examine.

"Ms. Blakely," the sheriff looked me coolly in the eyes, suddenly losing his good-'ol boy accent, "Is anyone expecting you tonight?"

I felt total despair. "My husband isn't expecting me until tomorrow. As a matter of fact, I can't even reach him tonight because he's at a city council meeting."

"A councilman, huh? And what do you do, Mrs. Blakely? Are you a housewife, any babies waiting for you down in Valdosta?"

"No," I answered, even more despairing, if possible, as the total extent of my situation sank in. "I'm a school teacher."

Sheriff Griffin nodded his head. His drawl had returned. "Bernie, bring the lady's car on back to town, but park it down by the VFW. They're having a shindig tonight and won't think a strange car in town is unusual. Then meet us back at the station." He scratched his head, then added, "Oh, and be sure to put the top up." Before shutting the car door, the sheriff had me lean forward, gently pulled my hands behind my back and clicked on handcuffs. As he did so he recited the "You have the right to remain silent" thing.

Bernie showed his teeth in a big horsey grin, eyes still focused on my chest. "OK, Andy, will-do!".

On the way back to town the sheriff tried to put me at ease, talking nonstop about his town and the various characters who lived there. I paid little attention to him: I was frantic to think of some way out of my predicament. As they say, I was up shit creek without a paddle. I'd taken some chances in the past, going up to Atlanta every couple of months for a weekend away from the Junior League ladies and their interminable projects and do-good attitudes. I had a separate circle of friends up there, and was able to let my hair down, but this time I guess I'd stretched my luck.

The brick building I had passed earlier had a tiny parking area behind it, and we entered through the back door. No one was inside, I thought at first, then I noticed that in the same room with the main office were three jail cells, one of them occupied by a large, maybe obese, man snoring very loudly, sound asleep in a sort of fetal position on a cot. I stood looking around as the sheriff let down the shades and locked the front door. There were two desks in the room, one of them nearly bare, the other one near the door displaying two framed photographs: a freckle-faced red-haired boy of about ten proudly displaying a large toad in his hands, and a stout gray-haired lady with a sweet smile displaying what looked like biscuits and a blue ribbon. I turned and looked more closely at the jail cells. All of them, including the one with the snoring man, had open doors. Each had frilly flowered curtains and matching comforters on the cots. One cell even had a recliner with a table, lamp, and vase of flowers.

Sheriff Griffin noticed my puzzled expression. "My Aunt Tee seems to think a homey atmosphere will aid in reforming criminals. I think she's full of shit, but she's a harmless old bat."

About then the deputy returned. "Boy! I hope we don't have to close down the VFW tonight! Those old WW2 vets are already gettin' rowdy!"

"Well, tonight, Bernie, I think we'll just let the vets have their fun. I think we're gonna be a little busy." The sheriff looked pointedly in my direction and put a white cassette tape from his desk into the breast pocket of his khaki shirt. "Let's go back to the interrogation room, and have us a little talk."

Each took an elbow and moved me on down a little hallway, a door on the left and one on the right. The door on the left bore the sign "Restroom", and the door on the right "Interrogation", which we entered. The only furnishings were a small table holding a clipboard of forms and a cassette tape recorder, three wooden chairs and, rather bizarrely I thought, a bare twin-size mattress on the floor in the corner, the dingy striped ticking spotted with stains. There was a long mirror across the entire far wall.

"That's really a window, you know, but there's nobody on the other side," the sheriff explained. Deputy Bernie giggled. "We just keep old records and the Christmas decorations in there," the sheriff continued. "We don't have much use for line -ups or such here, on account of we all know everybody who ever does anything in our town anyway." He removed my handcuffs and motioned me to sit in one of the chairs. He perched himself on the corner of the table . The deputy stood next to him, his eyes again trying to look through my t-shirt. The sheriff took the tape cassette from his shirt pocket and popped it into the tape recorder, and pushed the record button.

Speaking toward the recorder, he said formally, "This is the statement of Alice Blakely of Valdosta, May 23, 1977." He looked at me, "Mrs. Blakely, did you receive your Miranda rights?" I answered that I had. "Now tell me, why were you brought in tonight?"

I hesitated. "Can't I get a lawyer?"

"Well, of course, but there won't be any available until Monday. The defense man and the prosecutor, too, are all off with the judge fishin'. They'll be back Monday. So, if you don't want to answer any questions at this time, we'll just turn this recorder off, get you all cozy in one of the cells, and you can call your husband in the morning. Course, you still won't be able to leave until Monday."

What a mess! I thought how he had all the evidence against me: after all, I was guilty, so I decided to tell the truth, and just be careful not to let him twist my words.

"I was stopped for going 47 mph in a 25 mph zone. My license expired on my 26th birthday, May 12th, and I had 2 marijuana joints in my purse."

The sheriff nodded, smiling at my direct honesty. Then looked he up at the far wall as if thinking deeply. "Now here's how I see it: the judge, he's gone for the weekend and won't be able to hear your case or set bond 'til Monday. Then your husband can take you on home." He turned to me, "What happens to school teachers who get charged with drug possession?"

I hesitated. I wasn't really sure. "I think the certificate is suspended, with pay, until found guilty. Then, you lose the certificate permanently and can't ever teach again." I started to cry.

Sheriff Griffin continued as if I weren't blubbering. "And what might your husband, Councilman Blakely, think of his wife being charged with drug possession?"

