It’s late at night and I leave church service early. The parking lot is full.
A lady cop approaches me as I get to my car. She asks me if there are any drugs in the back of my trunk.
Though I’m aware of my rights for her needing to present a search warrant to search, I yield and open the trunk. It looks clean and spacious despite some knick-knacks. It’s quiet large.
As we talk, I become aware drugs in red packaging are taped to my chest. They’ve been there for a couple of days. “How could I have these on me for a couple of days?” I ask myself in surprise, “At least I must of showered.”
She notices how puffy I look in my shirt and asks about it. I pull off the taped drugs and hand them to her — only I’ve pulled out a large, unopened package of cocoa-puffs. So, I’m safe.
We go into a building. Into a small couple of rooms. She knows I still have drugs taped to my chest but she isn’t going to arrest me. She asks about my brother. I say he’d never take drugs or be in anyway involved. I go to the bathroom sink as we talk.
Next day, I drive to and pass through a second-hand store that some friends of mine work in near the courthouse.