Old Coot Interrogated by the Feds when Old Coot was a Young Coot

What year was it? 1978? Maybe 1979. Your beloved Old Coot was a much younger lad. Not even a coot, yet. Not even starting down the path to cootishness but appearances must be maintained so will adopt Young Coot for general principles.

Baltimore, Maryland. Hauling a load from a southern state up to Brooklyn, if I remember correctly.

Into the shop for repair, dern turbocharger leaking oil again. Baltimore police entered the shop and dragged me downtown to the BIG cop shop where the FBI interrogated me, using the good/bad cop routine, about some interstate truck theft ring.

After 30 minutes or so of indirect questions requiring only ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers and tiring of the affair, I told the lackeys of the elite class I was ready to tell them all I knew… once I had a cup of coffee, black, and two donuts.

They both rushed off, to meet my demand, I suppose, while I eyed the vent cover high up the wall. Nope, can’t fit in there.

Door was locked and the window had the wire mesh embedded within.

Hinge pins were on the outside.

Well, that was the extent of various ploys seen in various movies.

Noticed, then, that the chairs on the fed’s side of the table were padded while mine was hard plastic.

Made sure I sat on their side this time.

After 15 minutes or so the dynamic duo entered, goodies in hand.

They sat them in front of me then paused, looking at the seating arrangement. With a glare one seat from my side was moved to accompany the hard plastic one as both plopped down, pulled out their note pads and pens then told me to commence.

Ahem, excuse me, I am eating my donuts. Decent donuts. I asked if they took them from the detectives. Received a curious look as if they were surprised I knew the source. I believe my guess was accurate.

I then asked if they left a dime in the coffee fund can. Received another curious look. Ding ding ding… I was likely correct with both guesses.

Coffee was pretty good, too.

Hey, my semi-truck was broken, I was in no hurry. Took my time eating and drinking. Held up a donut that was half eaten and asked if they wanted a bite.

“No thanks,” one growled, annoyed but with no choice but to play along if they wanted the “full story.”

One positive for shunning crime is that when confronted by the enforcement arm of a legal system that is too-often supportive of the few while trodding upon the many, an innocent man can at least stand tall against the elite’s lackeys.

After chomping down the last donut and savoring the last drops of coffee I asked if the business-suited now rather impatient chaps if they were ready to write.

“YES,” the exasperated semi-upset voice barked at me.

“Write this phone number down and call it,” I offered.

“What is this?,” demanded the one. “A phone number,” I replied innocently. Golly, that sure got their goat but I answered their question.

I knew then that I was not dealing with the brightest brains in Baltimore. I pert’ near felt sorry for the lads.

I then told the fellows to call, tell the one answering what was going on and see what happens.

Again, both left and returned around 20 minutes later. Throwing the door open I was gruffly told to leave.

“Can I have another donut?” I asked, not actually expecting to get one. “Get outta’ here,” the voice replied as the pair clomped off down the hallway.

For the record, the phone number was my freight dispatcher of the firm I and my semi-truck was leased to. I pulled their trailers and they did the task of finding the loads while taking a share of the revenue. I learned the next day that the trailer I had parked behind the truck repair facility had been stolen in the past, recovered and returned to the firm’s fleet but that fact was not noted in the stolen semi-trailer database that patrolling Baltimore cops accessed when they came across it sitting there.

That’s what led to the interrogation since the trailer had crossed state lines, making the affair a federal offense. Cool!!!!!

Leaving the interrogation room I looked left, then right. Nobody in sight so I walked off, looking for an exit.

I recalled how BIG the building was when the cops hauled me in, entering via an underground parking garage. Didn’t use any stairs to enter the level I was on so I figured I needed to go up a floor to reach the street-level exit.

So, the Young Coot started walking, trying door knobs for the doors I came across. Locked, locked, locked, ahhhh open! Entering, I found a locker room with showers and work-out equipment. Decent facilities. Clean, too, but no exit here.

Back to the hall. Locked, locked, open! Opening the door I saw a huge room with dozens of desks, most occupied by guys in street clothes with a couple cop-uniformed guys moving around. Neato! Looks like the detective division. I wandered through, looking down at paperwork and files and typewriters and dudes yapping on telephones and the buzz of muted voices.

During my travel through that immense building I recalled reading the writer who declared that if you act as if you belong somewhere others are likely to think you do. I have used that to my advantage or for simple plain fun over the years… and it often works. Especially back in the “old days” before intense paranoia filled our society as has happened the past few years; especially the bureaucracies that I believe are more fearful of the citizenry than they are foreign folks. Perhaps rightly so!!!

A couple of the residents looked up at me as I passed and merely nodded back when I nodded at them with a serious stern look upon my face, as if I was performing a serious errand. Heck, I even felt a bit like a cop.

Traversing that large room I saw a door and headed for it. Exiting– another hall, just like the other composed of light yellow cement blocks and the off-white tile floor. Oh well, there’s gotta’ be an exit here somewhere.

Back to trying doors. All were locked. Hey, an open one! Nope, janitors closet. Got to the end of the hall where a door with wire-meshed glass awaited. Reaching it I saw stairs headed up. Hooray!!!

It was open so up I went to the next floor where I entered a hall, just like the one below.

Back to trying doors. Yanked on a couple when a figure exited from a door down the hall, saw me pulling on a locked door and approached, asking what I was doing.

“Trying to get the hell out of here,” I replied. Asked who I was I told him I think I was a suspect at one point but that the FBI dudes told me to get outta’ here and that they took off… without giving me another donut!!

I am unsure what kind of look he gave me but he told me to follow him and he looked back at me every couple seconds as we went down several different halls before entering what looked like a public area where I could see the outside through a couple glass doors, the first one being locked.

My host talked to the uniformed cop there before leaving without even saying goodbye or good luck or that crime doesn’t pay so be good.

The uniformed cop asked me what I was doing roaming around unescorted so I briefly told him the tale. I also complimented him on their nice work-out room. That made him blink his eyes a few times before grabbing the phone. Only hearing one side of the ensuing conversation I determined he was talking to the Feds in their portion of the building and the cop was not too happy with them.

Finishing the call he pushed a button making the door click and told me to get the heck out of there.

Nope. Ain’t gonna’ go.

“Huh?,” he mumbled, obviously confused.

I told the cop I had been hauled off in a car, a cop car, had no idea where I was, didn’t know how to get back to that repair shop, and that family members were officers in other states. I knew the last declaration, though only partly true, would most likely get me the ride.

His tone softened once I mentioned cops in the family and a few minutes later, a cop showed up to take me to the car outside the door and haul me back to the shop. On the way I told him the story of what had just happened.

“You got balls,” he said, chuckling at the tale.

At the shop the mechanics stared then told me the truck was ready to go. After seeing those two big husky cops haul me away they had to ask what happened.

“Went downtown for coffee and donuts,” I said offhandedly as I headed off to pay the bill, hook up to the trailer, and head off down the road.

There’s got to be a moral in that story somewhere. Maybe even an adage or truism could be created from the experience. I will save that for better minds than mine.