Early in my police career, I realized that sometimes exercising discretion is more effective than enforcing the strict black and white of law. A good case in point was a tipsy driver I stopped one night.
It was around midnight and the streets of Kerrville were devoid of traffic when, a few blocks ahead, I saw a car weaving. We were in a residential neighborhood where the speed limit was 30 MPH. I caught up with it easily, as the car was only going about 20. As soon as I activated the red lights the car pulled over.
I approached the driver’s door and asked the driver, the sole occupant, to step out. As he did, I could smell alcohol on his breath, but not the deep alveolar stench I associated with a drunk. His speech and balance were okay. He presented me with his driver’s license and insurance card. I ran a couple of checks and determined that he had a clean driving record, no tickets, no previous DWIs, and no warrants out for his arrest.
He was late middle aged, maybe 5’ 6”, a little on the pudgy side and out of shape. I asked where he was headed, and he pointed to the next side street and said his home was less than a block away. Looking at his driver’s license, I confirmed that we were only a half a block from his house. I debated arresting him for DWI, but the blood alcohol limit fifty years ago was higher than it is today and it was a flip of a coin whether he would register as legally intoxicated.
“Okay,” I said, “here’s what I’m going to do. You lock up your car and I’ll drive you home if you promise me you won’t come back to get it until after daylight. Will you promise me that?”
“I promise, officer, and thank you,” he replied.
He locked his car and pocketed the keys, then climbed into the front passenger seat of the squad car for the half block ride to his house. The neighborhood was dark, but as I pulled up to the curb, the front porch light of his house came on. He became motionless in the seat, focused on his front door, as the car rolled to a stop.
The front door opened and a woman I can only describe as a Wagnerian Valkyrie stepped out and planted her feet solidly a shoulder’s width apart. She crossed her arms over her ample chest and stood like a stone statue in a cotton print night gown. Her expression was more stern and disapproving than anything I ever saw on a judge’s face in a courtroom.
He sat frozen, a milquetoast kind of guy if ever there was one, petrified by the fate awaiting him on his front porch. He let out the most pitiful whimper that I’ve ever heard escape a man’s throat. Haltingly, he got out of the car and, his head bowed in shame, he started up the sidewalk at a snail’s pace toward his loving spouse.
As soon as the squad car door closed behind him, I quickly put it into gear and left before I became a witness to his punishment. He was in for a worse time than the usual $100 fine meted out with a suspended sentence for first offense DWI in the criminal justice system of the early 1970s.