From the full version of Sunnysides Lousy Book.
I didn't want to scare the cop with the guns I had sitting on the seat beside me so I got out of my truck and walked to the rear of it. Officer Rick Haltunen # 188 asked me if I knew what he pulled me over for. I said, "Speeding?" He said that he had clocked me at 54 miles an hour in a 35 zone.
I said, "Yeah, I've running around all night trying to lose people tailing me. Haven't you heard about me?"
I said, "It took me all night to lose them and if you don't let me go soon there's going to be all kinds of cars showing up, so please -- hurry up or let me go."
He looked at me and chuckled, "Yeah, in just a few minutes there is going to be a whole bunch of cop cars around here."
I found it too easy to believe he knew who I was because why would he have called for backups for just a routine traffic stop? Although I was drinking coffee, I realized right then, my second bottle of beer was open and sitting in the drink holder. Then I had the problem with having my stash in the truck.
I knew odds were against me and I was destined to be busted for a felony amount of pot. I'm sure he noticed I was really stressed out because I almost fainted and had to drop to my knees and begged him, "Just let me go please." I'm sure expected my reaction, because he had the help from Rodney's little pill.
I took the liberty to show him the synoptic I had written as a way of showing him I wasn't making up what I was experiencing. He looked at it and all it did was annoy him. He stuffed it back into my rear pocket, handcuffed me and put me in the back seat of his patrol car.
He seemed to have a game plan, because he was hesitant to search my truck until his buddy showed up.
Soon another Deputy, Roberts # 287 arrived at the scene. They were laughing at me and seemed to be having a hell of a good time. They searched my truck together and didn't pay any attention to the open bottle of beer or the other four beers left in the six pack. From the driver's door Roberts made a bee-line for behind the seat and pulled out the Fred Meyers shopping bag. He held it up in the air to show me what he had found.
Funny thing is: he only had one hand in the truck when he grabbed it and he didn't even take a look at what was inside it before he held it up into the air to show me that he had found the stash. They were laughing and Haltunen even mentioned to Roberts about how I reacted and said, "It must be some really good stuff." as if they weren't even talking about the pot.
Roberts # 287 helped Haltunen take a Becton-Dickinson "E" Test on my stash in the trunk of Haltunen's squad car. While doing the test, I wondered if they were behind me adding to the amount of pot.
Another thing showed me that the arrest was a setup, was when they examined the contents of my wallet. When Rick Haltunen pulled out the money, he and Roberts looked at each other with a sign of accomplishment. They had found what they expected to find. $180.00 of it was the money used to purchase the weed sold through Rodney the day before. I guess the cops had at least recorded the serial numbers before giving the money to Rodney's narks, because the look on their faces showed me that they knew the bills were
Loud mouth Roberts, being quite immature and unprofessional, was galloping around having fun telling me that I was going to go to jail for a felony. He asked, "How much do you owe on the truck?”
I said, "About 18,000."
Jumping around throwing his arms up in the air, he laughed and said "It's ours now!" He enjoyed trying to antagonize me. In my opinion he had no sense in his head at all. To make a person feel like they were going to take away something like a child is a very cruel thing for anyone to do. For a person to receive enjoy-ment from the agony of another person in such a way is not only a sure sign of sickness, but a true sign of being an asshole.
After the original arresting officer Rick Haltunen had already told me that I was under arrest, "for possession of a controlled substance," he came up to the back door of his squad car and opened the door. He was playing the game of trying to put words into my mouth by finishing my sentences for me.
He asked, "Do you know what you are under arrest for?"
Possession of a controlled substance?"
He jumped back and acted as if I was some kind of dumb shit for admitting guilt. I feel; having me answer such a stupid question is just one of the tricks crooked cops use to try to incriminate people. To know that we pay these guys to be our servants of the laws that govern us is appalling.
This reminds me about something I've read before. It said that only 35% of police officers were mentally and physical capable of meeting or exceeded the qualifications needed for the job. Mind you, this was in the years before Affirmative Action had so much control on who was being hired for such positions. So it is my guess is that less than 30 % of them meet the requirements now.
