He took the draft and said, ‘Just a minute, Mr. Smith―’
‘It isn’t necessary,’ I said. ‘I don’t want you to give me any credit on this. Simply handle it as a collection. Have your Los Angeles correspondent wire back at my expense.’
He gave me a receipt for the draft. ‘And you wanted some cash?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I said, and handed him the counter check for eighteen hundred dollars, looking at my watch as I did so.
He said, ‘Just a minute,’ stepped back to the bookkeeping department to verify the balance and my signature. He hesitated for a moment, then came back and asked, ‘How do you want this, Mr. Smith?’
‘In hundreds,’ I said.
He gave me the money. I thanked him, drove over to the Bank of Commerce, got into my safety deposit vault, and put the eighteen hundred dollars in with the other money in there. Then I climbed in the car, drove out of town and crossed the bridge over the Colorado River into California. I parked the car for about half an hour, sitting there smoking and letting my dinner digest. Then I started the motor and drove on the few yards that brought me to the California quarantine station over on the right-hand side of the road.
Under the guise of maintaining an agricultural inspection, the California authorities stop every car, search it, unpack baggage, fumigate blankets, ask questions, and inconvenience the motorists as much as possible.
I swung in close to the checking station. A man came out to look me over. I yelled at him, taking care to run the words all together so that he couldn’t hear anything except the jumble of sound as I stepped on the gas. He signalled for me to pull into the unloading platform, and I gave the car everything it had.
A couple of hundred yards down the road, my rear-view mirror showed me that a motorcycle officer was kicking the prop out from under his wheels.
I started traveling.
The motorcycle officer came roaring out from the checking station and my car started going places. I heard the siren swell into noise behind me, and let it get close enough so the sound of it helped clear traffic ahead. The officer didn’t reach for his gun until after we’d got pretty well into the drifting sand hills. When I saw he was getting ready to shoot, I pulled over to the side and stopped.
The officer wasn’t taking any chances on me. He came up alongside with the gun pushed out in front. ‘Stick ‘em up,’ he said.
I stuck ‘em up.
‘What the hell’s the idea?’
‘What idea?’
‘Don’t pull that line with me.’
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘you’ve got me. This is a new car. I just bought it in Yuma. I wanted to find out how fast it would go. What does the judge soak me, a dollar a mile over the legal limit?’
‘Why didn’t you stop in at the quarantine station?’
‘I did. The man motioned for me to go on.’
‘The hell he did. He motioned for you to pull in and stop.’
‘I misunderstood him,’ I said.
‘You bought this car in Yuma, eh? Where?’
I told him.
‘When?’
I told him.
‘Turn around,’ he said. ‘We’re going back.’
‘Back where?’
‘Back to the checking station.’
‘Like hell we are. I’ve got business in El Centro.’
‘You’re under arrest.’
‘All right, then, take me before the nearest and most accessible magistrate.’
‘How’d you pay for this car?’ he asked.
‘With a check.’
‘Every hear anything about the penalty for issuing bum checks?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said.
He said, ‘Well, buddy, you’re going right back across the bridge into Yuma. The man that sold you this car wants you to answer some questions about that check. You thought you were being pretty cute, but you were just about fifteen minutes too early. They managed to get the check down to the bank before it closed.’
‘Well, what of it?’
He grinned. ‘They’ll tell you about that when you get back there.’
‘Back where?’
‘Back to Yuma.’
‘For what?’
‘For issuing a bum check, for obtaining property under false pretenses, and probably a couple of other charges.’
‘I’m not going back to Yuma,’ I said.
‘I think you are.’
I reached down and twisted the ignition key. ‘I know my rights,’ I said. ‘I’m in California. You can’t take me back across into Arizona without extradition.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Like that, is it?’
‘If you want to make it that way.’
He nodded. ‘All right, brother. You want to go to El Centro. Go ahead. We’re going there. Keep within the legal limit. I’ll be right behind you. Forty-five’s the legal limit. I’ll allow you fifty. At fifty-one I start shooting your tires. Do you get me?’
‘You can’t arrest me without a warrant,’ I said.
‘That’s what you think. Get out. I’m going to frisk you.’
I sat tight behind the wheel. He put one foot on the running board, shot his left hand out and hooked his fingers in the collar of my shirt. ‘Come on out,’ he said, holding the gun menacingly in his right hand.
I came out.
He patted me, looking for weapons, then looked through the car.
‘Remember,’ he said, ‘both hands on the wheel. No funny stuff. If you want to be extradited, you’ll sure as hell be extradited.’
‘I don’t like your manner,’ I said, ‘and I resent this high-handed invasion of my rights. I―’
‘Get started,’ he interrupted.
I got started. We drove into El Centro, and he took me to the sheriff’s office. I was left in charge of a deputy while the officer and the sheriff did some talking. Then I heard them telephoning. After that, I was taken down to the jail. The sheriff said, ‘Listen, Smith, you’re a nice looking chap. You’re not gaining anything by pulling a stunt like this. Why don’t you go back and face the music. You may be able to square it.’
I said, ‘I’m not talking.’
‘All right,’ he warned, ‘if you want to be smart.’
‘I want to be smart,’ I said.
They put me in a tank with four or five other prisoners. I didn’t do any talking. When supper was served, I didn’t do any eating. Shortly after supper, the sheriff came back again and asked me if I’d waive extradition. I told him to go to hell and he went out.
I stayed in the tank for two days. I ate some of the grub. It wasn’t too bad. The heat was awful. I didn’t have a newspaper and didn’t know what was going on in the world. They took me out of the tank and put me in a cell by myself. I had no one to talk to.
On the third day, a big man with a black sombrero came in with the sheriff. He said to me, ‘You Peter B. Smith?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m from Yuma,’ he said. ‘You’re going back with me.’
‘Not without extradition.’
‘I have extradition.’
‘Well, I refuse to honor it. I’m going to say right here.’
He grinned.
I gripped the side of the cot and raised my voice. ‘I’m going to stay right here!’
The big man sighed. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘it’s too God damn hot for strenuous exercise. For Christ’s sake, come on out and get in that car.’