Was (Not Was) "Hello Dad, I'm In Jail"

I was handcuffed to a railing on the wall in the Police Station.  I was in trouble.  The question was, Was I about to get into BIG trouble?  Did I trust my own athletic skills?

The night started innocently enough.

Okay, well, not innocently.  But pretty normal for a summer night, 1990.

I was headed out with my friend Maureen.  We were going to meet her brother Brian at a bar.

Brian had already turned 21, but Maureen and I were still underage.  Close to legal---20---but still underage.  However, we had fake Ids.

Maureen had the good fortune of having an over-21 friend, who looked vaguely like her, who was willing to give her a copy of an ID.  So she had a legitimate Massachusetts ID, even if the person pictured wasn’t exactly her.

I had a terrible, homemade fake ID, purchased for 40 bucks in one of the high rise dormitories at UMass.  We had paid our cash and were brought into a dorm room, where a giant, wall sized replica of the Maine Driver’s license was taped to the wall.  You stood in front of it and SNAP!  A few minutes later, the Polaroid was trimmed and laminated.

Not that IDs were necessary at this bar.  Maureen knew the bouncers, so they were happy to just let us in, no questions asked.

We sat at the bar and ordered a couple of beers, which came in cans---classy place.

I couldn’t have had more than half a beer when I turned around to see two Police Officers marching through the crowd, making eye contact with every college age patron in the place.

Here in 2012, with greying temples and all, I was still carded last week at the package store.

In 1990, I had trouble passing for 14 years old.

The cops zeroed right in on me.

“HOW OLD ARE YOU SON?” one of them barked.

“twenty,” I said in my small, 14 year old voice.

“UNDERAGE HERE!” he barked to the now-grimacing bar manager.

As he turned to Maureen to start questioning her, the second officer directed me to head out outside.

He looked back at his partner to say something, and as he did I pulled my horrible fake ID from my pocket and shoved it in my underwear.

Perhaps it was stupid of Maureen and me to pick a bar so close to the Police Station.  I was cuffed, and instead of being put in a squad car, we just walked down the block to the precinct.

Maureen, who was much more savvy than I, simply told the officers that she didn’t have her ID with her, but gave them her Fake ID name and corresponding Social Security number.  So she was not handcuffed.  They would just bring her in, to corroborate her information.

But there was a snag in her plan:

“Pssst.  What’s you name?” I tried to whisper to her, as we walked a step-and-a-half ahead of the officers.  I knew she had someone else’s ID, but I never learned the name on it.

“What?” she whispered back.

“Your name . . .” but she couldn’t hear me.

Inside the Station, we were separated.  She went into the offices.  I was led into a hallway just outside the cells.  The officer uncuffed my hands from behind my back, and then cuffed me to a railing in the middle of the hallway.

He told me to slide off my shoes and spread my feet, as he’d be frisking me before putting me in the cell.

As I was doing this, he said, “What’s your friend’s name?”

Before he could finish the sentence though, someone from the office poked their head into the hallway and said, “Hey, can you come here for a minute?”

The officer gave me a look up and down, realized that this little bunny was not likely to cause any trouble if left alone for a minute, and said with a sarcastic laugh, “Stay here.”

So there I was.  I was handcuffed in a hallway with a fake ID in my pants. 

I knew that the fine for having a fake ID was in the hundreds of dollars.  Hundreds of dollars I didn’t have.

I knew that, if I were frisked, the ID was going to fall right out of my baggy shorts.  What a night to not be wearing tightie-whities.

I knew I had to take a chance.

At the end of the hallway, there was a large trash barrel.  My left hand was free.  I was right-handed, but from years of basketball, I knew I could make a left handed lay-up.

Could I make the shot?

Honestly, I didn’t really have time to think about it, so I just did it.

Years later, I recreated the scenario, to see how many times I could make a similar shot, in 10 tries.  I made 6---just better than 50%.

The odds were in my favor.  That night in the Police Station, I made the shot.

Not only did I make the shot, no one found the ID in the trash.  And for reasons still unknown to me, when the officer came back, he didn’t ask me about Maureen’s name.

I spent most of the night in a jail cell with two very drunk guys, one of whom shouted “Offisaahh! . . . Offisaahh! . . . Offisaahh! . . . Offisaahh! . . .” trying to get a cop’s attention, for about 2 hours straight.

Perhaps taking pity on me, of the dozen or so guys in these holding cells, they got me out and processed me first.  I didn’t even need to make a phone call---Brian and “Maureen” were waiting for me, to take me home, thus robbing me of the chance to call home and hilariously quote to my parents, a line from this song:


Hear the song on Youtube.

Postscript:  A month later I had to appear in court and face the charges.  Dad came with me.  I sat in the courtroom in a blue oxford pressed by my Mother and a tie borrowed from my Dad, amid a sea of dudes in Iron Maiden concert t-shirts (remember the ones, with the white bodies and the black ¾ sleeves?).

Dad turned to me and said, “You’re not going to believe this.  I know exactly one State Trooper, and he’s right over there.”

The Trooper recognized good ol' Mr. Finn (a high school teacher and coach) and said he'd be glad to put in a good word with the D.A.  He had one warning:

"This judge doesn't like any B.S. or stammering around.  Answer his questions quickly and clearly."

When my name was called, I stepped to the microphone in front of the judge.  With an arched eyebrow and a wry smile, he looked at my tie and shoes and said, "Representing yourself today, Mr. Finn?"  No lawyer?"

"Yes, sir."

After charges were read and I saw our State Trooper friend come up and whisper something to the D.A., she said, "I understand Mr. Finn regrets his actions . . . " followed by some lawyer jargon that I surmised to mean that if I paid a fine and stayed out of trouble, this would all be over.

The judge gave me a hard look.  "Mr. Finn will pay a fine of $100.  Is that agreeable to you, Mr. Finn?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you need some extra time to make this payment, Mr. Finn?"

"How much time can I have?" I asked.

His face flushed as he opened his mouth to speak I realized I'd said the wrong thing, and so I quickly added, "I-I-I can pay it today.  Sir."

The check was paid, the wheels of justice rolled to a stop, and I managed to stay out of trouble (and more exactly, out of bars) until I turned 21 the following March.