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14-Day Rule
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14-Day Rule |
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broker6 Member
since 1999-11-07
Posts 132Bellevue, NE, Sarpy |
THE 14-DAY RULE by Richard J. Budig His hand shook, not with fear, but with anger at me as he curled his fingers around the butt of the .38 caliber Police Special revolver tucked in the holster on his belt beneath his coat. His eyes were menacing narrow slits as he lifted, bringing the gun almost out of its holster. Suddenly, this usually benign and placid Lincoln, NE, police officer looked neither benign nor placid. His face was flushed, and his oversized nose with its twin bunches of untrimmed nose-hair took on the appearance of the beak of a large and balding bird of prey who was about to lash out with .38 caliber talons. "You knew that flute was stolen when you bought it," he hissed, raising his gun a little higher from its holster, his flame-red nose arcing out over thin lips stretched tight across uneven yellow teeth. The fact is, I had no idea the flute had been stolen. This, like many of the slightly lopsided adventures in which I've found myself during my years as a pawnbroker, hit me like the sudden summer storms that blow up out here on the prairie. The altercation between me and this officer is an example. I tried valiantly to explain to him that just because the guy selling the flute wanted so little for it may have been suspicious, but it did not automatically mean it was stolen. In my quarter century of doing this, I’ve had people sell incredibly expensive things for as little as five dollar. I have always maintained that I am not responsible for another persons stupidity. If someone wants to sell his new Cadillac to me for $50, I won’t stop him. To this day, I don’t know why this police officer suddenly lost his cool to the point that he would threaten my business and my life. “I’m going to close you down,” he continued, spittle spraying from his thin lips, his gun hovering just above his holster. I had been in this business about ten years when this happened, enough time to have already put a few anxious moments behind me. Without that prior experience, I think I would have fainted dead away when this man began loosening his weapon. I believe it was all those previous moments that gave me the coolness I needed to step away from my counter and the menacing police officer, pick up the phone and dial 911. “Nine Eleven operator . . . what is the nature of your problem?” a detached male voice asked. “I have a police officer going berserk in my store. He’s threatening me with a gun,” I said as calmly as I could. The operator got my address and rang off. In less than three seconds sirens began to wail. To this day, I thank God that the Lincoln Police Department was only three block from my store. Of course, when it's “one of their own” police tend to respond a little more quickly. As the sirens closed the distance between me and my mad police officer, I could see things going on in his eyes. I’ll never know, of course, but it looked to me like he was struggling with a decision . . . one that concerned my present and future state of health. In the end, I believe it was police training that kicked in and, like an airplane’s autopilot, guided him through the storm. In moments, three cruisers skidded to haphazard stops in front of my store. One of them, unable to find a spot on the street, rolled up on the sidewalk and parked at my door. A couple of unmarked police cars followed carrying some high ranking plain-clothes guys. In seconds, my store looked like police headquarters. Someone took away my threatening officer’s gun and led him away. The flute in question turned out to be a French open hole flute made of sterling silver. It was worth an estimated $2,500. I bought it for about $35. I had never seen a flute like this, and frankly, I thought something was wrong with it because it had so few “keys.” Where flutes are concerned, keys are those things that cover the holes. The guy from whom I bought it -- a thief as it turns out -- was as ill informed as I about the missing keys. Since it was sterling silver, which is about 92% silver, I thought that if nothing else, I could make a profit from its silver content. Beyond that, this was my first encounter with such an instrument. That it might be stolen hadn’t entered my mind, at least not in a big way. Like pawn brokers everywhere, I have received my share of stolen property. And, over time, I have learned to look askance at almost everything that crosses my counter. This flute was no exception. But, the law in most states takes into account the possibility of receiving stolen goods and makes allowances, of sorts, by making us account for its genesis. In Nebraska, pawn brokers must get valid identification and take a fingerprint from the person pawning the item. Copies of pawn slips are handed over to police daily. Items that turn up as stolen are placed on hold by police until there is a disposition in the case. In some instances, these items turn out not to be stolen after all. However, that I had stolen merchandise in my possession was not what this was all about. I was guilty (and I make no bones about it) of putting the flute on display before it was legal to do so. In Nebraska, the law says that items purchased by pawn brokers must be segregated and not put out for sale for 14 days following purchase. I put the flute out the next day. My reason for doing so (which doesn't make it right) was that flutes are not all-time big sellers. Historically, I sell half a dozen flutes a year. I figured that this flute with not enough keys would