roadblock had to be for me. The police would pay particular close attention to public transportation. We’d be thoroughly checked.
My heart was beating fast, and I could feel perspiration on my back.
What to do?
I could force the driver to let me off.
But he’d call the cops. There could be dozens of them at the roadblock. The detectives who’d earlier pursued me had used clever discretion and caution. They wanted to catch me without escalating matters and endangering lives. But the guys ahead of me might not be so patient. With the number of vehicles around me, this could turn into a chaotic shootout.
A thought occurred to me. The cops ahead would know about me holding up a car outside of Philly. Maybe they were expecting me to have done the same to get here. I looked at the guy next to me. He was still sleeping. Most people in the bus were oblivious to what was going on outside. Very slowly I started easing the guy’s cell out from his pocket.
He moved.
I froze.
But he was just adjusting his position while still sleeping.
I got the phone out.
His eyes were shut. He didn’t move.
I entered the bathroom. The place stank and would have been a dreadful sight for anyone needing to use it. I didn’t care. What I needed urgently was privacy.
I called 911.
A woman answered. “Operator.”
In a Virginian accent I spoke in fast, hushed tones. “I’m in my blue Porsche. An Englishman’s held a gun at me. Think he’s the guy on the news. We’re on route 81. Traffic’s not moving because there’s a police roadblock ahead. He’s out of the car, freaking out. Oh, shit, he’s coming back!”
I hung up and turned off the cell in case the operator tried to call back. I turned on the sink tap, removed the battery, and held it under the running water. Replacing the dripping wet battery into the phone, I was sure the device was now completely inoperable. If its owner were to wake up, turn it on, and get a call or SMS from the police, he’d take one look at me and work out what was going on.
I went back to my seat and slid the phone back into the passenger’s pocket.
God knew if the cops were going to fall for this. I chose a blue Porsche because I thought it would be unusual. And I hoped the police at the roadblock would be desperate to get me close enough to them so they could gun me down.
For one minute the methodical checks continued. Then everything changed. The guys in the gap remained in place. But two other officers were ahead of them, waving traffic through. The spike-strip cops were no longer lifting and setting the trap back down with each car that passed.
They were getting traffic moving.
And hoping the mythical Porsche driver would feel comfortable to proceed. Once he was close to the roadblock, the cops would fling the spike strip back in place and draw weapons.
At least, that’s how I hoped they were thinking.
We were very close now. Thank goodness there were no real blue Porsches in front of us.
The cops were pointing at vehicles and instructing them to pass.
I held my breath.
Three vehicles were in front of us. Vehicles one and two were told to proceed. Ditto vehicle three.
Come on, come on, I thought to myself.
The bus engine rumbled as we picked up speed and passed the police.
Now I saw two more squad cars positioned in exactly the same way as the first, plus two officers with another spike strip.
But the strip wasn’t in place. We were let through.
I exhaled as the bus changed lanes and continued its journey.
It was 7 P.M . as the bus pulled in to Roanoke. I disembarked, with only fifty-three dollars in my pocket.
I went to the station’s men’s room and changed into my newly acquired clothes—a Windbreaker jacket, jeans, and hiking boots. I looked at my face in a mirror. I looked like shit: face drawn and heavily stubbled, eyes hollow and red with dark bags underneath, and lips that were cracked in places. The good thing, though, was that from a distance I would look
My heart was beating fast, and I could feel perspiration on my back.
What to do?
I could force the driver to let me off.
But he’d call the cops. There could be dozens of them at the roadblock. The detectives who’d earlier pursued me had used clever discretion and caution. They wanted to catch me without escalating matters and endangering lives. But the guys ahead of me might not be so patient. With the number of vehicles around me, this could turn into a chaotic shootout.
A thought occurred to me. The cops ahead would know about me holding up a car outside of Philly. Maybe they were expecting me to have done the same to get here. I looked at the guy next to me. He was still sleeping. Most people in the bus were oblivious to what was going on outside. Very slowly I started easing the guy’s cell out from his pocket.
He moved.
I froze.
But he was just adjusting his position while still sleeping.
I got the phone out.
His eyes were shut. He didn’t move.
I entered the bathroom. The place stank and would have been a dreadful sight for anyone needing to use it. I didn’t care. What I needed urgently was privacy.
I called 911.
A woman answered. “Operator.”
In a Virginian accent I spoke in fast, hushed tones. “I’m in my blue Porsche. An Englishman’s held a gun at me. Think he’s the guy on the news. We’re on route 81. Traffic’s not moving because there’s a police roadblock ahead. He’s out of the car, freaking out. Oh, shit, he’s coming back!”
I hung up and turned off the cell in case the operator tried to call back. I turned on the sink tap, removed the battery, and held it under the running water. Replacing the dripping wet battery into the phone, I was sure the device was now completely inoperable. If its owner were to wake up, turn it on, and get a call or SMS from the police, he’d take one look at me and work out what was going on.
I went back to my seat and slid the phone back into the passenger’s pocket.
God knew if the cops were going to fall for this. I chose a blue Porsche because I thought it would be unusual. And I hoped the police at the roadblock would be desperate to get me close enough to them so they could gun me down.
For one minute the methodical checks continued. Then everything changed. The guys in the gap remained in place. But two other officers were ahead of them, waving traffic through. The spike-strip cops were no longer lifting and setting the trap back down with each car that passed.
They were getting traffic moving.
And hoping the mythical Porsche driver would feel comfortable to proceed. Once he was close to the roadblock, the cops would fling the spike strip back in place and draw weapons.
At least, that’s how I hoped they were thinking.
We were very close now. Thank goodness there were no real blue Porsches in front of us.
The cops were pointing at vehicles and instructing them to pass.
I held my breath.
Three vehicles were in front of us. Vehicles one and two were told to proceed. Ditto vehicle three.
Come on, come on, I thought to myself.
The bus engine rumbled as we picked up speed and passed the police.
Now I saw two more squad cars positioned in exactly the same way as the first, plus two officers with another spike strip.
But the strip wasn’t in place. We were let through.
I exhaled as the bus changed lanes and continued its journey.
It was 7 P.M . as the bus pulled in to Roanoke. I disembarked, with only fifty-three dollars in my pocket.
I went to the station’s men’s room and changed into my newly acquired clothes—a Windbreaker jacket, jeans, and hiking boots. I looked at my face in a mirror. I looked like shit: face drawn and heavily stubbled, eyes hollow and red with dark bags underneath, and lips that were cracked in places. The good thing, though, was that from a distance I would look
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