The brown Ford smoked a little pulling away from the stop sign, but the noise is what caught my attention.
I followed the car for a half mile watching for signs of impaired driving before I turned on my overhead lights. The driver was a tiny woman with gray hair, her head barely showing above the seat back.
After a half mile with my lights flashing, I bumped the horn. Her head tilted up toward the mirror, so I knew she saw me. I waited a few seconds and hit the siren once.
Almost reluctantly the Ford edged to the side of the road and stopped.
I walked up the left side of the car and stopped at the rear window. She turned toward me, a questioning look on her dark, weather-beaten face.
"Good afternoon ma'am," I said. "I'm Patrolman Baker, Arizona Highway Patrol. May I see your driver license and vehicle registration, please?"
She threw up her hands and said, "Lawdy, why'm I being stopped on a Sunday--and Mother's Day at that? I know I wasn't going no more'n forty miles an hour."
"The reason I stopped you, Ma'am is because of your muffler. It needs to be fixed so I'm going to write you a repair order. You'll have five days to get it repaired or replaced."
"Oh, Lawdy," she said, rolling her eyes. "Where'm I gonna get money to fix the car and pay a fine? I'm just a poor 'ol widow woman."
"There's no fine," I said. "All you have to do is get it repaired and mail in the card that I'll give you. May I see your driver license and vehicle registration, please?"
She began rummaging around in the glove compartment and finally came out with the vehicle form.
"Are you Sadie Johnson?" I asked, reading the name on the paper.
"Yas suh," she said.
"Do you have your driver license with you?"
She spent several minutes looking through her purse, finally dumping the contents on the passenger seat. "I don't seem to find it," she said. "I must'uv left it home."
I radioed for a driver license check on Sadie Johnson then filled out a repair order.
While waiting for a reply, I asked Mrs. Johnson if she'd lived in the area long.
"All my life," she said. "I grew up here, married here, raised my kids here and buried my husband here." After a pause she said, "Been here all my life 'cept about seven years rite after my husband died." She stared off in the distance with a pensive look.
"That's too bad, losing your husband," I said. "Do you live near any of your children?"
"No," she replied. "They all gone--moved away. I got cancer so I be joining my husband 'fore too long." She nodded for emphasis.
After no word from the dispatcher for twenty-five minutes I could not justify holding her any longer so I issued a citation for "license not in possession" and explained that if she showed the judge a valid license, he'd dismiss the ticket.
The brown Ford was hardly a quarter mile down the road when the dispatcher called back. Sadie Johnson's license had been revoked.
After she pulled over for the second time, I approached her window. "Mrs. Johnson, why didn't you tell me your license was revoked?"
She hung her head and very quietly said, "It do seem lak I remember some'tin lak that."
I felt quite small, handcuffing a tiny lady who likely wouldn't scale out to more than ninety pounds with hat and handbag, but the offense called for an arrest and policy required handcuffs.
On our way to the nearest town she reminded me again that she was a widow woman, she had cancer and I was arresting her on Mother's Day. I truly felt sorry for her. It was one of those times when I didn't enjoy my job.
At the jail a female dispatcher searched her while I filled out the booking sheet. When I returned from the womens' section of the lockup, two city officers stood in the jailer's cubicle.
"What did you get old Sadie for?" one of the men asked.
"Driving on a revoked license," I said. "You know it's pretty sad when you have to lock up a mother on Mother's Day--especially when she's a widow."
The officers exchanged glances. "And of course she reminded you that she has cancer," one of them said.
Before I could respond the other officer asked, "Did she tell you how she got to be a widow?"
"No," I said.
"Twelve gauge shotgun," the officer replied. "Right in the chest. Got seven years for it."