I joke with my friends that I never get arrested because I’m allergic to handcuffs. That isn’t always the case. I have a habit of getting nabbed by overzealous police officers once every other year. It’s a nasty habit but it’s one that keeps my street cred alive and thriving. This story isn’t about me getting arrested later this year (which will be 99.9 percent plausible. Vegas odds say “300%+ on the over/under), but this story is what transpired when I was arrested two years ago in June 2009.
Of all the crimes I’ve committed, the heists I’ve masterminded and the crazy shit I’ve done to deserve jail time, this was the only time I was roughly 75% innocent. I’m a big believer in the judicial belief that if you don’t look half way guilty, you go home. Good thing I’m not a lawyer.
Rewind to June 20-something 2009. My night was going swimmingly. A beautiful girl whom is still a dear friend (to this day) broke up with her long term boyfriend/husband/concubine and I made it my duty as a platonic friend to take her out for drinks and random fun. My female best friend at the time, we’ll call her Dizzle, accompanied us to my best friend’s house to get insanely drunk. Cheap malt liquor was flowing and inhibitions were being lost every hour. Dizzle and her boyfriend were getting smoochy and I was staring at my platonic friend’s fake tits more and more. For reasons I cannot recall, and reasons unknown, Dizzle invited us (and her beautifully crafted fake mammary glands) back to Dizz’s house to continue the party. I guestimated it had something to do with Dizz having a built-in beer pong table in her kitchen.
For the sake of the story I must warn you that this was an unspeakably horrible decision. Her roommate, whom I introduced her to, turned out to be a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde beefcake Mexican. He was a good friend of mine for awhile but he showed his true colors when he porked one of my girlie friends. I was asleep on the sofa snoring (in deep slumber) because I had to care for HotWheelz the next morning while she was turning his steroid-addled balls upside down in the bedroom. Regardless, I let it go because shit happens. She’s a slut and he’s a guy that wants to fuck anything with two (or four) legs. As much as it bothered me that he besmirched our friendship for a moderately hot piece of ass, it was my duty as a man to not be a bitch about it. I’m not going to cry a river over a girl who was so drugged up she probably could have fallen into Courtney Love’s Hole. In doing so, Dizzle’s relationship with her roommate deteriorated immensely. They had the type of roommate situation where each roommate kept weapons in their room and a steel dead-bolt lock on their doors.
I guess I had a small influence in that.
So, throwing temperance to the wind, we decide to show up at 1:30am and play beer pong. Loudly. In the kitchen. Tensions escalated when he emerged from his cave and saw me with a super-hot girl and saw his roommate having the time of her life with us. I guess it bothered him that he was with the drugged-up, moderately hot piece of ass in his room and we were sexy people assassinating our sobriety on a Monday night freely in the kitchen. Oh well. You chose your fate, Beefcake.
In hindsight, we were being rude. But he fucked the girl I liked and was a dick to my best friend so the alcohol gave me the ability not to care anymore. Regardless, I still kept it neutral. I apologized to him and we all went outside for a smoke. Ten minutes later there is a knock on the door and Beefcake Mexican runs to open it. We all come inside and in comes three police officers. Apparently, Beefcake Mexican called the cops on his own roommate. Not only did he narc us out, but he told them we were threatening physical violence. Dizzle is fuming and screaming at this point and I don’t blame her. I approach the officers to explain the situation because I’m highly rational and well versed in law (I watch a lot of Matlock and my high school German teacher is a former law professor and my pro-bono lawyer), so as I am walking to the door I am shoved by Beefcake Mexican. None of the cops see this so I volleyball spike my beer at him and it bounces off his giant forehead like a ping-pong ball. I might be a pacifist and prone to diplomacy, but don’t punk me in front of an audience. Especially, when you call police officers thinking I won’t do anything because I have an out of state warrant. As my Bud Light bounces off his over-inflated big head, the po-po turn around and ask me to step outside. At this point I’m assuming that I’m getting charged with battery for volleyballing my Bud Light off this idiot’s forehead, but the cops didn’t even fucking notice.
Seeing that I’m the soberest of the group, one officer politely asks me to step outside to “discuss this matter”. He places me in handcuffs and does his, “this is for your safety” spiel. Knowing the drill, he asks me if I have anything that will poke him, stab him, shank him, etc and I tell him I am holding weapons grade plutonium in my cell phone, which he quickly pulls out and throws on the ground. I guess roid-raging police officers don’t like smart-ass jokes. I know this might be hard to believe, but for the next 15 minutes I didn’t say a fucking word after my phone hit the pavement. I quietly sat on the driveway listening to the cops interrogate everybody smarter then me who stayed in the house. The officer who detained me came over, picked up my cracked cell phone and put me in a police car with Dizzle’s boyfriend.
Game. Set. Match.