sit there for months before anyone looked at it. That’s the way it goes with flutes. And, if someone actually showed an interest in purchasing it before the 14-day freeze, I could explain that it couldn’t be sold for x-number of days yet. However, a couple of days later, a nice young fellow came in, saw the flute and went into orbit, claiming it was his and I had to give it back to him. I explained to him that there was a procedure for doing this so that he could legally retrieve his property. First, he had to report it to the police. They would take it from there, starting with putting a hold on his flute. This only angered him more, which is understandable. People who have been victims of theft or break-ins not only feel violated, but doubly violated when they discover their property languishing in a pawn shop. Of course, they want their things returned to them instantly, and when that doesn’t happen, they feel a triple violation. And being violated three times in a row often leads to harsh words and threats of firebombing and beatings, not to mention threats of the impending disappearance of first born children, prized pets and lawn furniture. I continued urging him to report all this to the police, repeating that they would take it from there. When he left, he left in a high pitched voice, fists flailing, and threatening all manner of skullduggery. After years of this, I put it out of my mind. People usually cool down by the time they get to the police department, and an officer trained at calming and taking reports finishes the job. Normally, the victim gets his property within a month or less. But this guy gave new meaning to being upset. Somehow, he got to the detective in charge of the pawn detail . . . the one who came to my shop and drew his weapon. In the end, I was cited for breaking the 14-day rule and had to go to court. But the whole event troubled me so that I sought the advice of an attorney who, upon hearing and verifying my story, struck a deal with the city. I would plead guilty to breaking the 14-day rule and my fine would be suspended in return for my promise not to sue the socks off the city. And, life got back to normal -- if there is such a thing in a pawn shop -- and the months ticked by. I hadn’t forgotten this event, but it had reached a point where it occupied a lot less space in my mind when, to my shock, one day the door opened and in walked the officer who had lost his cool a couple of years earlier. He didn’t mention the event, so neither did I. He stood around and talked for several minutes and then left. I asked my beat officer about it, and he told me that the guy was getting ready to retire and that he seemed to have mellowed in the last few months. We speculated about his actions, but nothing I or my beat officer came up with satisfied me. After his retirement, he would drop in every now and then. He worked hard at making light conversation, and I worked hard at it, too. But I couldn’t shake a feeling of edginess when he was around. Some years later, I accidentally shot myself in the hand. I know . . . I know, how stupid can you be? But the fact remains that taking a bullet, no matter how it's administered, changes things. It somehow validates things that up to then were only sensed. Like the edgy feeling I got when this apparently repentant police officer would come visiting. I didn't understand it back then. Not really. Naturally, a man standing there, slowly drawing his weapon, looking me right in the eye, his eyes narrowed to slits, teeth clenched sideways so his jaw skewed off to one side would make anyone edgy. But it goes deeper than that. Later, when I took my bullet, I noticed how time stopped, how there is that moment of finality, a moment in which you, your being and your mind are seized in a mental vice grip. Somehow, after taking a bullet, time seems a trifle out of sync, kind of like one of those old TV sets where the words come out first and then the lips move a millisecond later. I've often wondered if this isn't partly what's wrong with the world nowadays. So many have taken bullets. So many have been murdered. Add up all these minuscule moments when time skipped a beat from all this flying lead, and perhaps it explains why the collective heart of today's world seems a couple of clicks off dead center. And, mentally, I don't treat police officers the same anymore, and that's sad. When they're around, I find myself watching their mouths to see if the sound comes out before their lips move. 30-30 |
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PhaerieChild Senior Member
since 1999-08-30
Posts 1787Aloha, Oregon |
Found this to be a great read. Was very interesting from the pawnbroker's point of view. I really enjoyed this. Poetry~ Words falling on paper, painting a dream. Shawna R. Holder Boise, Idaho |
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Dusk Treader
Moderator
Senior Member
since 1999-06-18
Posts 1187St. Paul, MN |
Great story you have here. You kept me interested throughout, and I liked your ending too. "Pointing Fingers to Defend" - Gravity Kills - "Guilty" |
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merlynh Member
since 1999-09-26
Posts 411deer park, wa |
First piece I've read in this fourm in a while that was will worth the read. Well done. Looks like you know something about pawn shops and flutes. My brother had one he bought in a garage sale thought it was all silver and got all excited about how much it was worth, only later did he find out it was only plated. I'll look for some of your other posts and read them too. Looks like I'm not the only one who puts some time into his writing. |
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