The Rodney King arrest that caused a riot in Los Angeles was a result of Affirmative Action. Since they have so many women on the police force now, the standard take down procedure is, "Beat them until they don't get up."
The third cop to arrive on the scene that morning was an older man, Deputy Hook # 296. Instead of making fun me, he just walked around my truck with a smile on his face. He only seemed interested in at looking at my truck. As I was sitting in the back of the squad car, he examined the system on the back of my truck. As he lifted up the tarp covering the mechanicals on the front of my system, I read his lips as he said, "He sure did a nice job."
As the tow truck arrived, Roberts and Haltunen were acting like a couple morons bragging about their fine catch. They had the driver so distracted that he forgot to take my truck out of park when he tried to drive off. I didn't like the fact that he didn't put the transfer case in neutral either.
Luckily they had the truck towed to the impound yard just behind the sheriff precinct's and only a few blocks away. If it would have been taken to a towing company's yard on the other side of town, my transmission could have been ruined. Not only that, but I would’ve had to pay storage fees on top of the $116 towing bill.
Since it was about to be parked in the impound yard, I asked Hultunen if he could park it around back out of sight from the road so people wouldn't be able to see it. Of course he did just the opposite, he put it right out in front where it could be seen from 112th Street and every cop that drove their cars through the gates.
They took many of my possessions out of my truck, such as a mini- photo album with personal pictures, my "Scalemaster," for measuring blue prints, the bag of plastic plugs and caps for hydraulic fittings, the "T"-fittings I'd just bought the week before, ear plugs, personal papers, and my military "Billy-club," but they didn't even look underneath the driver's seat.
I overheard them talking as if they suspected someone would be showing up to steal my truck. One of them came up with the idea to cover the front windshield with green maker paint they use to maker cars which are abandoned on the road side. I would imagine the paint covering 2/3rds of the windshield was so a person couldn't see well enough to drive the truck without taking the time to scrape it off. It was already sitting in an impounded and I was on my way to jail, so it was obvious
to me that they were talking as if someone else other than I would be trying to steal it.
Once inside the precinct, they locked me up inside a drunk-tank. It was a 4 by 8 brick room with a drain in the floor and nothing to sit on. The only window was a small one located in the middle of the door. Across the hall in a conference room, I could see the cops laying my possession out on a table while documenting their find. Other cops congregated around my property as if they were a bunch of kids checking out items on display.
All of a sudden the door opened up. A young blond rookie cop stood before me. He got into my face and said: "You’re in a whole bunch of trouble. We have got you big time. You're going to be put away for a long time. Now if you want to help yourself, it's best for you to tell me who your supplier is."
I don't know what you're talking about," I said.
He carried on with the drill and since I've heard that kind of crap before, he sounded like a punk to me. Then once he decided he wasn't getting anything out of me, he changed his pitch. Then he said, "We know who your supplier is. We're going to put you away for a long time."
I thought -- what a moron. He gave up and closed the door.
Yeah they knew who my supplier was alright, because they were the ones who were supplying the weed to my supplier. He just wanted to find out if I would snitch off someone so he could bad mouth me.
Later on another officer Terry Schmid # 37 stepped into the scene to help incriminate me some more. The police report says at about 9:00 A.M Officer Terry Schmid # 37 provided a flier belonging to the Lakewood Beautification and Clean-up Com-mittee. The flier provided was the so called evidence they used to stick me with a reckless driving infraction.
The flier was of a meeting at Burr's a restaurant on Steilacoom Boulevard at 7:00 A.M. five days prior to that day. I've since spoken to one of the persons involved with the clean up and he assured me that there were no kids or anyone from the committee out on the side of 112th street at 7:15 A.M. on the morning of the arrest.
Tell me, how many of you can get your kids up on a Saturday morning at 6:00 to pick up litter on the side of the road by seven? I’d more likely to believe, that the parent would’ve been sitting in a restaurant having coffee and donuts while their kids were still at home in bed.
Rick Haltunen filed charges on me for having a concealed weapon even though they had seen a concealed weapon permit in my wallet and even featured it in his report. Being as stupid as he is, he even filed a report with the wrong badge number # 297 for Roberts. Tell me who's smoking the weed? Or did Roberts use the wrong number #287 on his supplementary report? The eight does look kinna funny.
