Case dismissed!

:copcar::dogdance::dogdance::dogdance:

This is about the time I got arrested in Reno, and managed to avoid a conviction because of J. Tony Serra.

CASE DISMISSED

I needed to get back to Northern California and thought driving would be an exciting way to see America while allowing me to schlep more of the belongings, I'd left at my folks' apartment in Washington Heights, back to my new Left Coast home.
I'd heard about "drive-away" cars, vehicles which were designated for delivery to someone far from where the car happened to be. The pay was zero, and I had to pay the gas, but it sounded like an adventure-in-the-making, and this "Dean Moriarty" was up for it. I knew a guy named Rick, a Jewish American Prince from Riverdale, who had musician friends in San Francisco, and wanted to catch a ride west. Two days before we left, an extremely quiet man with close-cropped hair appeared. A friend of a friend, Cliff had just been discharged from 4 years submarine duty, and he wanted to come along, too.

The car was a two-year old Ford sedan, which a man in Sunnyvale had purchased sight-unseen, after being convinced he should, by an ad on the inside back cover of a copy of Sports Afield. It had new tires, the ad said, and it was only $600. How could the buyer go wrong?

It was a New York City taxicab, had a little over 200,000 miles on it and a terminally ill transmission, which somehow caused the horn to honk repeatedly, whenever I made a left turn. No problem on straight roads, but embarrassing when I made a left turn with a police cruiser in the lane next to me.
The day the three of us packed up the Ford and set out, we were barely over the George Washington Bridge when the tranny's unmistakable death rattle sounded and dropped dead in the middle of Secaucus.
Of course the agency which entrusted me with the car took a day and a half putting in a replacement tranny, and it was almost dark as we watched the sunset over western New Jersey.

The next morning a weird smell gave us an bad feeling and Cliff, the submariner, noticed a sticky green tail trailing behind us, all the way to the horizon.
In denial, we pushed on. Coming to a long, gentle grade, I sensed the Ford was losing power and speed, and soon, cars I had passed an hour ago, were merrily cruising past us. It wasn't too long before we determined that the new transmission's plugs had been improperly set, and the long, green tail was transmission fluid, without which the tranny was doomed.
Hours after ascending a long hill, we'd reach the crest, and try to make up for all those hour's we'd lost. Passing happy families in Desotos and middle-aged drummers in Chryslers, Rick's long hair flapping, freak-flag-like out the side window, we'd whiz along delightedly until we hit level highway, and then break into groans as we began another shallow-angled, albeit torturous ascent.
Obviously none of this has much to do with J. Tony, but his influence upon my life waited just a few days down the road.

The car was drafty and rattled, the heater didn't work and it was a frustrating and very chilly trip. Having no visible license plate, and crusing up an I 80 incline at 25 MPH, we got pulled over in Indiana and Illinois, but we had a legal "in transit" sticker on our front window, and I had all the paperwork in order. So we were released without incident.
After days of discomfort, feeling more like a character in a Doestoevsky, rather than a Kerouac novel, we reached the bleak, barren hardscrapple Hell that's known as Eastern Nevada. Dead, ugly, baleful and hostile, the miserable landscape finally yielded dim, distant lights, which schooled and multiplied and finally became what they called, "The Biggest Little City in the World". Reno.
We ever-so-gratefully found a warm, bustling casino and over mugs of weak, but steaming java, we got caught up in the all-night buzz of flash, rattle and ka-ching, that's Reno's heartbeat.

The novelty wore off after an hour, and properly warmed, we clambered into the Ford and headed out of town.
We'd gone about three blocks when we hit the roadblock. I counted eight cop cars, all with lights flashing, and an unmarked 'mothership' with two plainclothes officers overseeing them. Wondering what had happened, we were stunned to learn what had happened was us.
Rousting us out of the Ford we were made to place our hands on the Ford's roof while we were searched. They turned up zero. But they knew these New York-California-bound hippy Jewboys were up to no good and they meant to find out what they were up to.. I'd never asked Rick or Cliff what they were bringing along because it wasn't my business, and I didn't care. I was happy to have people to talk with, and my fuel costs defrayed.
The cops were in combat mode and were hot to find something bustable. Eight cruisers spitting bubblegum colors out into the nightime desert, radios crackling, guns unholstered - they weren't going home empty handed.

