Mississippi Mud

One of the best parts of the job was extraditions.  If someone had a warrant out of our County, ran away, and got arrested in another state, we had to go get them.  The other state would let us know and give us a few days to get there for pickup.  Since the probationer was staying in their jails using their tax payer dollars, they wanted them out as soon as possible. If the deadline wasn’t met, they let the probationer go.  There was a strong sense of urgency.

The supervisor who ran the extraditions was a great guy and a good friend of mine.  He would get me on a lot of trips.  At first it was the less desirable places, but I’d go anywhere.  I figure it’s a free trip to a state I’d likely never go otherwise; North Dakota, Oklahoma, Nebraska for example.  Over time I got Hawaii and Alaska, but I had to put my time in first.  He’d tell me about a trip, and I’d be in every time.  My only request was I get to choose my partner, Shari.

Shari and I started at the same time, we went through basic training together, and worked in the same office.  I liked Shari.  Her life was not untouched by tragedy and as a result she knew how to deal. She was a real life bad ass, took no nonsense, and like a lot of people I work with she just couldn’t be rattled.  There was nothing you could say or do that would upset her.  She was ready for anything and loved the extraditions as much as I did.

We were sent to Mississippi in the late fall. The road to jail was long and lonely, way outside of town.  It was early and the sun was coming up, the hazy fog was lifting off the road.  About a mile away from the jail we came up on a old rundown house with an equally old and creepy graveyard in front.  It was something straight out of Scooby Doo, too good to pass.

“Look at that house, we have to stop and check that out,” I said.  It looked like a tourist attraction to me.

“What?!? Have you ever seen any horror movie? There its no way we are going in there,” Shari said with conviction. I was disappointed, but didn’t fight it, we were in a hurry.

We got to the jail as scheduled, however, the sheriffs had just cut our guy loose.  I guess there was some confusion on the time.  He had only been gone for an hour, and the deputy said he was likely in the abandoned house about a mile up the road… I was so giddy I could hardly contain myself.  Shari didn’t share my enthusiasm, she shot a look at me and I swear I heard a growl.

We arrived at the house and exposed our badges against our plain clothes.  We tip-toed past the graves, doing our best not to step on any.  The fog was still thick below the knees and we couldn’t see where we were walking.  I was waiting for a skeleton hand to reach up, grab me, and pull me into the soggy abyss.  The inside of the house was loaded with old mattresses, empty liquor bottles, and stink.  The humidity didn’t help.  I was waiting for a group of zombies to come limping out of one of the rooms.  Instead, our target did.

He had his head down and didn’t see us at first, when he did, he turned and ran out the back.  We followed him outside and could see right away he had no where to go.  The entire backyard was a swamp, loaded with dead bodies, alligators, and zombies.  He got waist deep and realized there was no where to go.  He turned around and gave up, covered in Mississippi mud.  We loaded him in the rental car and headed to the airport.

We fly on commercial airlines, with badge and guns.  All are hidden away and the staff and pilots are the only ones aware of us.  We sit in the last row, right next to the bathrooms.  Probationer gets the window, Shari in the middle, and I get the aisle… I’m the biggest.  The probationer needs to be on his best behavior, should there be any issues we will be renting a car and driving him back.  I make him aware of this.  If we fly, he can eat whatever he wants at any restaurant in the airport.  If we drive, he will be in handcuffs the entire eight hour day, in the backseat.  At night he will be booked into the local jail and can eat whatever they are serving, certainly not Chili Mac.  They all get the message and decide to take the flight.  We are budgeted a certain amount for his meal, I double it.  Only one rule: no caffeine.  The last thing we want is a caffeinated, chatty probationer in our row.  The absence of caffeine and two big macs usually puts them right to sleep for a peaceful flight home.

Not a lot of passengers even notice us.  The probationer has handcuffs in the front, connected to his waistline, with an oversized sweatshirt covering it all.  With the exception of an occasional face tattoo we look normal.  But not this time.  Our guy was still dripping swamp water.  As we walked down the aisle, passengers could hear the squish from his wet shoes.  I thought the oxygen masks were going to drop based on his smell.  Shari didn’t flinch; sitting next to him the entire flight back, smelling like the devil’s armpit.

Once we land, we travel directly to our jail for final booking.  It is usually at this time reality sets in, the probationer can’t believe we traveled all that way to get them.   

“Are you really taking me back?” He asked for the tenth time on a ten minute drive.

It’s a long, uncomfortable flight, by this time my nerves are raw.

“No, we are just kidding, you can get out now.  As long as you’ve learned your lesson,” I said while slowing down.

“Really?”

“No, not really,” I said with a snicker and continued to jail… I’m not like Shari, things get to me.