“I don’t know man. I was pissed off. I mighta said some things.” Officer Hines gave him a warning glance, which John didn’t pick up on. “I mean, for all I know, they were plannin’ to rob me.”
Streets looked at the driver with his eyebrows lifted and curved his mouth in a slight frown. “And how about the man that was lying in the street beside your truck, how did he get there?”
“Not sure. He musta tripped or somethin’.”
“I see,” Streets replied. He added a note to be sure to have the evidence techs check the fender for blood and tissue. Then he continued the interview with a mild sense of empathy and attentiveness that put his suspects at ease. He had not only been taking notes but also observing the driver while taking small steps in a slow arc around the front of him so that he could observe his body language as they talked, attempting to pick up any signs of deceit. With each step, he got a little closer so he could attempt to discern the cacophony of smells being emitted by the suspect. All while doing his best to withhold his reactions so he could complete the interview without revealing any judgment of his own until he had extracted all the information he could.
Streets stopped dead in his tracks and stared John in the eyes. Now that he was close enough, he recognized that smell. He shot an angry glance at Officer Hines before he went on the offensive. “Sir, are you under the influence of any drugs or alcohol this morning?”
Officer Hines looked shocked, then cut John the driver a hateful glance.
John jerked his head side to side, shifty eyes darting, before redirecting his attention to the ground to kick a small piece of gravel with one of his untied high-top Reeboks.
Streets leaned in, upper lip curled with disgust. “I asked you a question.”
With Streets practically in his face, John the driver stumbled back. “No. Definitely not.” His voice wavered noticeably. He couldn’t help but risk a glance toward the truck.
Streets picked up on the misstep immediately. “Sir, why are you so concerned about what’s in your truck? Do you have any paraphernalia in the vehicle?”
John the driver took another small step back, as if he might make a run for it.
Streets looked at Hines and lifted his chin. Police officers in general have their own language. Streets knew Hines to be an officer to his core, and when it came down to it, he mostly respected his superiors in the field and always obeyed orders.
“Sir, please stay where you are,” Officer Hines said as he stepped closer to John’s side and rested his hand on his sidearm—a warning that said, Don’t take another step.
Like a scolded dog, John obeyed.
“Sir, you realize I can smell marijuana on you this morning, right?”
John the driver went speechless. He shook his head and mumbled something inaudible under his breath.
“And you do realize that gives me probable cause to take a blood sample and search your vehicle, right?” Streets continued.
Shifting in his stance, John the driver started to wring his hands in agitation. Unsure what to say, he just nodded in acknowledgement.
With his body camera recording the interaction, Streets had just been given permission by the driver to search his truck. As Officer Hines affirmed his watchful stance beside John the driver, Streets walked over to the truck. He looked into the windows and recoiled, aghast at how bad the vehicle stank. He had to put his arm up and use his shirt sleeve to counter the smell. A thick film of dust covered the interior. The seats were torn in the usual places. Candy wrappers, soda cans, beer bottles, and fast-food bags littered the floorboards.
He didn’t see any paraphernalia. Then his gaze rested on a duffel bag in the back floorboard of the crew cab—partially unzipped. Using his flashlight, he shone it through the open window into the darkened opening of the bag. He saw cellophane wrapping with what looked like a dark green leafy substance inside the packing. Classic transport method for bricks of marijuana. Probably brought through the criminal-laden border with Mexico. Carried on the back of some poor soul just so they could earn entry into the country and have a chance for a better life.
Streets especially despised this type of drug trafficking. People were treated like property, forced to sacrifice everything for a chance to cross over. He couldn’t help but bore an angry glance at John the driver for being a part of that.
John recoiled, unable to hold eye contact. His legs began to tremor.
“Sir, what’s in the duffel bag?” Streets demanded. He knew the ‘plain view’ rule allowed him to seize the duffel of drugs sitting on the seat, but he wanted a response from the driver as well.
John the driver clenched up so tight, he could only squeak. Every bit of bluster had melted out of him.
“Sir, you realize I now have probable cause to open your vehicle and search it because I can see a bag of drugs in the back.”
John turned away and looked down at the feet of Officer Hines as if they could offer some solace.
Rage building, Streets wrenched open the door, yanked the duffle from the truck and threw it on the ground. John the driver looked down in shame and raised his hands defensively.
Looking at John like at any moment he might tear his head off, Streets jabbed his index finger at the duffel. “Open it.”
John stepped back and shook his head with nervous tics.
“OPEN IT,” Streets growled.
John looked at Officer Hines, who motioned his head toward the duffel. John hurried over, fell to his knees, and tore it open, ripping the zipper apart.
“Tell us what’s in it,” Streets demanded.
“Drugs,” John whimpered.
“What kind of drugs?” Streets pressed.
“Weed and pills,” John mewled.
“What is in the pills?”
John looked up to Streets and turned his hands up, shrugging.
Streets also shrugged before mock-asking, “Fentanyl?”
John shrugged again. Gasps of outrage could be heard from the others looking on.
John fell back on his haunches as Streets reached into his pocket for a nitrile glove and kneeled to have a closer look. With his gloved hand, he turned over the bricks of marijuana on top to reveal dozens of clear plastic bags filled with colored pills. Some looked like candy. Some bags had different color, shape, and size tablets. Some appeared to be lookalike prescription drugs, resembling Xanax and oxycodone. Some looked like treats meant for children. But Streets knew they were more likely fakes laced with fentanyl—a potentially deadly substitute. These counterfeit pills could easily be purchased by the target market—teenagers—through social media. It had become a deadly epidemic across the country.
