Chapter 21
Chapter 21
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 21
Chapter Title: Flea Market (3)
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The CB radio crackled to life again.
[Did you hear? They say inspections are crazy tight because of that murder case.]
[Houston's north side has a full checkpoint set up.]
[Damn it, trying to pin it on us again.]
[They always treat us like criminals anyway.]
Grouchy voices poured out over the radio.
It was understandable. This wasn't the first or second time something like this had happened.
When inspections got this strict, truckers were the ones who suffered the most.
We passed Columbus and entered northern Houston.
Glancing at the clock, it was 9 a.m. The morning sun was unusually intense.
My eyes stung, so I reached to pull down the visor—and spotted flashing red lights ahead.
A police car.
Two of them were parked side by side, blocking the road.
They'd really set up a checkpoint.
'This must be what the news was talking about.'
My heart started pounding.
In America, any encounter with the police was tense.
Especially for truckers like me.
American cops were on a whole different level from Korea.
They were all armed with guns, and if you seemed even slightly threatening, they'd open fire without hesitation.
In fact, hundreds died every year from police bullets for reasons like that.
Mostly Black people, Hispanics, poor whites—but rough-around-the-edges truckers weren't exempt.
'Gotta be careful.'
Hands always on the wheel.
No sudden movements.
Dipping into pockets or opening the glovebox on your own was dangerous too.
The cops might mistake it for reaching for a weapon.
Suddenly, a story Sam told me last year came to mind. About his buddy Mark, who drove trucks in northern Texas.
He got pulled over for a busted taillight. The cop told him to hand over his license.
As Mark went for the glovebox, the cop drew his gun.
'Hands up! Show me your hands now!'
Mark threw his hands up in panic, but the cop kept yelling, hyped up.
They dragged him out, slammed his face into the dirt, and cuffed him.
No crime, but he was detained for two hours. No apology when they let him go. Of course not.
'Mark got lucky. He could've been shot.'
Sam's serious tone echoed in my head even now.
Truckers had endless brutal stories like that.
'If you see cops, don't make eye contact. No backtalk. Just sit like a parrot and say "Yes, officer" over and over.'
Veteran truckers didn't give advice like that for nothing.
'And Texas is especially bad.'
Partly the conservative, authoritarian vibe, but mostly the border with Mexico.
Drug smuggling, human trafficking, illegal immigrants—plenty of reasons for cops to see truckers as potential crooks.
And that suspicion often turned into ruthless violence.
'Don't stir up trouble. Stay calm, do exactly what they say. It'll be fine.'
I slowed the truck as I approached.
Another truck was already being inspected ahead.
Two cops circled it, checking every inch.
"Whew..."
Both hands on the wheel.
Window down, sunglasses off. They needed a clear look at my face.
Look non-threatening. Cooperative. That was key.
"Stop there!"
Two officers approached, gesturing for me to halt.
I eased on the brakes. The air brakes hissed loudly.
Click-
One cop came to my side. White guy in sunglasses.
Muscular build, square jaw. Name tag: Officer Martinez.
His holstered Glock 22 caught my eye right away. Standard police sidearm.
His hand hovered near it as he approached.
Like a warning: I'm ready to draw anytime.
"Keep your hands visible. Don't move."
Straight to commands.
I nodded silently, hands steady on the wheel.
"License and registration."
"Registration's in the glovebox. Can I get it now?"
"Slow movements. No sudden jerks. Keep both hands in sight."
His voice was sharp.
I moved my right hand toward the glovebox—slowly, really slowly.
Avoided eye contact.
I could feel him watching every twitch.
"Good. Nice and slow."
I opened the glovebox and pulled out the truck registration.
Hands back on the wheel, I spoke up.
"License is in my back pocket. I'll get that too."
He nodded.
Then I reached into my left back pocket for my wallet. Slowly, carefully.
Announcing every move. No sudden anything. To avoid any misunderstanding.
"Hmm, Jake Winch?"
