The El Camino flew by Police Chief Truman Daly, leaving the rumble of a powerful engine in its wake.
Truman immediately had two thoughts.
I haven’t seen an El Camino in decades.
What kind of license plate was that?
He dropped his scone into his Tahoe’s cup holder and hit his lights and siren as he pulled onto the two-lane highway. The speeder had to be driving at least twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. Truman hadn’t recorded his speed, but his gut told him the license plate would be all he needed to pull over the El Camino.
He pressed the accelerator and picked up his radio to let Lucas know what was going on.
“Try to wrap it up quickly,” his office manager told him. “My mom dropped off pulled pork here at the station. It’s not going to last.”
“Did she use the Dr Pepper sauce?”
“Yep. Royce and Samuel are already digging in.”
“Save me some,” Truman ordered. “Because I have a hunch this might take a while.”
“You need county?” Lucas’s voice sharpened. The twenty-year-old man would make a good cop, but he was happiest maintaining the organization of the tiny Eagle’s Nest Police Department and telling everyone what to do.
“That’s a good idea. Or state. Whichever is closest. The license plate looked homemade.”
“Gotcha,” Lucas replied in a knowing tone. “I’ll make the calls.”
Truman pushed the Tahoe up to eighty-five and gained on the white El Camino. The driver was enjoying the gentle curves of the highway, cutting from one lane to another to straighten his course. This particular highway wove between flat ranch lands dotted with sagebrush and lava rocks. No other traffic was present. Normal for this stretch of remote road.
Everything around the tiny city of Eagle’s Nest was remote. The Central Oregon town was thirty minutes from Bend and several hours from Portland, the biggest city in the state. Distance wasn’t the only thing that separated Eagle’s Nest from population-dense Portland. They were separated by the Cascade Range, whose peaks averaged around ten thousand feet. The big city sat at the north end of the fertile Willamette Valley, while Truman’s small town perched on the high desert. Politics in the valley were generally blue; in Eagle’s Nest they were firmly red. And Portland’s median household income was double that of Eagle’s Nest. They were two different worlds.
Truman wouldn’t trade his city for anything. It was God’s country. Sun, rivers, mountains, lakes. Forests to the west and fields to the east. And he laughed at the rush-hour traffic that made the locals moan. He’d lived in San Jose—he didn’t mind Eagle’s Nest’s two-minute wait at 5:00 p.m. to turn onto the highway.
The El Camino started to slow. Truman held his breath as he drew closer, squinting at the license plate.
No state DMV authorized that plate.
It was white with blue lettering and had a flag on one side. The vehicle pulled over, and Truman stopped behind it. There was no point entering the small numbers along the bottom of the plate into his computer. The license plate read US CONSTITUTIONAL LICENSE PLATE in big letters above the numbers.
He sighed. Over the radio Lucas announced that a Deschutes County deputy was minutes away.
Might as well get this over with.
Truman put on his cowboy hat, stepped out of his truck, and sniffed the air, noting a damp odor; the rain was coming back. He slowly approached the El Camino. It wasn’t in bad shape for a vehicle that had to be at least thirty years old. The paint was shinier than Truman’s dusty SUV’s, and he saw only one dent on the driver’s side. There appeared to be a single person inside, and the bed of the vehicle was loaded with plastic tubs and fresh-cut lumber. The driver made eye contact in the rearview mirror, and Truman saw he was young, maybe in his twenties or thirties.
Truman stopped a few feet behind the driver’s door, getting a good view of the front seat through the rear window. No apparent weapons. Yet.
A traffic stop in Arkansas nearly a decade earlier flashed in Truman’s brain. It hadn’t been his stop, but not a single cop in the United States would ever forget it.
It’d been in the news for months.
The homemade license plate had brought the memory front and center.
Maybe I should wait for county.
His hand hovered over the butt of his gun.
“Did I do something criminal, sir?” The voice from the car was calm and polite.
Truman tensed at the man’s emphasis on the word criminal. “License and registration, please.” He took a step closer. Now he could see the man’s lap and both hands. No weapon.
“Did I do something criminal, sir?” he repeated. “You cannot stop me unless you suspect me of a criminal act.”
Moving closer, Truman decided the driver was in his midtwenties. “What’s your name?” he asked the driver.
“I don’t have to identify myself,” he stated, piercing blue eyes meeting Truman’s. “That’s my right. I know my rights.”
“You have an illegal license plate on your car, and you were exceeding the speed limit.”
“I don’t care what your highway traffic act says. I have no contracts under that act. I’ve canceled them all so you can’t enforce them on me.”
I don’t have the energy for this today. “Let me guess. You’re a free man and have a God-given right to travel freely.”
“That is correct, sir.”
The man’s confirmation told Truman he was of the same beliefs as the two men who’d leaped out of their vehicle and murdered the cops in Arkansas.
A sovereign citizen. Someone who believes they are above all laws.
Truman kept a sharp eye on the man’s hands. “Well, you’ve endangered other innocent people by speeding, and your plate tells me that you haven’t paid the taxes to drive on these beautiful roads of ours.”
“I know my rights. You’re enforcing corporate policy, sir, and unless you suspect me of a criminal act, you have no right to detain me.”
A Deschutes County cruiser stopped behind Truman’s vehicle. “How about you simply tell me your name?” Truman asked politely. “That way we can have a civil discussion.”
“I’m not operating in that capacity.”
The capacity of being sane?
“I am the human being that owns the entity. You know a legal person is a nonhuman entity, right?”
