1976 - The Barney Chronicles

Sure, I've had a few speeding tickets but I'd never been taken to jail...until this. A lesson learned the hard way.

1976 – The Barney Chronicles

I was driving blithely down a Southern Illinois back hi-way when I saw the lights behinds me. I quickly checked my speed – only 5-miles over and only 5-miles from my destination: Effingham, Illinois. I pulled over to the side of the road and waited for the officer to arrive.

I could see him in my rearview mirror when he exited his vehicle. He appeared to be even younger than my 26 years. He was thin & looked barely old enough to shave. He wasn’t very tall as he was about my height although with such a small stature on a short frame he looked like a boy scout in uniform. The Forest Ranger hat didn’t change the impression as it looked like he swam around inside the headgear. His uniform was neatly pressed with creases so sharp that he looked like a miniature version of a well-groomed marine in a slightly oversized hat. The single gold bar on his collar told me he was an academy police officer and not an “enlisted” officer like a sergeant or patrolman. He was weighted down with his pistol and utility-belt and, as he took his first step forward, he looked like any moment his knees were going to buckle with the load.

As he approached my open window I could see his little blonde moustache, neatly trimmed and perfectly matching his short sideburns and the military-style haircut I could see peeking out from under the Ranger Smith hat. I imagined his voice matching his stature, thin and high but attempting to toss my preconceived notions aside I assumed he would have a normal voice and, being an academy graduate, I assumed, he had learned to display an authoritative voice. I awaited my fate. This was not my first speeding ticket, even if it was the first in Illinois in many years, and I knew the drill. “Good morning officer,” I said before he had a chance to speak, “Why did you pull me over?”

“License and registration,” he squeaked. I stared. He had a no nonsense look on his face. I was amazed how well his voice agreed with his appearance…I could swear his voice cracked when he repeated, “License and registration, Sir.” I got the sudden impression his last job was as a crossing-guard during his 8th grade year.

“How fast was I going?” I asked but he gave no reply. I dug around in my glove compartment and came up with the registration which I put with the driver’s license I had retrieved and handed them both to the officer.

“Wait here.” He squeaked and retreated to his vehicle. I watched as he got on his radio and spent 5-minutes or so checking my papers. He exited the vehicle and walked up to my window handing me my paperwork back he said, “You’re going to have to accompany me downtown. There are some questions concerning your record.” I sat in shock staring into my rearview mirror as he returned to his car and, turning the emergency lights off, put the car into gear and cruised forward. He paused by my side with his open passenger window right next to me. “Follow me!” he shouted through the open windows and moved forward. I followed.

I had been in town for less than a week as the new manager of the two Frisina Theatres in town. I was in charge of 1-drive-in and 1-theatre-house and was returning from a meeting at the home office in Taylorville when the lights appeared. When the police-light appeared I had just exited the freeway at a familiar exit and was recalling my situation five-years previously when I stood on the same freeway interchange in the middle of a blowing snow-storm trying to hitch a ride from Olney, Illinois to Zion, Illinois. I had stood in blowing ice and snow for over 8-hours before eventually accepting a ride from a fully engaged acid-tripping hippie-freak. He was retuning from Marti Gras where he had misplaced all of his friends, and was en route to Milwaukee, Wisconsin. That adventure ended well with me doing most of the driving and his agreeing to deliver me to the front door of my eventual destination.

I hope he made it home ok.

I was brought back to the present as I followed the police-car downtown to the jail. I mentally reviewed my background history. Had I failed to pay a ticket? Did I have a warrant for some unremembered reason? Was I wanted for something I had done years before in Illinois or was this something I’d done in California? My stomach was one big knot. I had no idea what I had done but I didn’t think people were “taken downtown” for speeding tickets, particularly when I couldn’t have been going more than 5-10 mph over the limit.