I have obtained a copy of the officer's arrest report. I use to publish the reports and court documents in the back of my books, (in the first forty copies of the first edition, when the book size was 8-1/2 by 11 inches in size.) However it’s not practical to do so anymore, so if you’re one of those people who think I could make all this shit up – just order a copy for yourself; it's public information and only cost a few dollars. Just contact the folks in Pierce County and ask for report No.95-273 0229 and judge
for yourself. I keep copies of the reports and documents inside my truck with me at all times -- because you never know when a cop might pull you over – and I’ve found that they can come in handy. I feel they are good for a laugh.
Update: They must have had quite-ah-bit of action on my records, because the last time I checked, they wanted a pretty penny them.
I found the police report filled with lies. Haltunen made it sound like I acted as a threat to him, He wrote that he approached the widow of my truck and noticed my guns, when in fact; I had gotten out of my truck and walked to the rear of it. As he handcuffed me he asked me if I had any weapons and that was when I said there were a couple guns inside the truck.
The report listed that I had a digital scale, but didn't mention it was the kind for measuring blue prints. It said I had fittings for hydroponics, but they were actually two J.I.C. “T”-type hydraulic fittings and a bag of plastic caps for plugging hydraulic hose assemblies.
While booking me into the jail, they gave me an opportunity to make a couple phone calls. The first call was to John, but his wife Marie answered the phone. I felt I would at least let them know that I wished they would have helped me out earlier in the morn-ing because I wouldn't have ended up in jail. Another reason for the call was to see how they would react as a way of figuring out if they had been informed of the game that was being played on me. She only responded with saying that she was glad they didn’t
help me because she felt they could have been bust for the passion of the drugs.
The other call was to my aunt. I figured my aunt and uncle might be of more help than my own family if it came down to bailing me out. I also knew she would inform the rest of my family.
As I was getting my mug shot taken and fingers printed, I was laying the story of conspiracy on to the jailer that was performing the admittance duties. In my back pocket I found the synoptic I had written and gave it to him for the same purpose I gave it to the arresting officer. He took it and said he was going to give it to the arresting officer which then would have to be put in into the police report.
When I first arrived in the cell block at the end of the hall, I noticed it was the only cell without a solid wall and solid door separating the hallway from the cell. The cell was open to the end of the hallway and partitioned off with the use of bars. It had a camera mounted into the ceiling just outside the cell and aimed at the bunk assigned to me.
Once inside, one of the prisoners warned me not to say anything about my case because it was known that they put cops in the jail cells as phony prisoners. Although this was true, and I understood what he said, I was beyond control of myself because of the drugs they managed to get into my system the night before.
A fellow inmate in the bunk next to mine was being released late that night and since I wasn't sure if I would see the light of day anytime soon, I informed him about my fire and what the city was doing to me. I asked him to call radio stations and the newspapers when he was out and tell them who I was and what was going on. I'm not sure if he did or not, but I had the feeling he wasn't going to get far with the story.
The cops came up with a game plan. They told the other prisoners in the cell that because of the overcrowding the pre-arraignment briefing was going to be done differently than the way it was normally done on the same day of arraignment. As an effort to speed up the normal procedures they were going to take some of them to another room to be briefed beforehand. The “make believe” special briefing was actually the way the prisoners were drafted into taking part of a game the city was about to play on me. They
instructed the prisoners to ask me certain questions that would lead me to self-incrimination.
A witty zit-faced crankster was main person used to interrogate me. He said, "You have to be on some pretty good stuff." I'm sure the other prisoners could tell I was looped on some kind of truth serum or something just as well. They found it difficult to believe that I had only smoked pot the night before. No matter what I said, they were insinuating I had to be on something much more powerful such as crystal-meth.
