Free Under a Raging Moon by Frank Zafiro

played the name game. Once we got that straightened out, it turns out he has a warrant. He’s the one in my car. Anyway, I found some meth in the console. Battaglia and Sully have my driver and they’re running him in for me on the meth.”
    “So what do you need?”
    “I want to do the weasel in the passenger seat, too. He’s the registered owner. I’d like to arrest them both for constructive possession.”
    Shen considered. “So the driver is not the registered ow n er?”
    “No.”
    “And the RO was in the passenger seat?”
    “Yes.”
    “Where’d you find the drugs? The glove box?”
    Kopriva shook his head. “No, the console between the seats. Both had access.”
    “What are they saying?”
    Kopriva’s radio crackled. “Bravo-123.”
    “Neither one has been read their rights, but both say it’s the other guy’s meth,” he told Shen, then a n swered the radio. “Go ahead, I’m clear for traffic.”
    “Morris is in as a confirmed gang member. He has a felony want for possession of crack cocaine, bail is $25,000.”
    “Copy. I don’t have him here. Also, have records ship over the warrant for Maxwell.”
    “Copy.”
    Kopriva explained to Shen, “Isaiah Morris drove by us while I was waiting for Sully and Battaglia. So, what do you think about these two here?”
    Shen stroked his chin for a moment. “Do them both for constructive possession. Be detailed in your report on where you found the dope and the issue of access for both parties. Their statements, too.”
    “I will. Thanks.”
    “Good stop, Stef.”
    “Thanks, Sarge.”
    Shen drove off. Kopriva locked the doors to the Monte Carlo and r e turned to his patrol car.
    Maxwell leaned forward, his voice muffled by the plastic shield. “What’d he say?”
    “He said I have to do you both. Sorry, man.”
    “Really?”
    “Yep.”
    “Oh, man, I don’t need this shit.”
    “Sorry.”
    “Shit. Well, thanks for trying, man. Thanks for the pipe, too.”
    Kopriva nodded. He turned on his favorite rock station and faded the music to the back. The tactic kept the prisoners from hearing the convers a tion between the officers.
    “Advise radio we are en route to jail with one and our mileage is reset.” Kopriva punched the trip odom e ter reset. “And get our time of stop and a report number.”
    Travis advised radio and carefully noted the time and report number. “Wow,” he said. “That was cool.”
    “That is the way the game is played. That suspended ticket we wrote Rousse? He most likely won’t a p pear in court for it, so it’ll go to warrant. Next time he gets stopped, he gets arrested again and we get into his car and find his drugs again. Ba-da-boom, ba-da-bing.”
    Travis nodded his head, smiling.
    “See,” Kopriva continued, “some officers act like traffic enforcement is beneath them. But traffic is one of our best tools. Just because you stop someone doesn’t mean you have to write them. I let people off all the time. Decent people. Sometimes even shitheads. But look what happened tonight. We stopped Rousse on a piddly traffic stop for defective equipment. Now we have a misdemeanor, a warrant, and two felonies. Plus about three misdemeanors we threw away, if you count the pipe and obstructing charges.”
    “Great,” Travis said. “This is great.” He nodded his head to the music and grinned.
    The two were quiet the rest of the way to jail. Kopriva thought about how he would like to catch Morris again. Cream’s Sunshine of Your Love came on the radio. Kopriva turned it up.
    “I’ve been waiting so long...”
    Maxwell leaned forward and yelled over the din. “At least you guys got good tunes.”
    “To be where I’m going…”
    “Rock-n-roll,” Kopriva yelled back and flashed a grin at Travis. Pete Maxwell might be a doper maggot but now he thought they were buddies. You never knew when that might come in handy.
    “In the sunshine of your luuhh-uuuhhve!”
    They drove into the sally port at jail and secured