Play Dead (Part 12)

I’m Fixin’ To Play Dead (Part 12).

Leon and I had been progressing toward establishing a bond of trust and friendship through our conversation during the initial part of our drive from Birmingham to Atlanta, when he suddenly announced with great alarm that the law was fixing to pull us over. I turned and looked through the back-glass, and sure enough right on our rear bumper was an Alabama State Trooper’s cruiser with its blue light flashing, causing cascades of blinking blue lights to eerily flood over the inside of the cab of the old truck.

I quickly glanced down at the speedometer and saw that we were only traveling 35 miles per hour. “Just pull over and play it cool,” I told Leon. “Everything will be okay. He’ll probably just give you a ticket for going below the minimum speed on the expressway.”

Leon maneuvered the truck off to the shoulder of the expressway, muttering in a shaking voice as he did so. Once both vehicles were stopped I looked back and saw the trooper exit his cruiser and put on his wide brimmed hat. Even though it was almost completely dark now, he was still wearing a pair of classic, mirrored Ray-Ban sunglasses.

I also noted that he was a large man who did not look happy when he arrived at the driver’s side window of the truck and placed his big meaty hands on the edge of the door. At this point he let out a big sigh and in a deep and gravelly voice said, “Need to see your license and proof of insurance.”

Leon fumbled nervously with his wallet, but finally produced his driver’s license and surrendered it to the trooper, who examined it closely before he said, “Is there something wrong with your truck, Mister Martin?”

“No-no-no, sir. Ain’t nothing wrong with my truck,” Leon stammered.

“Then would you mind telling me why the heck you was only doing 35 miles an hour. Don’t you know that this is an expressway with a minimum speed as well as a maximum one?”

“Yes, sir, I reckon I know that. We just got to talking, that’s all.”

The trooper shined his flashlight beam over on my face and asked Leon, “Who’s that boy you got with you?”

“Uh, that there is just my friend Sonny Boy, sir.”

Thankfully, he took his light off of me and said, “Where’s that insurance card, Mister Martin?”

Leon began to fumble inside his wallet again with a little more urgency. “I know it’s here somewhere, sir, but I can’t seem to find that little old card. It could be mixed in with all the papers in my glove box.”

A smirk appeared on the trooper’s face just before he said, “Don’t you know it’s against the law to be driving without insurance?”

“Uh, yes, sir, I do know that. I just must have misplaced my card. I know it’s here somewhere.”

I could tell that Leon was getting flustered and figured he probably didn’t have any insurance on his old truck. I wanted to do or say something to help him, but couldn’t think of either.

“Where you boys headed?” the trooper asked.

“We-we-we headed toward Atlanta, sir,” Leon answered.

I breathed a great sigh of relief, and I could hear Leon doing the same, when the trooper said, “I’m going to give you a break, old man. But I better not see you on my expressway again. Now move this piece of crap out of here.” He didn’t wait for a response, just turned and walked back toward his cruiser.

Leon pulled the gearshift into drive, looked for an opening in the traffic, and then shot back out onto the expressway immediately pushing the old truck up to a speed of 65 miles an hour. We drove for about 10 minutes without either of us saying anything. Finally, I broke the silence when I said, “You all right, Leon?”

He took a deep breath, relaxed his grip on the wheel and said, “Yeah, I’m okay. It’s just that I get a little nervous around cops with what I been through.”

“I understand,” I told him. “You mind telling me what you went to prison for?”

“Naw, I don’t mind, it was for bank robbery.”

“You robbed a bank!”

“Not a bank—banks,” Leon responded.

“How many?”

“Over a period of six months I robbed seven of them.”

“Man! Did you get a lot of money?”

“Oh yea. I stole a pile of money, but I gambled it all away. That’s how they caught me. I went all the way to Nevada before they did though. I hung out there too long, not knowing the bills were marked. They extradited me back to Alabama and locked me up for 25 years. But wait a minute, we’re supposed to be talking about you.

You said you was going to tell me what was going on, why we going to Atlanta and how I’m supposed to be fixing to earn that five thousand.”