Most of the questions asked were about who I got my pot from and how much pot I had on hand when I got busted. I'm sure they were even told the answers the city wanted to get out of me. When I mentioned, Rodney's, name the prisoners got excited and said, "He named his snitch!" Similar reactions took place when I would mention my suspicions about Dave. The guy they use to interrogate me tried to get me to say that I had sold pot to Dave. Because of the questions and the reactions to such names,
I could tell the cops knew who I had been selling pot to. The crankster even found a way to ask me whether I had paid my taxes. They drilled me so hard I found myself shedding a few tears. Although most of the inmates got a kick out of the cruel game; others grew old to it and began to feel sorry for me.
Most prisoners have heard stories of conspiracy from drug addicts before and they were reluctant to take my story about the conspiracy seriously. One of the inmates realized that I was telling the truth and didn't like the cruel game being played on me. It wasn't long before he spoke up in my support. He said he had been in the squad car that was just behind the one that brought me into the entrance of the jail. He said while he was in the back of the squad car he heard the conversations over the police radio
about me. He said the cops making a big deal about me being the guy who owned the super truck. His testimony gave my story creditability to many of the inmates and they became “seriously” more interested in what I had to say. The result of the inmate's testimony was the impression among the inmates was that I wasn't just the whacked out drug addict the city’s cops portrayed me to be. Within minutes I had become the guy with a "super truck," and the inmates were even more interested in learning more
I had to be careful about how I presented myself because I was well aware that just as there could be plain clothes cops in the cell, one would have to consider there would be supporters of Affirmative Action. Since a high percentage of the inmates were minorities, anyone would realizes, it was the last place someone like me would want to create enemies. However, the opposite reaction was received by most of the minorities; they became fairly supportive because they realized just how corruption has grown
rapid within the Justus System. They pretty much kept the supporters of AA at bay if you ask me. Or maybe it was that I treated everyone the same and they realized that I showed no favoritism to anyone of any race. But in my opinion, none of the prisoners had ever had any instances where AA had worked in their favor, nor did they ever take advantage of the preference laws, so AA really had no value to them and they didn't care about it.
In retaliation to the new status, the city decided to come up with plan "B". They said a newspaper reporter was there wanting to take some statements from some of the inmates. They removed most of the inmates from the cell once again.
After a short amount of time, they brought the inmates back into the cell with pink sheets of paper in hand. (I can only wish I would have asked to see one. Still to this day I wonder what was printed on them.)
I'm sure the cops had instructed them to ask questions pertaining to information they had found on my computer because the inmates were even more excited having more informative and incriminating questions to ask than the standard drug user type questions. I'm sure the inmates were mislead to think that they would be better off if there wasn't a patent issued on the super truck, The inmates were in on to what they thought was a plan to cheat me out of patent rights. They acted as if their manipulation could
cheat me out of patent rights on the super truck. At least the plan was to try to make me feel as though the cops would use such statements against me in an effort to disqualify me for the patents I was trying to obtain.
They tried to incriminate me with questions as to whether any of my friends knew about my truck. They were trying to get me to disclose my inventions to them, but I would get them all riled up and stall just short on things which were not lead on by themselves.
Not only did the inmates get a kick out of how emotional I got, but it was also entertaining to an older chubby man in a sheriff’s uniform standing just outside the bars underneath the surveillance camera. He had a small tape recorder in his pocket and as a way to antagonize me and he made an issue out of the fact that he had recorded everything on tape. You can be sure he wanted me to hear one of the comments he said to one of the prisoners, -- "I wonder if he'll try to hang myself."
When the city felt they had what they wanted, and about all that they were going to get out of me, the inmates were instructed to sign the pink paper forms and hand them over to the cop as if they were some kind of witness testimony for the concocted newspaper reporter.
Stupid Rule Number 50: Sometimes things just backfire.
The little game the city wanted to play on me didn't ruin my creditability with my inmates as they had hoped. My cellmates began using the phone to call their buddies in other cells down the hall. Before long; the inmates in the multiple cell-blocks were jumping with excitement with the information they received from the holding cell at the end of the hall. As a result, the inmates throughout the jail began to refer to me as, "Truck Man."
My fellow inmates’ attitudes began to change because they were the ones sharing a cage with a celebrity.
