I have the joy and honor of serving as the personal bailiff to one of the greatest judges I’ve ever had the chance to meet. Often, our court is so busy, it is just him and me in the courtroom for staff. I am the court bailiff, clerk, reporter, and probation officer. I also create about 90% of the forms we use.

One day, we have one of our regular customers in. I became very familiar with the young man well before I ever met him. Not only have I frequently entered new warrants for his arrest in the state system, but I also have the frequent occasion to be the dispatcher answering radio calls from pursuits he’s lead, and frequently evaded, our officers on.

On this particular day, he knows he is going to be drug tested (by me), which includes me physically having to watch him pee into a cup, on the side of which is a thermometer strip. He pulls out what appears to be a normal male appendage and starts to free urine into the cup. Once he has filled the cup to the indicated line:

Me: “You can finish up, and then wash your hands and meet me in the courtroom.”

Something isn’t right. The temperature of the fluid is not body temperature, at least not a normal one. According to the thermal strip, the liquid is close to 106 degrees F. As an EMT, I know that this would usually be a fatal body temperature, or at the absolute easiest, the person would be so feverish that they would not be able to hold their legs beneath them to stand. What is even weirder are the results. Now, we’re talking about a kid, about seventeen or eighteen, and I know his drug of choice is weed. Well, he doesn’t test positive for weed.

After I get back into the courtroom, I seal the test kit in a bag — normally, I throw them away — write down some information in his case file, and hand it to the judge. When I do, the judge scratches his left inside wrist and then his right inside wrist, our code for “get ready to arrest.” The judge calls the kid up, and I have him stand almost behind the court reporter’s bench, so I can cut him off if he tries bolting on foot.

Judge: “Are you feeling well?”

Kid: “I feel fine.”

Judge: “Well, according to your test kit, you’re running a very high fever, and you tested positive for MDMA and methamphetamines.”

MDMA is also called ecstasy.

I s*** you not, the kid rolls his eyes, reaches into his pants, yanks pretty hard a couple of times, and brings out a male-appendage-shaped apparatus that has a small bladder attached with a locking mechanism keeping the fluid from leaking out.

He knew that such kits usually come back under temp, so he had it suspended in a half cup of coffee until he finally took it out and strapped it to his leg before entering the courtroom. The delicious irony is that he wasn’t careful who he got the urine sample from. All he asked was whether or not the donor had been smoking weed lately, not even thinking to ask about any other drugs.

I take him into custody, glove up and take hold of the device he left sitting on the reporter’s bench, and take him to jail. I will tell the jail staff that charges are pending, but he is to be held on PC of probation violation.

On the way to the jail, I turn to him. He isn’t a bad looking kid, and he didn’t have a bad upbringing, so I say something he isn’t expecting.

Me: “You know, I’ve known about you and your exploits for like five years or so now, but I have one major question.”

Kid: “What’s that?”

Me: “Have you ever given any serious thought to doing something positive with your life?”

Kid: “What could someone like me do?”

I look him in the eye.

Me: “Dude, you’ve been doing it for over five years. On the horrible dirt roads we have in this county, you still drive ’em like you’re Dale Earnhardt. Seriously, kid, you should think about making an honest career as a racecar driver.”

He kind of laughed me off, but I was 100% deadly serious. The kid could drive. For him to drive so well he could evade multiple-car pursuits at high speed, on winding, poorly-maintained dirt roads, surely he’d be no match for an oval circuit. I even offered to put in a word for a local racing team, whose owner I knew.

Sadly, the kid never took me up on my offer and just sank further and further into the quagmire of the justice system, ultimately spending time in a state pen for his actions. I still maintain that he would have made one h*** of a racecar driver.

For clarification, he did not get put in jail for drug charges. He got put in jail for a probation violation on one of his high-speed pursuits. We can’t charge a person for testing positive for marijuana, except if it’s one of the terms of their probation with the court.

I work long hours, so my wife is often home alone at night with my stepdaughter and my biological son, both from our first marriages. My son’s mother is not really in the picture anymore as she is working hard on getting her addictions under control. While I am very proud of her, it’s unsafe for her to be around our son right now — a fact she agrees with. On this particular night, my stepdaughter is at her dad’s place, so my wife is home with my son. I text her when I’m leaving work as I always do, and she doesn’t reply. I figure they went to bed early.

