Section 2 of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms reads as follows:
Everyone has the following fundamental freedoms:
(a) freedom of conscience and religion;
(b) freedom of thought, belief, opinion and expression, including freedom of the press and other media of communication;
(c) freedom of peaceful assembly; and
(d) freedom of association.
Be proud of your beliefs. Stand up and make your voice be heard. Gather together, march for your cause, and sing your allegiances.
But to hide behind the anonymity of a balaclava while wrecking havoc in the pursuit of your cause lessens the cause you are so desperately trying to support.
“A car behind me honked its horn and I noticed that I had slowed down to under thirty miles an hour. It occurred to me that with clever gadgetry you could easily chart the emotional state of a driver from his variations in speed and aggression at the wheel.
I considered the idea of cars having sensors installed which would pick up driving inconsistencies and calculate their cause by reference to some electronic table compiled by a competent psychologist. The data collected from this table would then send signals to a display on the roof.
‘Attention! The driver of this car has just had a terrible row with his wife.’
‘This driver is besotted with his new mistress.’
‘This driver is in a foul bate after being unable to find his spectacles this morning.’
‘This driver is in an even, equatable temper.’ “
I was convinced, as that retired police commissioner used to say, that it would constitute a major contribution to road safety.”
– Stephen Fry, The Hippopotamus
Even in a work of fiction it appears our driving habits are an issue. I simply love the gadget idea as described by Mr. Fry, particularly the bit about having a sensor that picks up on driving inconsistencies. If only it were so easy!
A few years ago a research group conducted a study on VPD officers. On duty officers were hooked up to heart rate and blood pressure monitors, the readings of which were recorded over the course of the entire shift. As expected, heart rate and blood pressure went up, sometimes way up, when officers responded to a priority call and readings remained elevated for quite some time afterwards. I touched on this earlier this year when I attended a medical checkup thirty minutes after being involved in a pursuit. Even though I felt relaxed and calm, my blood pressure was still elevated.
I wonder what Fry’s gadget above my police car would have said?
A study I would like to see is one where the eye movements of police officers are measured to try and get a read on how much of the road in front of them they scan. I know I’m constantly scanning the road ahead of my vehicle looking out for everything from other drivers, pedestrians, cyclists, obstacles and suspects. My scanning goes into overdrive when driving Code Three, where my safety, the safety of other people on the road and the safety of the citizens I’m trying to help is paramount – I’m no use to anyone if I don’t make it to the call because I’ve been involved in an accident.
Then I’d like to see the study compared to a similar one of drivers with a high-crash ratio. What don’t those drivers see? Are they really only looking at the ten foot section of road directly in front of their vehicle? Are they looking at their mp3 player, cell phone or the pretty woman/handsome man on the sidewalk? Or do they sit hunched over their steering wheel staring at the bumper of the car in front of them, completely oblivious to everything around them?
Inquiring minds would like to know.
In the time between issuing the excessive speeding ticket and our the first court date, the Street Racing Hot Line worked out the wrinkles in their new system and figured out how to deal with Mr Corvette Driver. As a result, Mr. CD had his licence revoked for a number of weeks and he found himself wallowing in the ranks of prohibited drivers.
On our first court date Mr. CD was more than thirty minutes late for his appearance. This did not go over well with the Justice of the Peace, who sternly asked for an explanation as to his tardiness. Mr. CD showed great humility and gave the court his apologies, saying he had missed one of the three public transit buses required to get him from his home to the court house.
The JP gave this some thought before accepting Mr. CD’s apology, and then sent him to registrar to set another date with the warning to NOT be late for his second court appearance.
When Mr. CD sputtered and asked why his case couldn’t be heard then, the JP said there were other cases to be heard whose defendants had been on time.
I love a judge with a good, healthy sense of justice, don’t you?
Our second court date came around a few weeks later. With only a few moments to spare before the courtroom opened, I still had not seen Mr. CD when scanning the numerous faces waiting in the corridor. Sprinkled in among defendants were other police officers and bylaw officers. I recognized one motorcycle officer and went over to say hello. We ended up talking about the reasons we were in court this day, and shortly after realized we both had previous dealings with Mr. CD.
