During the early 1980s, I was a young hot Latino living in Miami, Florida. One summer, I decided to take a road trip north to visit my old stomping grounds, New York City.
I jumped in my cherry red Capri and roared northward on I-95. I was a few miles away from my destination, somewhere on the New Jersey Turnpike—windows rolled down, my shoulder-length hair flapping in the wind, El Gran Combo blasting from the 8-track cassette player I mounted under the ashtray.
That’s when I saw the flashing red and blue lights in my rearview mirror. ¡Coño! I pulled over on the turnpike’s shoulder and awaited the dreaded ticket, the bump in my insurance premiums.
A state trooper with a chiseled jawline and mirrored glasses approached me. “Son,” he politely asked, “you know why I stopped you? You were traveling five miles over the speed limit.”
“Sorry, officer,” I meekly uttered. Then he made an unexpected request. “Do I have your permission to search my vehicle?”
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