This time there was no doubt. I stifled my sobs and answered, "It's not so much what he thinks, though God knows he doesn't approve of the stuff, but the press and the voters: he's planning to run against the mayor next year! This would kill his election chances!" I wailed with despair.

Both of them looked at me sympathetically, but said nothing, as if waiting for me to say more. As I sat there, crying, I was thinking. As I saw it, I had two choices: I could sit in jail until Monday, lose my career (which I really did value, in spite of its restrictions), face Jeff's wrath and disappointment, and hope he could overcome the scandal by November. My other choice: beg for a favor.

"Sheriff," I asked in my sweetest, most sincere voice, the one I use with the mayor, "is there anything that could be worked out, a sort of plea bargain, that would allow me to go on home? I mean, if I vow to never do anything like this again." I batted my eyelashes at him.

"Well, now, you mean is there anything you could do to convince us that you mean well, that you're really an upstanding citizen?" His eyes bore into me. I felt as if he could hear exactly what I was thinking, and had already decided on his answer.

It wasn't something I had ever propositioned before, but I was desperate and thought I had nothing to lose. "Sheriff, I'll do anything, if you'd just drop those charges and let me go on home tomorrow morning. I would be quite willing to entertain you and Deputy Sife tonight in any way you'd like." What was one night here, I thought, compared to ruining my whole life.

The sheriff nodded his head. "Bernie, lock the door." He looked at me while the deputy went over to the door. "Let's see if you mean what you promise. What I want you to do, Miss Alice, is go stand over there in front of the mirror and slip out of those cute little sandals, pull down your jeans and panties, if you're wearing any, and pull off your t-shirt. We already know you aren't wearing a bra."

I swallowed hard, hoping this would not be too awful. I pushed back the chair and, standing shakily, I went over to the mirror. I looked like hell, I thought, my eye make-up smudged, my short hair tousled and wind-blown from my drive down, and I could see I was very tired. First I stepped out of my shoes and kicked them away. I avoided looking at the men's reflection, but I couldn't help but notice them leaning forward in expectation. I sighed and went on with it. I unzipped my jeans and let them fall. I was wearing panties: pink satin bikini, but I didn't pull them down yet. Instead, I pulled off my t-shirt, closing my eyes so I wouldn't feel quite so naked.

"Mmmm-mmmm-mmmm!" It sounded like they were enjoying Aunt Tee's biscuits. "Open your eyes, ma'am, we want you to see everything," the sheriff commanded.

I did so, and the first thing I saw was the reflection of Bernie's eyes bugging out even more than before, licking his lips hungrily. "What size do you think they are, Andy? C or D?"

"36D," I answered before Andy attempted a guess.

"Now pull down those sexy panties. Bernie and I would like to see your pussy. Is it shaved like they do in the big city?" I didn't answer his question, but pulling down the panties, bending over so they got a nice view of my ass in the process, my dark little bush answered his question for me.

"Now don't get nervous, little lady. I tell you what. We won't force you to do anything: we don't want you going home with mysterious fingerprint bruises on your pretty body. You get to choose what you'd like to do, but," he added, looking warningly at Bernie, "we won't fuck you."

"Aw, Andy, why not?" he plaintively whined.

"Well, Bernie, we don't want to take even a little chance that Miss Alice here could get pregnant."

I nodded, convincing myself that maybe it wouldn't be so bad. At least they looked fairly clean, and the sheriff was actually a little sexy, especially when he dropped that "Aw shucks" demeanor: I was beginning to realize that it was put on when convenient, but that behind it was a very shrewd, calculating man.

"Who goes first?" I asked quietly. In answer Bernie unzipped his pants and pulled out an unexpectedly long, hard dick.

"I think I will, Andy." He turned my chair away from the table and sat down, stroking himself, and grinned that goofy grin. "Come here, teacher. I want to get a closer look at those pretty titties." I moved over to him and he spread his knees so I could stand between his legs. He reached up with both hands, taking a handful of me in each. He squeezed and prodded my breasts, pulling me forward so he could take turns sucking each nipple. I cried out, "Ouch!" when he bit one.

"Now, Bernie, be nice. Remember, no marks!" Andy was still sitting on the corner of the table right next to us, so he had a good view of the whole performance.

Bernie let go and moved his hands to my shoulders, pressing me down. I thought I knew what Bernie was wanting. I knelt down, moving close to his cock. I first wet it good by licking it all over, leaving a nice slippery film of saliva on his shaft. Then I pressed my breasts hard together on his shiny wet cock. I squeezed myself hard, and moved myself up and down, stroking him inside the tight tunnel my tits formed around him. Every time I slid down his cock it moved into range of my tongue where I would pause long enough to lick the head, dribbling more saliva on him. Then I would rise up again until his cock was barely visible between my full tits. "Oh, sweet Jesus, what she's doing to me, Andy! O lordy, wait 'til you feel what she can do to your dick!" Bernie continued to moan and babble. I began to pick up the pace, knowing the end was near. Besides, I was getting tired of this game. Finally, he cried out, his hips rising slightly from the chair, and I felt his juices spasming onto me, covering my breasts, my chin, my lips. His spurts continued as I lowered my head and pulled his cock into my mouth, sucking and swallowing every drop. When I knew he was done, I pulled him out of my mouth one last time, licked him all over, and kissed his little twitching cock hole. I took a deep breath and rather stiffly rose from the hard floor.