I was frustrated the defendant was not yet at the courthouse; I suggested perhaps Mr. CD had missed his bus and it was the following reactionary comment from my motorcycle colleague that can be described only as divine intervention.
“What are you talking about? Mr. CD’s already here. I saw his car parked outside,” he said.
The next few moments were a flurry of Q & A, and by the end of it we had determined the following:
- Mr. CD’s driver’s licence had been revoked and he was currently a prohibited driver
- Driving while prohibited is an arrestable offence
- While none of the police officers present at court could put Mr. CD behind the wheel, Mr. CD’s bright blue Corvette was parked out front of the court house
- A check of the licence plate on the Corvette confirmed Mr. CD as the registered owner
- the probability of Mr. CD being the one to have driven the Corvette to the courthouse was high
- my motorcycle colleague was going to sit in on the trial and watch, as he knew Mr. CD could get up to some serious shenanigans when in court.
As I took my place in the court gallery beside the motorcycle officer I looked around. The one person I was searching for was absent, but just as proceedings were about to begin Mr. CD snuck in the door and took his seat.
The Justice of the Peace went around the room, everyone stated their names, and cases were called to the bench. All the guilty pleas were heard first, fines and adjusted payment schedules were doled out, and time ticked down to when we would take the stand.
Finally, we were called.
The two of us stepped forward and proceedings began with my taking the witness stand and explaining the facts as they occurred in the original street racing post. Mr. CD then had the chance to cross examine me, which he did. That’s when it got weird.
Between questions on how long I had been a police officer and inquiries if I had ever been permitted to give expert testimony on my ability to give a visual estimation of a vehicle’s speed, Mr. CD introduced his argument that there was no way, in the 1.5 blocks we had travelled on the date of the alleged infraction, that a Crown Victoria weighing in at xxx pounds could have reached a velocity of xxx kilometers an hour, even if travelling at a high rate of speed down a hill with a 5% grade. And yes, that’s really how he talked.
After much deliberation of the calibration of my police vehicle’s speedometer, of my years experience as a driver, and of the sheer ridiculous thought that Mr. CD had been street racing on the day in question, the JP finally instructed Mr. CD to get to the point.
Mr. CD held his tablet of notes up with a flourish and he paced back and forth as he started his cross examination. Several of his questions prompted a terse response from the bench with direction to keep the questions on subject, and when such a demand is made after the JP pushes his glasses to the end of his nose so he can better visually penetrate the person he is looking at, you had better heed the warning
Eventually, Mr. CD took the witness stand and gave his version of events. He denied almost everything, saying he had been driving at the speed limit, admitting only to exchanging words with the motorcycle riders; he said they simply commented on his nice car. He even went so far as to say his beloved blue Corvette was in storage as he was abiding by the driving prohibition he had been issued.
It was at this point my motorcycle officer colleague quietly slipped out of the courtroom. I’m the only one who noticed.
At the end of the traffic trial, the Justice of the Peace found Mr. CD guilty of the excessive speeding infraction, stating the validity of the officer’s evidence weighed heavily on his decision. Mr. CD did not have his fine reduced, but he was given an extra few months to pay it down. Mr. CD gathered his papers together, stuffed them in his briefcase and stormed out of the courtroom.
I gave the customary bow to the JP and pushed out of the courtroom door only to find my motorcycle officer friend waiting outside. He saw me and quickly pulled me into a nearby doorway.
“We have his car under surveillance. If he drives, we’ll have him,” he said in a conspirator’s whisper.
We turned our radios to the channel the traffic officers were using and listened to them give updates as Mr. CD was followed covertly out of the courthouse.
“He’s walking down the sidewalk. He’s out on the street walking towards the driver’s door of the Corvette.”
A two second pause.
“Shit! A patrol car turned down the street – he stepped away from the car and back to the sidewalk!”
Another pause, this time a little longer.
“He’s back at the Corvette. He’s opening the door and he’s in the driver’s seat. Ignition. We have ignition!” the excited voice exclaimed, “He’s northbound on Hornby!”
Moments later, with a news TV crew in tow, one of the motorcycle officers stopped the Corvette, handcuffed Mr. CD, and arrested him for driving while prohibited.
God knows where the TV news crew came from, but the entire incident made the 6 o’clock news that night.
Their story was a thing of beauty.