He scrutinized my license and registration, flipping them over and over like checking for fakes.
Behind his shades, I sensed suspicion toward the dark-haired trucker.
"Where you headed?"
No politeness. Pure orders.
"...Delivering building materials to the Houston logistics center."
"When'd you leave?"
"Around 4 a.m."
"From where?"
"Bastrop, outskirts of Austin."
The cop glanced back and signaled his partner.
Another officer approached. Young Black guy this time.
Tall and built like he could take down most men.
Name tag: Officer Johnson.
"We're checking the trailer now."
No courtesy questions. Just a threatening heads-up.
"Yes, go ahead."
Of course I had no right to refuse.
Resistance meant bigger trouble.
'Obstructing official duties'—instant arrest.
I hopped out and opened the trailer door.
Building materials neatly stacked on pallets.
Cement bags, rebar, plywood—all secured tight.
Johnson shone his flashlight, inspecting meticulously. Even under the pallets.
Like he was dead sure something was hidden.
Meanwhile, Martinez kept staring me down.
I just breathed quietly, hands on the wheel, still as stone.
"Been to northern Houston in the last three weeks?"
"Yes, two or three times."
"When exactly?"
"Once about two weeks ago, once around ten days ago. Exact dates, I don't..."
"Ever parked overnight at a truck stop?"
"No. Day trips only."
Martinez's gaze sharpened.
"Ever dealt with lot lizards?"
"No. Never."
"Sure about that?"
"Yes."
"Yeah, right. Truckers lie the second they open their mouths."
Sneer in his voice.
"...I don't lie, officer."
"That's what they all say."
Irritation bubbled up, but I swallowed it.
No facial expressions. Cops could make trouble for 'bad attitude' alone.
Hands on wheel. Eyes straight ahead. Parrot mode: 'Yes, officer.'
Just like the advice.
"Cargo's clean."
Johnson returned.
Martinez handed back my license.
"You hear what happened? Investigation's ongoing—cooperate. Report anything suspicious."
"Got it."
"Go."
That was it.
They tossed that line and walked off like we were done.
Thud-
I started the truck slowly.
Rearview showed another truck getting checked.
'Those cops' attitudes...'
Unpleasant. Threatening.
No—humiliating.
But what could I do? This was trucker life.
The reality for those treated like society's bottom rung.
Cops saw themselves as the law, extra harsh on the underclass.
To them, truckers, day laborers, homeless, immigrants—we're all 'troublemakers.'
Not worth respect from the start.
This was America.
Land of the free—but not for the poor and powerless.
"...Damn it."
I got why they needed to catch the serial killer. Innocent women dead; it was their job.
But rudeness wasn't excused. Mutual respect is basic, right?
'They probably don't even consider it.'
CB radio chatter from other truckers.
[...Just got inspected. Cops were total assholes.]
[Same. Treated me like the perp?]
[They suspect all truckers.]
[Cops never liked us. Texas especially.]
[This is overkill though. License check took 30 minutes—like my ID was fake.]
[Damn, they tore my cab apart. Unzipped my sleeping bag and everything.]
[What the hell? We criminals or what?]
More complaints.
I felt the same.
But nothing for it.
Delivery first.
10 a.m., arrived at the logistics center.
Unloading went smoothly.
Warehouse guys used forklifts to pull pallets one by one.
The cement bag pallets were heaviest. Forklift tires squeaked.
Lunch was the sandwich Dorothy packed.
Simple turkey ham, cheese, lettuce, tomato—but full of care.
Soft bread, thick ham, just-right mayo.
'She had to get up early for work, but still made this for me.'
Warmth filled my chest.
I bit into an apple too. Crisp and good.
Sitting in the cab, munching the sandwich, I checked my phone.
Text from Nancy.
[Nancy: Jake, you eat the sandwich? Drew a picture at school today—of you! I'll show you!]
I smiled.
Replied quick.
[Me: Yeah, eating it now—it's great. Can't wait for the drawing. Show me tonight.]