Sheriff Jones

Lizzie and I went out to the county seat of a neighboring county Sunday to cover a spring fair. The fair itself wasn't supposed to start until 1pm, to give everyone time to get there after church; but we headed over early with the idea that we would grab lunch first, get there right as it started and get back in plenty of time to put something together for the evening show.

Upon arriving in town, we cruised by the park where the festival was being set up, just to get a lay of the land. This was around 11:30, and there were still people erecting tents and scurrying around to get everything ready. At one end of the park, a couple of sheriff's deputies had their cruisers parked up on the grass facing opposite directions, with the driver's side windows facing each other so they could talk without leaving their vehicles. The town also has its own municiple police force, and we found a couple of its officers at the other end of the park, leaning against their cars and chatting. I thought it was interesting that they segregated themselves that way. The deputies had ignored us, but the city cops eyeballed the Hate Van as we cruised by. I'm sure a white, unmarked cargo van is always suspicious, especially when it drives slowly through an area without stopping. But they apparently decided we weren't terrorists and went back to their conversation.

Satisfied with the reconnaissance, Lizzie said, "Let's eat!" We headed back toward the middle of town to find this little home cooking place Lizzie wanted me to try. As I stopped at a red light right off Main Street, we suddenly felt a jolt.

"What the--?" I said. I looked into my rear view mirror to see that a large gray Suburban had bumped into us. "That guy just hit us!" I said.

Not again. I was already having flashbacks as I jumped out of the van. I was pretty mad. But as I approached the Suburban, I noticed the two old guys inside were laughing hysterically. I stopped and just stared at them. "What the fuck?" I thought. The driver rolled down his window.

"You need to get that heap a' shit out the road before you get a ticket!" the man said.

"What are you talking about?" I asked. "You HIT me!"

"Seems to me that you hit ME," the guy said. "I's just sittin' here waitin' for the light to change, and you just backed right into me. I gotta witness right here."

"That's right," said the passenger. "Just backed right into us. Wasn't nothin' we could do!"

"You guys are crazy!" I said.

"Best watch yourself, young man," said the driver. "You might need to cool off that temper at the county jail."

By this time Lizzie was standing on the other side of the Suburban, where the passenger had rolled down his window. She was laughing. I was thoroughly confused.

"Sheriff, you better leave my photog alone," she said. I slowly began to realize what was going on. This was Sheriff Jones driving the Suburban. I finally recognized him from having seen him on our own newscasts, but I had never met him myself. He had been over at the park and had recognized Lizzie when we passed.

"Tell 'im he needs to get that junker outta the road, else I'm gonna have it towed!" The three of them laughed, while I stood there bewildered.

Sheriff Jones is an older guy, probably in his 60s. He's a good old boy with a deep voice and a country style that people like despite the fact that it's obviously all a big act. He has connections to just about anybody of importance in the area; the guy sitting next to him in his truck was actually a county judge.

He also understands the dynamics of rural politics. During the last election year he caused a bit of a ruckus when word came out that he had told all his deputies not to write any more speeding tickets, because speed traps discourage votes. Never mind that the county had come to count on that revenue for certain projects. The sheriff's prospects for reelection might have been damaged by the loss of that money when certain county commissioners in the enemy camp tried to pin the county's budget shortfall on him. The tactic backfired on them, however, when Sheriff Jones reminded them that state law prohibits counties and municipalities from basing their budgets on income from fines.

In reality, every city and county in this state still budget for ticket revenue and set quotas with their traffic officers, pretty much ignoring the law. But the Sheriff managed to play off that law so well that the commissioners in question actually lost their seats in their next election, after he convinced the voters that they were actually the ones to blame for the budget shortfall because of their own ineptitude with the citizens' hard earned tax money. He came out of it looking like a hero who was doing the voters a favor by not harrassing them on county roads while fighting waste and corruption in the county seat.

"What the devil are you guys doing?" Lizzie asked.

"We're on our way to dinner," the sheriff said. "Why aren't you in church, young lady?"

"I'm workin'," she said, dropping into a kind of sympathy drawl to match his style. "Why aren't YOU in church?"

"Won't do any good," he grinned. "At my age, I'm already a lost cause."

The three of them laughed, but I wasn't quite sure how to act. I was still angry at having been hit, especially after the accident in the live truck from a few weeks ago. The sheriff had only bumped us, so there wasn't any damage. Even if there were, the Hate Van is so banged up we wouldn't have been able to tell. Still, I can't just change gears from angry to happy on demand, regardless of who it is.

"What're y'all doin' out here?" the sheriff asked.

"We're coverin' the fair," Lizzie said.

"That's not your story," said the sheriff. "I got a better one for you."

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"Well," he started, his voice taking a little more dramatic tone. "'Sources say' that the police chief here in town is up for another chief job out of state."

"What sources are saying that?" Lizzie asked.

"Well, I am, for one," he said. "But you can't quote me on that."

"Who can I quote?"

"Why don't you quote 'sources who wish to remain anonymous.'"

"You know this for sure?"

"I have some paperwork on my desk that'll prove it. And you can always ask him yourself."

Now this was interesting. There was a lot of bad blood between the sheriff and the police chief during that last election, because the police chief actually ran against Sheriff Jones and was backed by the same commissioners the Sheriff effectively escorted out of their seats. Anybody taking on this story would have to tread carefully to make sure the sheriff isn't using her.

"So who can I get an interview with on this?" Lizzie asked.

"Why don't you come by my office some time in the next few days and we'll sit down and talk about it," he said.

"You can't talk to me about it today?" she asked.

"Not right now," he said. "The Judge and I have folks waitin' for us. But you come on by this week and you'll get your story. It ain't goin' nowhere."

"You're not gonna run off and tell somebody else about it first, are you?" Lizzie asked.

"No darlin'," he said. "It's ALL yours."

"All right, I'll try to come by tomorrow."

"That's fine," he said. Then he glanced over at me. "And tell your cameraman he needs to be more careful with his drivin' before I haul him off to jail."

I saw him laughing as he pulled around me, nearly hitting me as I was trying to get back into the van. Then he cut in front of us and squealed the tires as he gunned it out onto Main Street. Crazy bastard.

We covered the fair, but it was pretty obvious that Lizzie's mind wasn't on it. She was excited, but it was clear she was also irritated at having gotten a taste of something she couldn't have yet. I was actually excited about it also, until I realized that since Lizzie works dayside during the week, I won't get to work on it.

Dammit.