They wanted to search the car. And it was then that I remembered J. Tony Serra.
Some months before, and a new San Francisco resident, I'd found out about a "free" university which called itself Heliotrope. The classes sounded like they might be useful - or fun - or a great way to meet girls, so I signed up, at ten bucks a pop, for three of them.
One involved a nighttime sojurn, with 2 dozen other people, to a forest in Marin County, where we all climbed a wooded hill and howled at the full moon. Another class was called The Art of Boffing. Someone had appropriated several lightweight styrofoam "swords", and "protective" masks made of styrofoam, and had rented a loft where we "Boffers" could foam up and wail on each other as vigorously as we wanted to. Unloading all that pent-up tension and hostility in a harmless manner seemed like a sensible thing to do. What a terrific education I was getting. Mom would have been very proud of me.
The third 'course' was held in a storefront in Chinatown and was fairly well attended. It was a class on civil disobedience and civil rights. What we were required to tell peace officers. How we could avoid raising their ire. When it was wise not to say anything. You know - Constitutional stuff. How to 'protect' our Human Rights.

And that's when J. Tony Serra's lessons entered into the picture. I had shown the cops the "in transit" sticker, my drivers license, and the insurance papers I'd gotten from the Agency. So I asked the two head cops why they had stopped me. One of them mumbled something about "suspecting it was stolen". They made it clear they knew we had contraband and they wanted to look around. "You mind if we search the car?", one more or less demanded. I remembered my Heliotrope class and very nervously, said, "Yes", "I mind". "What reason do you have for searching the car?"
Shoving me aside, they turned their backs on me and said to Cliff and Rick, "We're gonna search the car - you guys mind if we search the car?" They were scared, Rick a bit more than Cliff, and said, "Sure", "go ahead".
Cliff hadn't told me about the 200 hits of Orange Sunshine in his navy duffle bag, and Rick figured there was no ganja in San Francisco, so he'd better bring his own. These commodities proved very easy to find.
"You know what a Daisy Chain is, don'tcha?", sneered one of the cops. "You're cool customers - you guy's've been through this before!"
I was in Reno City jail for five days and Washoe County jail for four days. I didn't want to call New York and scare the hell out of my folks. But it struck me that if I didn't, I'd be here for a long time. And the guy in Sunnyvale would be wondering what happened to his two-year-old Ford.
I met a bunch of guys named Bubba from Watts, talked Blues and Jazz with them, and so they didn't kill me. In fact, one of them gave me his bed sheet when he was released. He had very crudely drawn (almost a stick figure) a life-size woman with big, fuzzy hair and juicy lips (stained with dripping from some canned fruit). Her privates were represented by a hole in the sheet around which was scribbled more big, fuzzy hair. I let him know I felt honored and was properly grateful.
Rick's uncle Moe flew out from the Bronx.
Moe: The kid made a mistake, officer. Big deal! Here's a few bucks to help you fagheddaboutit. Comahn!! Whaddyamean he's gotta - o fuh krissakes!"
I got something I could put up for collateral from my Mom. Bail for a felony is never cheap. That's how I got out in nine days. Cliff asked me for copies of Practical Yoga by Dr. Frank Field, and a book on meditation. He didn't have bail money and he was preparing to wait it out. Washoe County jail was nothing compared to being sardined inside a submarine.
I took buses up to Reno from San Francisco and finally found a lawyer. It was the day the Beatles' "Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" came out and it adorned shop windows all over downtown Reno. Some things, you just remember.
The day came for my hearing and there was the badger-like cop who had arrested me. My lawyer put him on the stand and got him to admit "We were lookin' for anything we could find!" I saw the judge almost imperceptibly shake his head just once, and I knew that was it. Illegal search and seizure. Go home boy. And so I did.

Rick and Uncle Moe were long gone and I never found out if they'd swung a deal or not. Cliff just sat there breathing deeply, legs crossed, and read his two books. I visited him once, three months down the line, but he didn't say much. He was really into those books.
Heliotrope Free University may not be M.I.T. or Harvard or even Sonoma State, but, along with instructor J. Tony Serra, it certainly helped with my education.