Cocaine, Cops, and CHAOS

The following is a classic example of the importance of saying very little and playing naive when confronted by the coppers.

It’s also a lesson in how proper body language can help you frame an encounter and get you the result you’re looking for.

2012 — "The cops are headed our way," I said.

"Stay in the car," my buddy Johnny replied.

It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon in June — Johnny (my buddy) and I were riding our usual cocaine wave, and we were dangerously low on GHB. So we did what every lunatic drug users do: we got in my car and headed to one of our dealers.

When we arrived, she wasn't home, so we took the first parking spot at the end of a row in plain sight.

Unfortunately for us, our dealer had a neighbour who liked to police the complex — and she was looking to serve her justice boner that afternoon.

I had a gut feeling things were about to go sideways. But, against my instincts, I followed Johnny’s lead; he’s a stalwart friend and has been in more sticky situations than I.

stalwart: loyal, reliable, and hard working. — adjective

The cop pulled right up behind us. I got out at the same time he did.

"Get back in the car!" he shouted with deep anger and violence.

Dressed in muscles, a faux-hawk, and tribal tattoos, he was the poster boy for douchebaggery cop. The kind of guy who irons his t-shirts and calls his wife ‘Bro'.

I obliged.

He knelt on the passenger side, inches from Johnny’s face, and asked for my paperwork.

I started fumbling; his report later said I was nervous, but in fact, I was really high on cocaine.

I’d been arrested enough in my life at this point that I knew if I played my cards right and interacted properly with them, I stood a good chance of walking away from this.

So right now, I’m scanning my body to check what my body language is saying.

Are my shoulders slouched, or is my chest pushed out?

Where am I looking?  Are my eyes darting around like someone guilty? Am I staring him down? Where should my eyes be looking?

There is a lot of non-verbal communication happening here, and it can either sink you or swim you.

Back to the story…

Sweat was rolling down my forehead and into my eyes, which were already red and dilated as fuck.

The scene was weird and scary — Johnny had an 8-ball of coke on him, and I had some weed, mushrooms, and half an Oxy 80. But we kept our cool - for now.

After fumbling with my paperwork and giving it to Sergeant Hulk, he retreated to his car to run my name.

The wheels of our destruction were already in motion, grinding forward with the unstoppable momentum of a kick in the nuts.

The back-ups arrive

Two more squad cars roll in.  Two guys per car. Five cops now.

The Sergeant takes Johnny's side. Another cop comes up to my door.

“Out of the car.

Knowing our rights, we ask what for.

They point to an unopened bottle of wine in my backseat—still in the bag. My girlfriend left it in there the night before. That’s their excuse. A flimsy one. They couldn’t legally search us, but they tried anyway.

This is where things go sideways.

The moment we step out, they spin us around and slam our hands onto the roof.

Johnny glances over. Smirks.

As the cops start patting him down, Johnny turns, grabs both of the sergeant's wrists, and starts steering him around like a pissed-off dad walking a toddler.

Instant chaos! A total rhubarb!

Four cops jump on Johnny. And still—still—they can’t get him to the ground. (Johnny is an exceptional collegiate wrestler and has those cauliflower ears).

When the chaos breaks out, the 5th cop comes over to me — I’m being compliant, but he still feels the need to sidekick me in my calf.

Within seconds, I'm in the back of the cruiser, and now it's five on one.

I'm looking out the back of the cruiser, thinking — what the fuck is Johnny doing? Has he lost his marbles?

Here’s what I thought happened:

Earlier, while the cop was running our names, he asked what I had on me. I told him some weed and mushrooms.

He said, "Give it to me."

Solid friend, right?

There is no use in both of us taking charge—especially when it was his idea to stay in the car.

So I figured Johnny must’ve left the cocaine in the car and panicked.

Wrong.

As I watch these cops hanging off Johnny like ornaments, the fight spills to the street and slams against another cruiser.

Then Johnny stops resisting.

Just…stops. The way a toddler drops a tantrum the second someone offers them a snack.

They cuff him.

That’s when it clicks.

Johnny didn’t lose his marbles. He played battleship.

He kept the cocaine in his pocket, dragged the cops to the cruiser, and ditched it into the wheel-well mid-struggle.

Gone.

Brillant!

Things cool down—after Johnny eats four or five right hooks to the side of the head for you-know-who.  They toss him into the Sergeant’s cruiser and take him to the station.

The Sergeant walks straight over to my car and starts tearing it apart.

He finds my man-bag.

I feel weirdly confident watching him rummage through it because I knew I had no ID in there—just some mushrooms, weed and a half an Oxy 80 (but that’s enough to arrest me).

Quick Street Tip (Hopefully you never need this) • Never keep drugs and identification in the same place. • Man-bag, purse, backpack. Separate them • If things get sticky, there is no direct line from you to the party favours.

A couple of minutes later, the Sergeant storms back over. Eyes bloodshot with anger. Ego a little bruised from being tossed around by Johnny in front of his subordinates.

“Did Johnny have anything on him that was left in the car?”

I don’t blink.

I keep it flat. Clean. Short. I used brevity.

brevity (brev·i·ty) noun /ˈbrev·ə·tē/ Concise and exact use of words in writing or speech; shortness of duration. — Websters

Johnny had already taken my weed from my pocket as the cops were approaching, so I knew he was taking the fall (plus, it was his idea to stay in the car and he knew that).

---

The Wrap-Up

Johnny gets hauled to the station. Charged with possession of mushrooms, weed, and resisting arrest.

He beats every charge.

Me?

I get pulled aside and questioned by the remaining three cops.

“Why did your buddy restrain?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “You’ll have to ask him.”

And then I perform.

Shaking. Quivering. Teary-eyed. Scared shitless.

Even though I wasn’t.

Why?

Because fear is non-threatening.

The Sergeant notices. “Why is he shaking?”

The same cop who kicked my calf answers for me.

“Because he’s scared.”

Bingo.

My body language did the talking.

This wasn’t my first time in cuffs. I knew the play. Look small. Look harmless. Look overwhelmed.

They let me go.

I drove off while an 8-ball of cocaine sat in the street for some kid to find.

Safer streets?

Nah.

Just one bruised ego trying to feel important.

🗣️ Communication Tip: When the heat starts rising, check your body first. Depending on how you carry yourself, you can either come across as aggressive, surly, and guilty — or passive, scared, and not guilty. Your counterpart is picking up your physical cues subconsciously. They don't know it. But it's affecting everything.