I took some days off to visit my brother near Seattle last week and was lucky to have a friend keen to ride along with me, so she could visit family in Bellingham. We’d made our way through Montana and Idaho and were on the western outskirts of Spokane, on the four-lane highway, when I saw the lights. 

“We’re being pulled over,” I said to Erin. 

Remarkably, I was calm and composed. Usually when I get pulled over, my heart begins attempting a mad escape from my body -- trying to burst from my chest and crawl out through my throat simultaneously.  

This time, I was surprisingly calm. While we waited for the official to arrive at my truck, Erin and I shared that we were taught, as young women, should we find ourselves being stopped by police, we are to drive somewhere populated and well-lighted -- not pull over at an isolated location. 

This time, I was on Interstate 90, at midday, and, most notably, I wasn’t alone.  

The highway patrolman approached on the passenger side, a new-to-me procedure I appreciated, as I worry about them standing near the busy freeway. He told us his name and rattled off a laundry list of transgressions, all of which I was guilty. With each one, I heard “ka-ching, ka-ching" -- the sound of the fine increasing exponentially. 

My most egregious wrongs were speeding and following too closely ... which I never would have done, had I known he was a trooper. 

Turns out, he had been traveling with us for about 15 minutes, at first in front of me, ergo the tailgating charge, and then behind, when he flicked on the secret lights in his unmarked, shiny blue Ford. 

He asked if there was a reason for my speeding. Oh boy. My friend and I are both Irish women who can, stereotypically, spin a yarn at a moment’s notice.  

“We’re on a trip,” Erin said perkily. “We’re just excited to be on vacation.” 

I felt her genuine nature melt away part of the patrolman’s icy exterior. 

“No,” I answered, but then added, “In Montana, I could drive 80.”  

“That was two states ago,” he countered. 

“Yeah, but Idaho is small,” I said, holding up my thumb and finger to indicate Idaho is only about two inches across. 

He collected my license, insurance and registration and retreated to his car. When he was well out of earshot, I released a minor tirade on my friend. 

“You know,” I spouted. “I have never gotten a warning. Friends all have stories about getting a warning, but I have never gotten a warning. I always get a ticket.” 

Erin relayed that she’d had gotten warnings. Erin is cute. 

He returned shortly and handed over my paperwork. 

“Julie,” he began with friendly authority in his voice.  

He commenced telling me the speed limits throughout the rest of the state. After hearing we were headed to Seattle, he let us know it would be, basically, smooth sailing at 70 mph until we reached Issaquah. Then, he backed away from the truck. 

“Really?” I said, unable to contain my disbelief. 

“No ticket today, unless you want one,” he said. 

“No sir. Thank you,” I said. 

“You’ll have to think of something to do with that $250 dollars,” he said, referring to the price of the unwritten ticket. His last bit of advice was that I should build speed before re-entering traffic. I found that amusing. Apparently, building speed is something at which I excel. 

As we got on our way, we laughed to see we had been detained just yards from the exit to the state Highway Patrol office. Perhaps Ed, as we’d come to call the officer since we both missed his name, was wrapping up his workday and about to head home. Erin had noted that his demeanor changed dramatically when he returned to the truck. 

We also pondered what he had learned when he punched me into the system. Did he find out I work for the Whitefish Pilot? Did he learn I had not been pulled over in years? Could he have discovered that I love dogs and tend to be a generous and typically thoughtful person? 

Holy cow -- a warning.  

I think I got it because Erin was with me. She says I got it because I said “never.” 

“Never say never,” she said sagely.