As soon as I turn into my street, I see several police cars and an ambulance in front of my house. My heart basically stops. I actually leave my car running in the street and get out and run. I’m in IT and running is not my strong suit, but I’m sure I moved faster than I have ever moved in my entire life. A cop tries to stop me at the gate, but I hear my son yell, “DADDY!” and the cop lets me through.

My son is sitting on the verandah, completely unharmed, wrapped in his blanket, and looking terrified. After I sob into his hair in a very unmanly manner for a moment, I look around frantically for my wife. She’s sitting in the back of the ambulance, having her arm bandaged, and talking to a police officer. I run over and hug her until she squeaks and then loosen my grip.

The story unfolds. My ex-wife had befriended a man in rehab. He was at the end of his stay and was getting ready to leave. She had mentioned to him that she was working so hard on getting clean so that she could get our son back in her life. The man had obviously been so touched by that that when he left rehab and almost immediately fell off the wagon, that had stuck in his mind. He’d decided to take my son to see his mother.

He had found my wife on Facebook and organised to collect one of the items she had been decluttering for free out of our shed. He’d been by in daylight hours to pick it up off our verandah and left.

When the sun went down, my wife had been sitting in the living room when she heard a window smash. He’d gained entry via my stepdaughter’s room — which by the grace of some higher power was empty that night — and he ran through the house looking for my son.

He’d told all this to the officers freely when they had arrived to find a badly injured man being held on the ground by my wife. She’d gotten the knife away from him and proceeded to subdue him, entirely alone and in a dark hallway, while my terrified son had called for help.

I look around the yard for the intruder, since my wife is having some superficial scratches patched up in the only ambulance there, and I ask where he is.

Cop: “He’s being treated at the hospital. My partner has gone with him to complete the arrest. Your wife—”

Wife: *Interrupting* “I broke both his arms.”

Too bad the hallway was dark. If the lights had been on, he might have seen my wife’s Brazilian Jiu Jitsu awards on the wall.

People wonder why I’m not usually frightened about my wife being home alone at night with our kids. That woman could snap me in half like a glowstick if she wanted to. 

We have a very shiny new security system now, and all Facebook Marketplace transactions are done in a fast food restaurant car park. My ex-wife was utterly horrified at what had happened. We knew she hadn’t done it on purpose, as she didn’t even know our address back then, and she would NEVER put our son in danger willingly. She sent my wife a beautiful letter thanking her for protecting our son and promised to never share real names again.

Don’t get between a mother and her kids. Knife or not, it’s not going to end well for you.

This story is part of our Best Of November 2020 roundup!

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My dad uses his personal cell number for his small business, so he makes it a practice to always answer any call, since it could be a client. However, this means he has answered quite a few scam calls… and has developed some pretty funny responses.

Robocall: “This is an important message from the social security administration regarding your social security number. Please press one to speak to a representative.”

Dad: *Presses one* “Hey, [My Name], come here. I got another one.”

Scammer: “Hello, this is the Social Security Administration. Thank you—”

Dad: “Thank you for calling the Social Security Administration. How may I direct your call?”

Scammer: *Pause* “What?”

Dad: “You called the Social Security Administration, sir. How may I direct your call?”

Scammer: *Pause* “No, sir, I am with the Social Security Administration.”

Dad: “Yes, you’re speaking with the Social Security Administration now. So, do you need to file a claim or—”

Scammer: “No, no, no! I am the Social Security Administration. You called us.”

Dad: “No, I didn’t. You called into our switchboard. Sir, you seem very confused. Do you need additional assistance?”

Scammer: “I. No. You. Wait. Argh!” *Click* 

Me: *Laughing* “Dad, that was better than the time you tried to convince the ‘IRS’ to order a pizza!”

This story is part of the Phone Scam Payback roundup!

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I’ve been working bar security at the same bar for about three years. If you ever want to know what it’s like to be a bouncer, think daycare but at night, and instead of small children, it’s adults who revert to children when intoxicated… some of them even when not intoxicated.

