Most of the younger cops dodged working with Kent ‘Hoppy’ Hopkins. Lolo Paloma liked having him for a partner.
Hoppy was in his mid-fifties, had salt and pepper hair, sported a middle-aged paunch, and wore lug sole sneakers to support his temperamental knees. She didn’t worry he’d initiate a foot pursuit or an unnecessary brawl. That was fine with her.
Truth be told, she was a lousy runner, and not the size of someone who could go toe-to-toe with anyone much over a hundred pounds. Those limitations didn’t make her a bad cop, but she just had to work smarter—not harder.
Working with her veteran partner meant it wasn’t as likely that her physical shortcomings would be highlighted, as they might be if partnered with a younger, more gung-ho officer.
“Hey, partner,” Hoppy said. “Why don’t we go up to Jollette and Meadowlark and see if we can grab a couple of greenies? One each will keep the sergeant off our ass.”
Writing stop sign tickets wasn’t her favorite thing, but he had a point regarding her sergeant friend, Amanda. She nodded. “Sounds good, and that’s a cherry orchard up there.”
He turned their patrol unit into a hilly residential neighborhood.
Lolo typed into their computer the location and put themselves Code 6, which meant they were investigating and/or unavailable for radio calls.
They positioned themselves to where they had a clear view of the stop sign, and a violator couldn’t see the police car until it was too late. All they had to do was wait.
Less than a minute later, a black Mercedes slowed to about ten miles an hour and drove right through the intersection.
It took twenty minutes to write the citation and send a pissed-off driver on their way.
They pulled back into position, but it was obvious word was out on social media that the cops were in the area.
The next several cars rolled to a complete stop and looked for the black and white before proceeding down the hill.
“I won’t be able to catch anybody here. We’ll have to go someplace else.”
“Let’s try Westbury,” Hoppy said.
Lolo typed their follow-up location into the computer, and they’d barely parked before a silver SUV blew through the four-way stop.
She always enjoyed when the male violators tried to flirt with her to get out of a ticket, and this guy was no exception.
Once she’d identified herself and told the man, who appeared to be in his thirties, why he’d been stopped, he turned on the charm.
“Come on now, officer. A pretty woman like you doesn’t want to ruin my day, do you?”
“I’ve already asked you for your license, registration, and proof of insurance…twice. You can produce the documents I requested, or I can write you up as an unlicensed driver and impound your car. Or you can continue to refuse, and I’ll haul you to jail. What’s it gonna be?”
Suddenly the smile was gone from the violator’s face. “I think you’re a bitch who’s on the rag. Why don’t you let me speak to the male officer?”
Lolo sighed, pretending to look crushed. She looked over at her partner. “Hey, Hop, this guy would rather talk to you. He thinks I’m a bit cranky, and it’s ‘that time of the month,’” she said, making air quotes.
Hoppy’s lips narrowed into a thin line. He rarely lost his cool, but he hated when a citizen disrespected any officer, and he especially took umbrage when a citizen was rude to her. He strode over to the driver’s window.
Lolo took his position as cover officer on the passenger side.
“Good afternoon. I’m Officer Kent Hopkins of the Los Angeles Police Department. You’ve been pulled over because you failed to come to a complete stop at the stop sign. I need to see your driver’s license, registration, and proof of insurance.”
“Look, this is really embarrassing, but I forgot my wallet at home.”
“Okay. What’s your name?”
“Dylan Trickett.”
“Do you have a driver’s license?”
“Oh, yes. Of course.”
The driver claimed he didn’t know his license number, so he took down the man’s identifying information on a field interview card, more commonly known as an FI.
Hoppy went to the car computer to run the driver’s info, license status, and a check for any wants and warrants.
“17A27, Code 6 Charles at your location.”
Lolo couldn’t help but grin at the dispatcher’s broadcast. Code 6 Charles meant the info her partner had typed into the computer had returned with a felony warrant.
Hoppy keyed the mic clipped to his shirt. “17A27, do all the descriptors match?”
“17A27, roger.”
Her partner climbed out of the black and white. “11351,” he said, alerting her that the warrant was for possession of a controlled substance for sale.
“Let me,” she mouthed to her partner, and moved over to the driver’s side of the car.
“Sir, I need you to get out of the car.”
The driver frowned. “Why? I have a license.”
“Please. Exit your vehicle.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“That may be true. But someone with your name has a misdemeanor warrant. We just have to detain you until we can verify the warrant isn’t yours.”
“This is bullshit,” the man muttered as he opened the door and got out of the car.
Lolo whipped out her handcuffs. “Now, I’m just going to put these on you until we verify the warrant doesn’t belong to you.”
Once she got her cuffs on and locked, she started to walk him to the back of their patrol car.
The driver planted his feet and resisted. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Trickett. The warrant is yours, all the descriptors match—and I’m sorry. I mistakenly said it was a misdemeanor warrant. In fact, it’s a felony warrant for possession of a controlled substance for sale.”
“Wait! I lied to you. My name’s not really Dylan Trickett. That’s my brother. Damn idiot didn’t tell me he was hot. I’m Daryl Trickett, and my real date of birth is March 16, 1997. My ID is in my wallet.”
Again, Lolo made a face of immense disappointment. “I’m sorry to hear that, Daryl. You’ve just admitted to lying to a police officer. The good news is we won’t be taking you to jail for the felony warrant. The bad news is we’ll be taking you to jail for lying to us.”
Hoppy came over and searched their suspect.
She put him in the back seat of their patrol car.
“Big f-ing deal. I’ll be out before you finish your reports.”
She smiled. “That’s okay. I’m sure you’ll skip your court date, and then you will have a warrant. We’ll pick you up another time on that warrant.”
She grinned at him before closing the rear door of the police car. “But that’s not all. On your way out of jail, we’ll give you a party favor to take home with you—your citation for failing to stop at the stop sign.”