The Arrest
I’m writing these stories as I think of them and so there’s no real order. This one’s a pretty good one but I want to tell you 100%, don’t do this at home… Seriously.
This happened back in the summer of ’95 when I was in college, right after Betty and I had broken up. I’d moved into an apartment right across the street from the Humanities Building in Columbia, SC, mostly for convenience since all my classes were less than 5 minutes away.
Since I was right on the street, most of the time I’d just hang out in the front yard, having a drink and talking to other college kids walking by. After a while of this, I got used to the casual atmosphere and it was common for people I’d never met to stop to have a drink or just to shoot the shit.
One day, this guy stopped by and asked if he could borrow some butter (yeah, I know, I was also initially suspicious too). He said he and his girlfriend were making a cake or something and needed a stick if I could spare one. He looked like your standard long-haired hippie type, and at the time, so did I. I hadn’t shaved since I got out of the Army, hadn’t had a haircut, and due to my poor laundry skills, was wearing what looked to be a tie-dyed shirt.
We started bullshitting, he saw my hang-gliding certificate, we talked about rock-climbing, but the odd coincidence was that I sort of knew his girlfriend. Back when I lived with Betty, there was a guy who lived upstairs from me who made low-budget horror films. Well, I was in one of them because it was partially filmed in my house, but turned out that this guy’s girlfriend was the main lead! Small world.
Anyway, Spencer (Real name. Fuck him.) and Shannon (Also real name.) lived two doors down and so we ended up having a drink and chilling out for a bit. A few bourbons later, he drops this on me: “Hey man, you know anyone who could use some C-4?”
WTF? This was a few months after the Oklahoma City bombing and an Army buddy of mine was slightly wounded in it so I was more than shocked that some fucking hippie stoner had C-4. I didn’t say anything for a bit, then casually said that although I didn’t need any, I could ask around. He left with a stick of butter and I got out the phone book. First number — FBI. Answering machine. 2nd Number — ATF. Answering machine. Well fuck me. It was the weekend and everyone had gone home, I guessed.
At the time I was working in a little computer store and one of our customers was a local police Detective, so the next day I called him and told him what had happened. He told me he’d get me in touch with the right people and the next day I got a call from S.L.E.D., the State Law Enforcement Division. Unfortunately, Spencer was at my house at the time, so I answered vaguely and they gave me a number to call back.
I told Spencer that I was going to a gun show that weekend and that I planned on talking to the guys there, since they were pretty hardcore and I was sure someone would want it. He bolted and I called SLED back. We set up a time to meet and I headed out, full of pride in my civic duty. What a fucking dumbass.
I met with the SLED guy and told him what had gone down. They grilled me for about an hour and I told them every detail I could think of, then they asked me if I would be willing to wear a wire and get this guy off the street. HELL YEAH I would! How cool would that be? I was so enthusiastic that they finally mentioned they knew this guy and that he had a conviction for armed robbery. At this point, I should have known they weren’t playing me straight. They waited until I had already said I’d do it to tell me an incredibly important part of the story, that this guy was dangerous. Oh, I wasn’t worried at all. I was a combat vet and some fucking hippie didn’t scare me.
So I called up my parents and told them what I was doing, how I was going to wear a wire and bust a bad guy. They were so proud, how wonderful I was to step up, etc, etc, blah blah blah. A few days later, I talked to Spencer again and set up the buy.
I told him I had met a backwoods survivalist at the gun show who was all into machine guns and shit and he wanted to buy both bricks. Yeah, the stupid motherfucker had two bricks. If you don’t know, one brick a bit larger than a deck of cards will obliterate a car. We set the price at $1000 and the buy for the next evening at my house.
Next day dawns and I was humming like an engine at 10000 RPM. I was a “Confidential Informant” who was taking down a bad guy. Oh, and even getting paid!
My detective buddy had told me that the SLED guys would compensate me and that I may as well make a few hundred off the deal. I resisted at first, since I wanted my motives unquestioned, but I had a bunch of parking tickets that my previous roommate had racked up and I needed the money, so I swallowed my pride and talked to the SLED agent. I said I wasn’t looking for money but that I wanted my parking tickets to go away. Hey, I was helping them out, they could help me out. They ended up giving me $300 bucks to clear the tickets since it was easier than trying to work with a judge. Hey, it was all good. In retrospect, I think this may have changed their opinion of me. Not sure.