We arrived at the police station which was also the town-centre and city-hall in a big 3-story stone building. We drove around back and I parked in the lot next to the officer. “Follow me.” was his only comment as he strode forward with a swagger I suddenly connected to Barney Fife. We walked up half-a-dozen steps to a heavy glass door that led to a short hallway that immediately became another short, 3-4 step, stairway ending in a landing that either continued the climb to the second floor or, with a right turn entered into the police station. We turned right. He had a key ring hanging from his utility-belt but didn’t reach for this as we approached the door. Instead he unbuttoned his shirt pocket. As he fumbled for his key in his top left-handed shirt-pocket I thought “His bullet must be getting in the way.” As he opened the door he removed his hat to reveal short slicked-down blonde, almost white, hair which, despite his young appearance, was already beginning to thin in front. We entered a single long room perhaps 20-feet across and 50-feet long. At either end of this room were two 10’ X 10’ cells side-by-side each containing a cot, a sink and a commode. There was no bedding on the rolled up mattresses and no other residents evident. Two desks stood front-to-front against the far wall with a couple of assorted supply-type cabinets aligned against the wall to the left and 3 file cabinets against the wall on the right of the desks. A big round grade-school style clock hung on the wall where the desks joined. A ring of keys hung below the clock at the level of the in-baskets on top of the desk. Two more desks sat side-by-side facing the opposite wall between the entry and what appeared to be a broom-closet. A locked glass-doored gun-rack held several shotguns and some ammo boxes and was mounted on the wall immediately next to the entryway, I assume, for quick access in case of an emergency. “Sit.” He pointed to the chair placed alongside the right-hand desk. I sat.

He placed a couple of calls and looked around in the file cabinet pretty much ignoring my presence except to repeat my name and license number into the telephone at various times. I asked what my offense had been. Again I was ignored. In my frustration I tried to read the paperwork upside-down but before I had gotten very far he noticed my focus and covered the paper with his arm like we were taking a sophomore algebra test. “Stay here.” He said and moved himself and the paperwork to the next desk. The new desk was evidently NOT his desk as there were photos were of a much older couple and several other people that were probably their grown children and grandchildren. The desk he had left had 2-photos: one was his photo standing with a woman and a young child. The other photograph was of him in a tuxedo and the same young lady in what appeared to be a prom dress. Evidently what he was writing or reading was not for my eyes. Now I was really nervous. I ran through my history again what had I done to deserve this? I sat in the chair trying desperately to remember what I had done. I had no history to back-up this experience so I was nervous and growing more so by the minute. I had only been picked up once in Zion with Robin when I was a kid and Robin had needled the officer until he took us downtown and inside the cop-station eventually warning me “If you don’t get your buddy to shut up you may both find yourselves overnight guests.” I told Robin to shut up. That pick-up turned out to be a case of mistaken identity. I never thought I’d be back in a police station again unless I needed something from them. Now, here I was. WHAT THE HELL HAD I DONE?

“Stand-up. Come with me.” The officer squeaked as he retrieved the ring of keys from the wall over the desks and turned toward the cells at the right-hand side of the room. His voice was not nearly as funny as I had thought a few short minutes before. I rose in shock. I was going to be locked up! I couldn’t believe it!

“What did I do?” I desperately asked the officer barely noticing the sound of the outside door opening.

“Just come with me.” He said and walked me toward the cell. I heard footsteps climbing the stairs just outside the entry door. They paused at the door and a hand pushed it open.

“Whoa, what do we have here?” a new voice asked. “We haven’t had anyone in lock-up all year. What’s the big crime?” This was the face I had seen in the photos on the second desk. He was big and grey-haired with a generous moustache and a friendly face with a half-smile and an easy-going air about him.

“I don’t know yet.” was the reply, “but he’s done something. I just haven’t figured out what, yet.” I stepped inside the cell, Barney’s hand holding the door open for me.

“He looks pretty small-time to me. What have you found so far?”

“Well, Sarge,” Barney turned toward the new face as he replied, “I pulled him over for expired registration but some pretty mysterious stuff came up when I looked at his record. I don’t know what he’s done but he’s done something because a record check said he’d surrendered his California state drivers’ license but here he is with an Illinois operators permit. I’m determined to find out how he got a new license after having to give up his last.”

“Hmmm,” said the “Sarge” whom I was now thinking of as Andy, the experienced old cop with a lifetime of experience and patience. A smile played across his lips which he quickly changed to a serious expression. I hoped he would be more amenable to conversation and more willing to give me a clue as to what was going on. The door began to swing shut when “Andy” said “I think you should probably open that back up and let him out.” The door stopped mid-swing. “Why?”

“Well,” said Andy, “because in order to get a new in-state operators permit a person has to surrender the old out-of-state license first.”

Barney stood holding the cell door “Really?” His voice cracked.

“Yeah, lieutenant. I think we need to issue a registration citation and let him continue on his way.”

My knees nearly buckled in relief. I watched as Barney filled out the ticket grumbling under his breath and signed it. I put my signature on the bottom with a flair I barely felt. He apologized while staring at his feet and reluctantly shook my hand. When I left it was only around 1:00 in the afternoon.

My car was registered by 2:00.