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Tijuana Shakedown (continued)

“Face the car,” Benitez added. When I’d done as requested, he said, “Put your hands on the car.”

He and Alvarez frisked me, removing my wallet and rifling through my identification and credit cards.

“Do you have any drugs on you?”

“No, nothing,” I answered.

“Do you have anything illegal on you or in your car?”

The truth is, I had nothing illegal on me, or nothing that would be illegal in the United States. I don’t do narcotics, I don’t own any weapons. It was this knowledge, knowing that I was clean, that gave me solace. If these guys were going to bust me, they were going to get me on trumped up charges.

Which is exactly what they did.

“You walked in the street,” Alvarez said, pointing out the route I’d taken from the driver’s side door of my car to the intersection. “No sidewalk—street. It’s dangerous.”

“Ah, I see,” I said, nodding contritely. Apparently you can’t get out of the driver’s side of your car when you parallel park in Tijuana. That’s jaywalking.

It was lunacy, and I had to play dumb just to make sure I understood. “Can I walk from my car to the sidewalk?” I asked, pointing to the same route Alvarez had, from car door to sidewalk.

“No can,” Benitez grumbled. “Is illegal in Tijuana.”

So, remember, folks: Exit through the passenger side door when you parallel park in Tijuana. Walking in the street is not allowed.

“We have to arrest you,” Alvarez said, “And take you to the police station. You can talk to the judge, tomorrow, and pay a fine. Then you can go—tomorrow.”

I tried not to let emotion get to me. “Sure,” I said. “I understand.”

“And we have to search your car. Can I have your keys?”

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While Alvarez went to work on my car, Benitez kept me captive at the police cruiser. The two cars were about twenty feet apart, and over Benitez’ shoulder, I could see Alvarez tearing through my belongings like a kid opening Christmas gifts.

I knew then that I was a mark, nothing more than a chump. They had the guns, the power. It was their street and they’d hold me up if they wanted.

Being held up by the cops, I thought. Fucking priceless.

Alvarez emerged from my car and called over Benitez. “Stay here,” Benitez ordered, glaring at me and rustling the sidearm in his holster.

The two thieves conferred briefly before Alvarez approached and said “What’s this?” He produced the ibuprofen bottle and gave it a little rattle.

“It’s ibuprofen,” I answered.

“What’s that?”

“A pain killer.”

“Do you have a prescription?”

“No. I…In the States, we don’t need one,” I said meekly. I knew where this was heading.

“We don’t know what this is,” he stated. (The bottle said “Long’s Drugs, IBUPROFIN,” and had matching blue pills inside.) “And we don’t know if this is legal in Mexico.”

I could see it coming…“So we’re going to have to arrest you for this, too.”

This time, I could only groan.

“You’ll have to stay in jail tonight. We need to get a pharmacist to verify the contents and tell us that it’s legal in Mexico.”

I nodded dejectedly.

“Tomorrow, you see the judge, pay a fine, and you can go—tomorrow.”

“We have to tow your car, too,” Benitez added.

I nodded and groaned. What else could I do? Argue? Cry?

Alvarez returned to his Christmas presents, working through the contents in my car trunk. Remember, I’d never intended to drive to Mexico, so I had valuable in my car that no sane person would ever bring into Tijuana.

There was a digital camera, an iPod, a digital voice recorder. Alvarez opened my gym bag and discovered my iPod, in a leather case. He pulled it out of the case, inspected it, put it back in its case and very conspicuously returned it to the gym bag. Then he muttered something to Benitez.

Benitez took me the hood of the cruiser and pulled out handcuffs. “Turn around and put your hands behind you.” (continued)

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