“How about you share your entity’s name?” Truman didn’t bother to try to understand the man’s logic. There was no logic when it came to dealing with sovereign citizens. They firmly believed every word they said, indoctrinated by the internet and other like-minded people. Most were polite to a point but had an arsenal of word magic and pseudo-legal phrases to make anyone’s head spin.
The man considered Truman’s question and then handed him a plastic card from his wallet. “Are you the Deschutes County sheriff?” the driver asked, twisting his neck to see Truman’s uniform.
Right now, I wish I were. Sovereign citizens recognized only a sheriff as law enforcement because sheriffs were elected by the public.
Truman took the card without answering and stared at it. “What is this?” he blurted, confused by the identification the man had handed him.
“That’s my diplomatic identification card.”
Truman was pretty certain the young man in the dirty jeans and yellowing white T-shirt wasn’t a diplomat. But according to the card, which showed the name Joshua Forbes, his photo, the word ambassador across the top, and the seal of the State Department, he was exactly that.
Completely bogus.
Truman had heard of the cards but had never seen one before. He’d now met his first card-carrying sovereign citizen.
“I don’t suppose you have an Oregon driver’s license?” Truman asked.
“Don’t need one. This card shows the state has recognized my claim as a sovereign citizen. I am not a citizen of the United States. I have diplomatic immunity, and I am the representative of Joshua Forbes. This card replaces all other forms of identification.”
Why not just state your name is Joshua Forbes?
The man stuck his head out the window and got a look at Truman’s Eagle’s Nest uniform. “Sorry, Mr. Daly, but you have no claim over me. I only stopped to be mannerly.”
Joshua’s tone was still polite, but Truman suspected that wouldn’t last long.
“How much did you pay for this card, Joshua?”
Joshua frowned. “What does that matter?”
“Because this is a money-sucking scam. This card has no authority whatsoever. Who sold it to you?”
“I don’t expect you to understand it,” Joshua said, his blue eyes narrowing. “It’s above your law.”
“No, it’s not. It’s no one’s law. Someone took advantage of you. What’d it cost? Three thousand dollars?”
The young man was silent.
“All you did was pad someone’s pockets. He’s selling hopes and dreams, not legal IDs. This card doesn’t declare that you’re exempt from US taxes and laws. It declares that someone is running a scam.”
“I had to get an apostille—”
“An apostille simply confirms the notarization was legitimate. Not the document. I don’t suppose he sold you lifetime car insurance too?”
“It’s good for—”
“It’s good for shit.” Truman felt a microscopic twinge of sympathy for the young man. Money was dear out here. This man had probably spent years of savings on the printed garbage. “Here’s a life lesson for you: if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is. You know your license plate is illegal too, right?” Truman was relieved to see a second county patrol unit stop behind the first. He and Joshua were currently outside Eagle’s Nest city limits, but when he’d first spotted the speeder, they’d been in Truman’s territory. He’d be more than happy to let county take over Joshua Forbes.
“I have an unimpeded, God-given right t-to t-travel as I wish,” Joshua stuttered. “You’re violating my rights.”
Two county deputies approached as rain started to sprinkle. “I like that license plate, Truman,” said the tallest one. His casual tone belied the sharp, understanding look in his eyes. The deputy had taken in the entire situation with one glance. Both men had their hands near their weapons, their alert stances stating they knew how violent SCs could turn when facing law enforcement.
“I don’t think Josh here knew he was breaking the law.” Truman handed the diplomatic card to the tall deputy, whose eyes lit up and face filled with a grin as he showed it to the second deputy. The second one looked fresh out of high school to Truman.
“Our supervisor would love to see this card,” the tall deputy said. “He’s fascinated with these guys.”
“I know my rights.” Joshua’s voice rose an octave. “You’re violating my rights.”
“Why don’t you step out of the car?” suggested the tall deputy.
“I do not consent!” Joshua tightened his grip on the steering wheel, anxiety filling his face.
“All we’re going to do is have a discussion about where you got your plate and your . . . diplomatic card,” Truman said in a calm voice as his heart rate accelerated. Joshua was pushing his luck. “It’s illegal to create and sell those.”
“I do not consent!”
“You can get out of the car on your own free will or I’m going to assist you,” said the tall deputy.
“You do not have authority over me!”
The younger deputy whipped open the car door, and the other repeated the command to get out of the car. Joshua lunged for his car door’s handle, attempting to yank it closed. “I do not consent! You are violating my rights! I will sue you for violating the rights of a free man!”
The tall deputy impressed Truman with a quick maneuver with the driver’s arm that had Joshua out of his seat and his chest on the damp gravel in the blink of an eye. Together the three of them cuffed the struggling man as he continued to shriek about consent and violated rights.
Truman stepped back and brushed the dirt off his knees, shaking his head. The stop hadn’t gone the way he’d hoped, but at least no one had been hurt. Why didn’t he just step out of the car?
“These people make no sense to me,” admitted Truman, meeting the gazes of the two deputies. “You got him?”
“Yep. We can take it from here. Unless you want to handle it,” the older one said with a wink.
Hell no.
The sky opened up and the rain turned into a downpour. Truman squatted next to Joshua, who was facedown in the gravel, and he spoke in a quiet voice, the rain dripping off the brim of his hat. “You seem like a decent guy. I’m going to assume you got sucked into something that sounded pretty terrific. Take a little time and educate yourself, okay? A real education. Not extremists on the internet.”
“Fuck off!” Joshua sent a furious look that seared into Truman’s brain. “You are going to regret violating my rights.”
Ouch.
Truman sighed and stood. He shook hands with the deputies and went on his way, thankful Deschutes County was willing to book the sovereign citizen.
Time to see if there’s any pulled pork left.