Karma – the force generated by a person’s actions to perpetuate transmigration and in its ethical consequences to determine the nature of the person’s next existence
Before continuing with the saga of The Street Racer, it’s important that everyone understands what happens when a driver attends traffic court in order to dispute a ticket issued to them by an officer. Several sites outline the process in detail – The Provincial Court of British Columbia, The Canadian Bar Association, Courts of BC, and a Vancouver Sun article gives a fly on the wall perspective.
Here is a Cole’s Notes version of what takes place in traffic court – keep in mind this is an extremely basic explanation:
- When you dispute a ticket you are given a date and time to attend traffic court
- When your day in court arrives, go to your designated courtroom – do not be late. Do not wear a hat, or if you do, make sure to take it off when you walk in to the court room. Be respectful. Know what you are going to say.
- You will be asked by the Judicial Justice of the Peace (the ‘judge’) if you are going to plead guilty or not guilty. Many people stall at this point, as they want to plead guilty but simply have an issue with paying the fine. If this is the case, say you want to plead guilty with an explanation
- If you plead guilty, or guilty with an explanation, the Justice of the Peace will discuss the infraction and fine with you to come to an agreement over payment/time to pay etc.
- If you plead not guilty, then both you and the officer who issued the ticket will get to tell your own sides of the story. There are usually no lawyers involved, unless the disputant is raising a legal issue (see links above). You will have the opportunity to question/cross examine the officer, and vice versa
- The Justice of the Peace then makes their decision and hands down their judgement
So there you go - a little bit of background to set the stage.
Several years ago while working in a plainclothes general patrol capacity, my partner and I came up behind three motorcycles and one bright blue Corvette lined up at a red light. It was obvious the motorcycles were not with the Corvette as the riders were checking out the sports car with some admiration.
The driver of the Corvette noticed them noticing so he inched his car forward to come alongside the nearest rider. The driver’s side window came down, an arm extended out of the opening, words were exchanged, and the helmeted head of the nearest rider jerked up in the gesture, “What, you wanna go?”
Apparently the Corvette driver did – the light changed to green and all four of them were off, their tires spitting up debris from the roadway to pepper the front of our car.
Our province had just introduced a zero tolerance policy on street racing, and by golly, we had ourselves a street race unfolding right in front of us.
We went after them and so intent were they on their race that not one of them noticed the dark grey, unmarked Crown Victoria bearing down on them.
We clocked them at 100kms/hr, downhill, through a road construction zone (it was after the work day so no work crews were around) and they were still accelerating towards the next red light when we hit the lights and siren. They had to be stopped before they killed someone.
The motorcycles immediately slowed and started to pull to the side. The Corvette, on the other hand, made a hard left hand turn down a side street and sped out of sight. We chose to stay with the motorcycles and radioed in the licence plate and direction of travel on the Corvette. As several other police units were already headed to the area the Corvette was stopped a couple of blocks away by a responding cruiser.
By the end of it, after a call to the 24 hour police-only line designated for street racing incidents, the three bike riders were each issued with a driving prohibition (if I recall, each was for 30 days) and got to watch as their motorcycles were slung onto tow truck and impounded. To give the riders credit, they were polite, cooperative and apologized for their actions. I almost felt sorry for them, but not quite. I’ve seen what happens when street races go awry, and it’s devastating when innocent people are killed and maimed. We handed them their prohibitions and sent them away in a taxi.
The Corvette driver was an entirely different story.
He was arrogant, rude and tried to speak in the volumes of legal-eeze that showed he was a frequent flier in traffic court. He first refused to hand me his drivers licence, but acceded when he saw there was no point, then he called me sweetheart, and then he said he’d sue me for a ‘wrongful police stop’ and have my job. In other words, he was annoying. I mean, really annoying. But, as I say to others, don’t let it get personal and just do your job. So we did. With gritted teeth.
Here was the kicker, though – the Corvette driver held an out of province drivers licence, and at that time, with street racing legislation still in the infant stages, there was no recommendation on what to do in a situation like the one we faced. A missed loophole stated the street racing legislation was effective only for drivers holding a BC licence.