Another strange occurrence was when a character was put into the cell with us. I don't know if he was placed there on purpose but whether or not he was a true hydraulic mechanic, is another question. He seemed like a typical drunk with his hands and arms stained with grease and oil. It’s my guess he was put into the cell to intimidate me or to convince others that I didn't know jack shit about hydraulics. He was saying shit like since I didn't have oily hands like his; I couldn't be a hydraulic specialist
and couldn't have invented such a super truck.
I thought of him as a dumb shit looking for a fight. I didn't need to prove to him whether I was a hydraulic mechanic or not. Though I hadn't worked in the field, I thought it was funny that I was the smart one to come up with something he or anyone in his field never did. I was proud that I was an individual that taught himself hydraulics without being involved with any hydraulic specialist, especially one like him because he was sure a moron.
After freaking out all Saturday night and not being able to sleep; I found another surprise sitting in front of me Sunday morning. It was part of the Sunday newspaper that made its way into the cell. Placed right in front of me on the table was the business section. In the "New Business Listings," was a listing of a business called, "Synchronized Incorporated." It listed an address on 108th Street S.W., which so happened to be near the impound yard where the crooks had my truck.
I find it hard to come up with the words to describe the feeling that came over me, because it has something to do with the feeling of being powerless and not being able to do anything about what is going on outside the walls that confined me. I felt as if, my baby was kidnapped. I could only wonder who the cops were showing my truck to. I felt as if I was being raped by the local government and their constituents.
Once I'd come down off the drugs that had been put into my system and the inmates had found my creditability, we talked about other aspects of who I was and what I'd been through. We talked about everything from my faith in God, to what kind of guns I'd been packing. One of my inmates said that the 40mm Firestars® I owned were good guns, and one would have to agree when it comes comparing the cost the $325 gun to other of the same quality, you'd find yourself in the $500-$600 bracket real easily. I
liked the fact that they were compacts and I could load them with mixed loads and they would never jam.
My sister Dana and my brother in-law Boob Head, tried to visit me while I was in jail, but after removing me from the cell, the city decided not to let me see them. I wonder if it was because my sister might realize I was far from being myself, or if the city wanted to keep me isolated from the outside world in an effort to terrorize me even more. They put me in a room by myself with windows facing a window of another cell across the hall. Inside the cell across the hall were inmates standing in a circle with
their hands joined together in a ceremony of prayer. I wondered if they put me in the room to see if I would end up praying myself when I noticed the group in prayer. Although I wondered if it was staged, I wasn't afraid of joining in with my own prayer and wishing I would have been assigned to a cell with guys of such faith. We said our prayers and in about a half hour I was returned to the cell at the end of the hall.
Monday morning, I woke up in jail and I noticed for the first time in several days I could feel my cheeks again. I realized I had been heavily drugged and I hadn’t sleep in days.
It was time to appear before a judge. As we were gathered together in a predetermined order to be put together on a chain gang, it was no secrete I had become a celebrity. As we were marched down the hall, inmates were huddled to the small windows placed with the holding cell doors. To say the least; "Truck Man," was the word of the day. We were lead through a number of chain link holding areas inside mechanical rooms of the building on as back way to the court room. A game they played on me in
route to the court room was that they were insinuating that they were going to put me together with a guy they had chained next to me who liked butt fucking other inmates. They suggested that I was going to be assaulted by him and a guard even mentioned he'd supply the butt fucker with a condom if he wanted one. He played into it by handing the guy next to me on the chain gang something that was supposed to resemble a condom. (I think it was a balloon.)
As the chain gang was in a chain link holding area within the room mechanicals, we sat on bench type seats encircling a ten by twelve cage. I could see some kind of chalk board or just graffiti written high up on a wall outside the cage. On it I saw a name under the word "Drummer" with a name or two underneath it. On the panel next to it, under the word "Snitches," was the name Rodney.
Rule Number: 40
It made me recall the time when I was at a jam session in Puyallup and the coattail waitress told me that Rodney was a snitch. At the time I had considered Rodney a close friend and I had known him for what I thought had been a long time by then. Rodney and I had smoked pot together numerous times over the year, so I found it hard to believe her. I had to wonder if it was an effort to have me distant myself from any friends I had at the time, because outsiders were the ones who had been playing games on
me up to that point in time. Needless to say, once I saw the writing on the wall, I found it much easier to believe her.