Anyway, the big day comes, and it’s time to get wired up! I thought they’d put it in my crotch, or around my stomach or something, but they ended up putting it around my right bicep, between my arm and ribs. Three agencies were involved — SLED, the city police, and the university police. We went over the plan which was as follows:
- Spencer shows up at my house.
- SLED agent shows up at my house.
- Spencer shows off his C-4.
- SLED guy says, “That’s some good C-4 there” and good guys bust in.
- Bad guy goes to jail for 5 years or more (that’s what they told me, at least) and I bask in knowledge of a job well done. Go ME!
Yeah. As they used to say in the Army, a plan is only good up until the first shot is fired. Anyway, the first few steps worked out. Spencer showed up, we had a drink waiting on the SLED agent, then he showed up.
Spencer tried to be all cool, but in the end, he pulled out a piece of white putty about the size of a marble and gave it to the SLED agent. The agent looked at it, then put it into my ash tray and lit it with a lighter. It burned white hot and was completely consumed. I couldn’t help it and asked, “So? Is it C-4?” He said, “Yep. That’s definitely
C-4.”
Fuck me.
The cops listening heard something that sounded close enough to the code phrase and busted in. We were handcuffed face-down on the floor and just stayed silent. Spencer, fucking rocket-scientist that he was said, “Dammit, Shannon told me this was a bad idea.” Good job Shannon. Now she’s complicit. The cops went over to his place and fortunately found the two bricks, so Spencer and Shannon were hauled off to jail. The cops all congratulated me on my bravery and for doing my duty, all of which I modestly took and then they left.
GO ME! How cool was that? In the next few days, I heard that they’d found the guy who had given the stuff to him and it was some dumb Army kid who needed money, so it wasn’t a big conspiracy, but even so, maybe I stopped someone from killing innocent civilians. That’s good, right? I paid off my parking tickets and things went back to normal.
Almost.
A few weeks later, I was in my favorite bar and a guy I kinda knew came up to me and told me that some guy named “Spencer” was looking for me, that I had ratted him out and that he was pretty pissed. I shrugged and told him I had no idea.
WHAT THE MOTHERFUCK?
I called up the SLED agent and said, “What the fuck is Spencer doing out of jail, let alone looking for me?” His response was beautiful and completely destroyed any illusions I’d had about the cops.
“I’ll talk to him,” he said. “Keeping quiet was a condition of his release.”
Turned out that to get him to turn over his source, they told Spencer I’d turned him in. Then they turned him loose. So this convicted armed robber who had tried to sell high explosive was back out on the streets the NEXT WEEK. Nice job, justice system.
The SLED agent promised to call Spencer and get him off my back, but by now I was really questioning my decision to help these rat-fucks at all. A few days later, I was back in the bar and same guy came up to me again and said, “Dude, Spencer is still looking for you. He’s pissed that you turned him in and even MORE pissed you ran to the cops and tattled.”
Well fuck me. So apparently the influence of the police wasn’t enough to keep this asshole away from me. At this point, there was really only one option left.
“Ok, here’s the deal. You tell Spencer that if I ever hear anything about this again, I’ll kill him. If I see him again, I’ll kill him. If someone comes up to me and says Spencer’s looking for me, I’ll kill him. I’m armed and no one will give a shit about some dead felon, but they will give me a fucking medal. I’m a goddam combat vet and the last thing in the world I’m going to worry about is some dumbass hippie who wants to kick my ass.”
Yeah, big words. I never heard from Spencer again. I also moved about a week later. Fuck that. I’m not going to sit in my living room and wonder if every person walking by has a shotgun. Of course, I broke my lease, and my landlord sued me. My lawyer landlord. My local lawyer landlord. So I went to court, told the judge the whole thing and he said that although there were mitigating circumstances, there was nothing he could do. Boom. Judgment for over $7000 against me.
So doing my duty cost me my apartment, a $7000+ judgment, and I looked over my shoulder until I left the state but hey…
At least I paid off my parking tickets.
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Warlizard has just released his new book, “The Warlizard Chronicles: Adventures with Vodka, Women and War” with over 200 pages of hilarious and bawdy, stories, anecdotes and advice.
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