It looks like the free ride has finally come to an end.
“The speed limit is 45,” he said again.
It was like talking to a cop out in the sticks, someplace in Iowa or Nebraska, or, worse yet, in the suburbs. It was as if my speeding were a personal affront, as if I’d spit in his face. “You’re not gonna last long in this town,” I wanted to tell him, “if you’re gonna take every illegal lane change personally.” I didn’t bother. I was afraid he’d take that personally too.
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The average Chicago cop will generally only give you a ticket if that’s what he’s out to do. If he’s in the traffic division that’s his full-time job and if he pulls you over chances are good you’re getting the ticket. If a beat cop decides to write tickets, he’ll usually go to an intersection where a left turn is illegal, or just one where it’s easy to hide. If you’re the next guy to make that turn or the next one through the light late, the chances are good that you’re getting written up. If you run the same light while the same cop just happens to be passing by, you usually won’t rate a second glance.
Now the average cop will usually only go out of his way to give you a ticket if you do something exceptionally foolish, like run into the side of his squad car; even then some guys will give you a pass if there isn’t too much damage. And when they do give you a ticket they almost always skip the lecture; these guys hated school too. And they really don’t care how you drive.
If you really want to get a rise out of them you can say something like, “Don’t you think the city would be a lot better off if you spent your time catching some of the criminals who are running around loose out here?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he whispered back. He looked worried and it turned out later that he had every reason to be.