We ended up issuing the man a ticket and fine for excessive speeding. That’s all we had the power to do at the time, and somehow it just didn’t sit right. We had already dealt with the motorcycle riders, and I thought either all of them should get the same prohibition, or none of them. Keep it fair, right? The people at the street-racing line let us know they would look into it and would liase with the man’s home province to try and figure out what to do.
We had to let the Corvette driver proceed. He grinned his smarmy grin, gave us a ta-ta wave with his ticket, buckled up and started his engine.
“I’ll see you ladies in court,” he said, and blew us a kiss as he drove away.
Coming up next in Part 2, read how the traffic court dates unfold and what happens after.
Today I joined the team of writers over in the Driving Section of The Vancouver Sun newspaper, where the Friday edition will include various traffic related posts from Behind the Blue Line.
Many thanks to editor Keith Morgan for the wonderful opportunity, and to the rest of the team for being so welcoming.
Now I’m off to negotiate my way through the stop sign near my home in an effort to get some errands done…wish me luck.
Thanks for reading!
Sandra
The alley was lit by the faint glow of street lights. Overhead power lines crisscrossed the piece of sky visible between the buildings and turned the night into a patchwork quilt. Garbage bins lined the angles at the bottom corners of buildings, spilling refuse in scattered piles.
“Breathe, damn it,” my partner said, and thumped the man’s chest for the third time.
We had been walking our beat in the Downtown Eastside when a woman told us of a man unconscious from a drug overdose. We were directed to this alley, where we found the man slumped in a filthy alcove.
A needle was stuck in his arm and his head lolled to the side when we tried to wake him, and I knew the man was dying. We pulled him from the alcove and radioed for an ambulance.
Kneeling beside the motionless form, my partner pressed his fingers to the side of the man’s neck and threw me a grim look. He couldn’t find a pulse. My partner wiped the back of wrist across his mouth in an unconscious gesture.
We could not perform mouth to mouth on this man. He was an IV drug user in an area where Hepatitis C and HIV were rampant, and we could simply not risk becoming infected.
I felt horrible for it.
Joining my partner in a crouch, I looked closer. The man’s face was hard from years of drug use and covered in grizzled stubble. Scabs scattered across his cheeks, and a lock of greasy hair fell across his brow. He could have been anyone.
Surely, though, he was someone.
He was someone’s son. He had loved, played, been a part of someone’s life. He had fears, goals, likes and dislikes. His addiction did not make him inhuman, it only made him addicted.
If not for the addiction he could have been me.
Faint sirens floated on the air, coming closer, and I placed my own fingers on the side of his neck. His skin was warm and supple, but there was no heartbeat. My hands moved to his chest.
Stillness.
I looked away and willed the ambulance to hurry. He could not die like this, in squalor. In the cold, outside, lying mere feet from a rank mound of human waste. It was not right.
Gripping the man under his arms, I cradled his head against my belly and dragged him into the center of the lane, away from the unspeakable. My partner helped me lower him to the ground, and we stood watch.
Within moments, an ambulance came into the lane and the paramedics were a blur of controlled chaos. The man’s clothing was cut off, heart rate monitors were attached to his pale chest, and a breathing tube was forced into his airway.
A pair of gloved hands with laced fingers pushed his ribcage up and down, up and down, up and down.
A flash caught my eye as one medic produced a small glass vial. She dipped a needle into the cap and withdrew a syringe full of liquid. Quickly checking the amount, she plunged it into the man’s arm, forcing the dose of Narcan into the man’s veins.
We waited. Hands pumped ribs. The breathing tube made a low sucking noise. Seconds felt like hours. Minutes felt like forever.
Then, as if rising for the first time, the man’s eyelids fluttered and then flew open as he drew in a great rasping breath. His hand clawed at the breathing tube, and he succeeded in pulling it out.
The initial breath was followed by a second, and then a third.
His eyes, a startlingly beautiful blue, blinked up at us, and tears coursed from the corners to be lost in the hair at his temples as he tried to fathom where and who he was.
Another one, brought back from certain death.
“Two-fox-nineteen,” an officer said over the radio, “I’ve been flagged down by a staff member from the Noname Bank located at the corner of Something St and Nowhere Ave. There’s a male inside the bank causing a disturbance and they need help having him removed.”
“Ten-four,” dispatch responded.
I was sitting in my car at that intersection so I radioed in that I was also at the bank and would assist. After being briefed by the officer, we approached the bank entrance together.