NICK “What am I being arrested for, occifer?”
OFFICER RODELO “You, Sterling… drunk in public. He’s (pointing to Dizzle’s boyfriend) is violating his probation”
NICK “Ok, but I was not in public, sir”
OFFICER RODELO “You’ll be out within 12 hours. I’m taking you to Vista to resolve this”.
NICK “But sir, I was inside of a house. Logically, how could that be a DIP if I was in a private residence?”
OFFICER RODELO “Because you stepped outside of that residence”.
Well played, sir.
He got me.
Dizzle’s boyfriend was fucked from the get-go, so I hatched a little plan to get even. What most of you don’t know and what I don’t always convey to people is that I always think of ways to outsmart people. It’s a defense mechanism. It’s my way of saying, “hey, I’m smarter then you”. In this case, I was legitimately being fucked over. I lived three blocks away from Dizzle’s house. I was under the influence but I was in no way, shape or form, drunk. If the cop wanted to solve the “situation”, he could have asked me and my friends to leave and dealt with the roommates separately. Instead, he arrested me in front of the perky breasted “platonic friend”. He was being a total cop block.
During the 20 minute drive to Vista I ask him, “is it a viable decision to use state resources to take a guy who posed no harm, threat and has no pressing legal issues to jail for 12 hours; a guy that has been honest, candid and cooperative with you to a county jail 16 miles away from his place of residence, sir?“.
He told me verbatim, “you’ll be out in less then 12 hours, SIR”.
I told him, “I could be out in 2 minutes, if I wanted, SIR”.
He laughed. He shouldn’t have mocked my respect for his authority. I might be a skinny white kid who got suckered into a fool’s trap, but I am always thinking.
I can break my wrists with enough pressure and I’m double jointed. This makes it damn near impossible to handcuff me. Don’t cuff me in a seated position where you can’t see my hands. Within 2 minutes I broke my left wrist, slid my thumb over the handcuff and pulled it down, slicing a piece of skin. Dizzle’s boyfriend is looking at me shaking his head knowing this results in catastrophe. He is trying to tell me this is “bad news bears”, but I smiled and nodded; I knew what I was doing. This was his first foray into dealing with Nick Sterling and him “being right”.
Rodelo pulls up to the jail complex and I lift my hands and say, “I hope you don’t mind, they were cutting my wrists”. He bolts out of the car and suddenly there’s four cops hog-tying me and CARRYING ME into the station. If I had a cigar I would have lit it and said, “I love it when a plan comes together“. No cigar, just cold pavement and a very disheveled desk clerk wondering why four cops were treating me like a terrorist.
They start barking like bloated seals about “felony escape”, “violating the Patriot Act”, etc. After ten minutes of confusion and false threats they sit me against a wall in booking and five cops are standing there staring at me.
“Hi gentlemen“, I say.
COP 1: Why did you try to escape?
“I didn’t try to escape.”
COP 2: The handcuffs were off when you were in the patrol car. How did that happen?
“I think Officer Rodelo didn’t tighten them enough. And I do have skinny wrists…take a look”
The cuffs fall off again. Don’t hustle a hustler.
OFFICER RODELO You said you could escape in 2 minutes if you wanted!
“No, I said I could be out in 2 minutes, if I wanted. I’m a Drunk In Public that you arrested in a house because you asked me to step outside. I have no criminal record and no reason not to cooperate with you, so why are you making this more difficult for me? Why would I try to escape when you told me, “you’ll be out in 12 hours”? At this point, sir, I just want to go home. Why did you bring me here when it’s clear I’m obviously not drunk, not escaping and not intending to cause you or any of your co-workers any inconvienence”.
POINT. MADE. #WINNING.
The reason I did that was to prove a point. If you arrest me for bullshit charges and ruin my fun, I’ll find a way to embarrass you. To this day, Officer Rodelo not only remembers my name, but he calls me “Disappearing Handcuffs Guy“.
I wanted him to think twice next time about hauling people to jail and wasting their time over stupid shit. Mission accomplished. Granted, Dizzle’s Beefcake Mexican roommate shouldn’t have called the police but they shouldn’t have placed me under arrest, either. I’m not a behavior psychologist (even though I studied to be one), but I witnessed how much Officer Rodelo enjoyed being in control. All I had to do was break his illusion of control–and the quickest way to break someone’s control? Put them in front of a jury of their peers when they aren’t in control. I simply had to make his mistake reflect on his actions. Most people think that being in a cop car in handcuffs is an uncontrollable scenario–no, it’s a subjective one. I see it as another way to think outside of the box (or in my case, outside of the cop car).
Moral of the story? Next time, arrest someone who’s actually worth processing. Otherwise, use proper discretion; not ego. You never know who you’ll have in handcuffs. Or not have in handcuffs.