This night is much like any other night. There’s a popular local band playing so we’ve got a decent crowd going. The team is keeping their eyes open for anyone passed out, being belligerent, drugs, the works. I’m standing by the door to the bar area of the building. One half of this place is a pool hall and the other a bar and entertainment area, and they’re separated by a wall with a door on either end. I stand by this door a lot because I can easily keep track of both rooms at the same time without needing to really walk all around the place.

There’s a gentleman sitting near the door where I am, and there’s a couple sitting at the bar across the way. The female is well-known for acting out when she’s drunk. From what we can see on the cameras inside, she walks on over to the gentlemen by the door and starts trying to flirt with him. This guy has come into the bar for years and never has he raised a hand to anyone for any reason. He’s a professionally-trained boxer, doesn’t really drink, and doesn’t generally close out the bars. He rejects her advances, and she becomes noticeable upset.

The woman runs over to her husband.

Woman: “That guy disrespected me! And he called me names!”

The gentleman ushers her man over.

Gentleman: *Kindly* “I’m sorry, but could you please make this woman leave me alone?”

Before the conversation really starts, though, the husband grabs this guy by the collar and starts driving him towards the wall.

Chaos ensues, as the couple didn’t realize that the gentleman came in with his twenty friends. The gentleman throws a couple of jabs at the husband. Then, the woman decides she wants to join in this brawl, so the gentleman takes a jab at her, too.

WELP.

The dude punches her so hard that he literally folds her bottom row of teeth back into her mouth.

This all happens in the span of about ten seconds before the security team jumps in and gets everyone separated. The husband and wife are taken outside, but we don’t call the cops right away, because that’s generally a last resort.

So now, we’re outside, this lady is bleeding from her mouth, and her husband is visibly angry. The lady keeps asking me to call the cops, but I keep telling her that’s a bad idea, considering her husband put his hands on the guy first, but she’s not having it. So, I call the police.

I can’t describe how difficult it is not to laugh in this lady’s face as she witnesses the cops put her husband in handcuffs and not the guy who punched her. She says something that I’ll never forget, and I wish I had it on recording.

Woman: “THIS IS WHY WE DON’T CALL THE F****** COPS!”

I very nonchalantly remind her that it was her idea to call the police in the first place.

I didn’t see them again until about a year later. The woman had to get her whole bottom row of front teeth pretty much fixed, and she still hasn’t changed in the slightest.

What a night.

I have been noticing a lot of minor and odd occurrences in the car park that my garden backs up to. It’s little things, like my valve cap covers going missing, toys left in the road, my bin disappearing, drinks and rubbish left all over and on the cars, etc.

It’s annoying but nothing major, so I chalk it up to the new family that just moved in and hope it will sort itself out.

Eventually, I set up a couple of cameras and unsurprisingly see the new family’s kids messing with cars, throwing rubbish around, etc.

One day, I find a football in my garden. I check the cameras and see that the kids have been kicking the ball against my fence and actually other people’s cars! The ball goes over my fence, and then they actually try to come into my garden — thankfully it’s locked — and give up. I’m pretty annoyed, so a few days later when their father arrives at my door, I am ready for him.

Father: “I’m very sorry, but my kids kicked their ball into your garden. Could I have it back?”

Me: “No.”

Father: “Please, I am asking as they did it only by accident. It was their present.”

Me: “No. You see, I put up cameras. And what do I see? Your children damaging cars, throwing rubbish around, and then trying to get into my garden. You can have your ball back when you promise to actually supervise your children and they apologise.”

He disappeared without saying a word.

On reflection, it occurred to me that I had no right to keep the ball, and I felt pretty bad. I figured I would throw it back over the fence after a day or two.

It was a surprise to see the police at my door the next day. I let them in and confirmed that I would return the ball, but I also showed them the camera footage. They took particular interest in the cars the kids were interfering with and they visited each of the houses.

It turned out that no one wanted to take the issue further, but they did speak with the father to inform him of what could have happened, and how he would be responsible for any damage his children caused.

In the end, he stopped letting the kids play unsupervised in the car park. Hopefully, he didn’t just set them loose on another neighbourhood.