____________
The main doors led into the ATM machine area, which was separated from the rest of the bank by a set of glass doors and a glass wall.
I had time to take in a woman and a young child at the ATM when a flash of yellow drew my attention to the inside of the bank.
The flash of yellow was the jacket on a security guard. He was darting around on the other side of the glass and pointing frantically to another area of the bank. Several staff members were running around behind him, and one woman ducked beneath the counter.
“Oh shit,” I said under my breath, and my hand dropped to my sidearm.
“Radio to the units at the bank,” our dispatcher broke in, her voice full of concern, “The manager’s on the line – there’s a man with a gun inside the bank.”
____________
The officer with me went to contain the other exit as I drew my pistol and started to take cover.
Then I remembered the woman and child at the ATM – they would be in clear view of anyone inside the bank and would make ideal hostages. I could not go to them as I did not want the gunman to know the police were there, so I stayed rooted in the doorway and called out to them.
The woman turned and gasped, drawing her daughter tight to her side when she saw my uniform and gun. I told her to come to me NOW but she balked.
“What’s wrong?” she asked in a whisper.
“There’s a man with a gun inside the bank and I need you and your daughter to come here now,” I said, beckoning her with my free hand. I hoped she could tell by the tone of my voice that I was not messing around.
The woman instinctively placed her body between her child and the doors of the bank and started towards me. Just when I thought she was going to be out of harm’s way the woman stopped and pointed backwards.
“My bank card!”
And with that she stepped back to the machine with her child, pressed a button, and waited for the machine to spit her card out.
____________
The call ended minutes later. The suspect was in custody, no one was injured, the bank was secure.
And my mind was still reeling at the fact the mother actually thought it was okay to retrieve her bank card.
____________
People act differently when placed under stress. I understand that.
But I’m a mom. If I were at an ATM with my kids and a cop showed up in the doorway with her gun drawn and told me to beat feet, I’d not second guess her. My kids would be tucked up under my arms like two over-sized footballs and I’d be outta there to get my kids to a place of safety.
Then, of course, I’d come back to see what I could to do to help, but my kids are my first priority.
Is it just me, or would this rattle you, too?
I’ve been working PSD Hondo for four years. In the scheme of things, four years means I am still in the infant stages of understanding exactly what it is I do for a living. Unfortunately, four years also means Hondo is at the halfway point of his working life.
So just when we are starting to figure it out the end is already in sight. This is ever more apparent after receiving a wonderful email from an RCMP dog handler who is currently posted near the East Coast of Canada.
He wrote me a couple of weeks ago, and said my perspective of a ‘new handler with her first dog’ was refreshing and brought back many memories for him. He is currently working his fourth dog and has one more year experience as a dog handler than I do as a police officer.
You do the math. He’s been a dog handler for a long time and likely has forgotten more about handling a police dog than I will ever learn, and when he gives evidence in a criminal court, the judges really pay attention. The level of expertise he brings to the witness stand cannot be disregarded.
He’s one lucky cop. He’s worked four dogs. I will work only one. But that is a topic I’m not going to get into for fear of poking the sleeping dragon.
Then today, at a training session, the expertise and knowledge we (the VPD) have within our own department was clear. I learned a lot today, and am grateful to the experienced handlers and ex-handlers who always come out to ensure we are exposed to the best they have to offer.
Train like you work – as if it means something.
Because in the end, just when you think you may have figured it out, life throws you something unexpected and you realize there is so much more to learn.
The Federal Government is considering a new law that will allow police officers to perform random breathalyzer tests on motorists without first developing suspicion the motorist has been drinking.
My first thought was this was a great idea. By the law of averages, more random breathalyzer tests = more drunk drivers off the road.
Then, after giving the issue some more attention, I had to bridle my enthusiasm. Concerns were raised by lawyers on how the proposed law circumvents the Charter of Rights and a persons right to protection against unreasonable search and seizure.
Then again, driving is a privilege. A person is not born with the ‘right’ to drive, instead a person has to prove they are entitled to the privilege through training, education and responsibility. With this in mind, is a random breathalyzer test ’reasonable’ in respect to search and seizure?
Who knows – we’ll have to wait and see what the experts say on this one.