Once we were inside the last holding room consisting of sheetrock walls, we were unchained. While we were waiting to speak to an attorney prior to being placed in front of a judge, I found something to be quite amusing. The inmates who had made fun of me because I'd spoke openly about my faith in God were on their knees doing their best at praying to the good lord.
Things were mixed as far as how the inmates treated me the rest of the day. Some came back from talking to their attorneys saying they were annoyed that I was getting let off because I was worth a lot of money. Some were nice to me, but others were even set-up to frighten me as if I was in a lot of trouble. This one black guy with hardly any teeth, referred to as the Orting rapist, tried to act like he was my buddy. He as well as a few others said, that the city was going to throw the book at me and that
I was going to be put away for a long time. The Orting rapist advised me to pretend I was insane. He said, if I did so, I would find myself in Western State Mental Hospital. He said if I played the game right I would get out in about six months and get a disability check for $800 per month. Yeah right, I thought. I'd bet that was one of the options the city had in mind and they would've turned me into a zombie for sure. I'd get out in six months with no sense in my head at all.
Monday night I found myself the second to the last guy to get out of jail. The last guy in the cell with me was the interrogator that said he was busted for trying to sell bunk crank to cops and he knew they were cops when he did it. He acted as if it was fun being in jail hanging out with his buddies for a few days, "Get some free food and get a good stench on." In the end, I realized he had a surprisingly good relationship with the cops.
When I finally did get out; they didn't give back my keys as they are suppose to. I'm sure the reasoning behind it was that they had the key to my safe deposit box.
With a little persuasion, I did get to see my mug shot before I was signed out. I looked as I've never seen myself before. My eyes looked as if they were going to pop out of my head. I told the jailer and laughed, "You better get that guy off the street." It's quite clear to me that anyone who knows me would say that they've never seen me looking like the person in the mug shot.
I continued to harass the jailer about how my truck was impounded only a couple of blocks away from a new business that was being listed in the newspaper as Synchronized Incorporated. I’d tore the listing out of the newspaper and took it home with me. I ended up showing it to my brother in-law and my friend Ken. Therefore nobody can say I just made up the story.
My brother in-law picked me up from jail. He did the noble thing and drove me over to Mac Donald's for a burger. He stressed I should find a steady job because the court system doesn't like to have guys sitting around without a job. He said that the court system thinks it is too easy for such guys to find trouble if they're not working, and a judge is less likely to give jail time to a person with a job. As he was advising me so, I was looking out the window at warehouses along Center Street and my heart
was telling me I should be doing something more important like incorporating and setting up shop just as I wanted before being arrested.
When I got at home, I had to break into my trailer....
Tuesday morning about 4:00 am I had problems trying to sleep. I thought it might be easier if I had some cigarettes and drinking water so I decided to drive my old truck up to the Seven Eleven on 56th Street. On the way it accrued to me the bust had been a setup from the get-go. I felt as if being put in jail might have been a joke the town had played on me and if I was in serious trouble, I wouldn't have been let out.
I woke up with a positive attitude. Just a trip up to the neighborhood grocery store, I knew it was time to walk a straight line because everyone's eyes were obviously on me. For the first part of the day it seemed like most people around me were laughing it off. I felt the people around town were well aware of the game that had been played on me. I wasn't really too worried about it the court process ahead because I felt people knew I was some of importance just as my found celebrity status in the local jail.
One of the prerequisites for having my truck released was to pay off the towing bill. Once in the office of the towing company, I got a strange impression from the situation. I felt the office was over-crowded on purpose. I had a feeling Affirmative Action had packed the place with artificial customers. I wasn't getting any-where with the service and after a while I became uncomfortable so I decided to leave and returned later. I stopped by with my sister's place and told my brother in-law about what I'd just
experienced. I'm sure Boob Head felt I was just imagining the situation at the towing office. However; he agreed to go with me on my next trip and with a big guy along with me, I got the service a person would expect.
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