rayaso

Week 4: The Death of the Penny

THE BAD PENNY

I finally found him hanging out in the tip jar at Hank’s Bar. It was hard to arrest a penny. I mean, where did you put the cuffs? So, I did the only thing possible – I put him in my pocket. And yes, I read him his Miranda rights, although I wasn't sure a penny had them. I just wished he would shut up.

“Hey, copper, it stinks down here! When was the last time you cleaned your pants?”

It was going to be a long drive back to the precinct.

Twelve years on the force and detective third grade, and I got stuck with this? My union rep was going to hear from me. Just because the Lieutenant’s wife had a thing for me didn’t justify a transfer from Major Crimes to Currency Division. Yeah, I knew the saying: there were no small crimes, only small change.

“It’s hot – I can’t breathe – are you wearing clean underwear? You better not be going commando! I got rights, you know.”

“Look, moron, the only right you have is to shut up. Do you know what you are? You’re just a curiosity – it costs more to make you than you’re worth. They stopped minting your kind years ago.”

“You’ve got nothing on me, and you know it. Just let me go and save the paperwork.”

That’s where this Lincoln was wrong – I had plenty on him. Normally, I saved the interrogation for the Box back at the squad room, but I couldn’t help myself – this coin was too mouthy.

“Yeah, what about that Heads or Tails scam? You can’t tell me that 75% heads is within the standard deviation for flipping a coin.”

“Watch your mouth, gumshoe! I don’t roll that way!”

Stupid cent. “You rigged all those heads or tails games, and sold the outcomes to Little Ricky Jones down at the playground – he flipped on you, and now you’re history.”

“Ricky who? Besides, those games was all consensual, just like your wife.”

Ex-wife, and that _____ing penny knew it. I grabbed my hip flask, took a couple of big swigs, and then a couple more to keep them company.

“Don’t worry about Ricky – we’ve got him squirreled away where even his mom can’t find him. He’s ours now and you’re headed for the Big Bank.”

“Ricky schmicky – my lawyer’ll take care of him, no sweat.”

It was hard not to gloat as I pulled into the precinct. It was 2:00 a.m. and the end of my shift, but I was going to see this through even without the overtime. The playground gambling beef was small time, but I had this chump on much worse – multiple slip and fall counts. I couldn’t wait.

Money Code section 474.2 prohibited the deliberate leaving of money where someone could trip over it, causing injury.

I took the penny out of my pocket, walked him through booking and into the Box, where I put him on the table.

“Heads up! Heads up!” he mumbled.

I knew that coins couldn’t talk unless the head was facing up, but I wanted to show him who was in control. I turned him over, and slapped him down hard.

“Ouch! Thanks, copper; you just gave me a prisoner abuse lawsuit! I’ll own your home before I’m done."

He couldn’t take what I didn’t have, so I wasn’t worried, and I’d drink my best assets before the court could get ‘em. Just ask my ex.

Time to change tactics. “You look pretty beat up – let me get some of that tarnish off you.”

I took some old Bar Keeper’s Friend we keep around, and rubbed a little onto the suspect, shining him up and making him look as good as new, as if this mook had ever been good.

“Look, I can tell you’re not a bad penny, you just fell in with the wrong change,” I said, lying through my teeth.

For once, the penny was quiet.

“I got you on four counts of tripping people – causing them to fall by slipping on you. Look at these pictures and tell me that ain’t you.”

“Okay, that ain’t me – we all look the same, and you know it. You got nothin’.”

“I got so much more than nothing. You know that little rub down I just gave you? It took off some of your individual coin residue and I’m sending it to the Lab, and your ICR is gonna match the ICR on the penny at those scenes. I got pictures, I got ICR, and I got you!”

There was a lot I missed about working human crimes, including seeing suspects break. You could tell by the fear in their eyes and the sweat on their faces. Coins didn’t do that, but if you looked real close, you could see them vibrate. It was only a little bit, but it was enough – I knew this penny was mine.

There was a long silence. I could see the vibrations getting bigger. Sometimes the most difficult part of an interrogation was knowing when to keep quiet, hard as it was with this loudmouth.

“Ok, look, I’m not sayin’ that was me, but supposin’ that it was, what if I could give you somethin’ . . . somethin’ real big?”

I could see that the penny was terrified, and I knew why. Since pennies were no longer in circulation, the Big Bank melted them down, no matter the crime.

“What if I dropped a dime on a quarter? That’s real change.”

“Maybe to a penny – but I need paper money. Listen, pennies like you get around and notice stuff, and no one sees you – what about counterfeiting or money laundering?”

A bust like that could save the penny and get me out of the Currency Division. Now it was my turn to tremble a little, so I took another slug from my hip flask.

“Nothin’, I got nothin’,” quaked the terrified little penny, “can’t you do a coin a favor?”

The penny had hit rock bottom, same as me, but it wasn’t the penny’s fault that the price of copper had changed. Still, I couldn’t just let him go free, not if I ever wanted out of Currency Division – and then it hit me.

“Hey penny, I cleaned a lot of dirt off you, you’ve been around awhile – how old are you?

“I was minted in 1970.”

I looked at the charging slip, and that’s when I found it. He was a 1970 S small date penny. He wasn’t worth much, but he was rare enough, and the Penny Collecting Amnesty Act saved rare pennies from melting. And it just so happened I knew a coin collector.

I was going to catch it from the guys, but the law was clear. I notified my Captain, who had to turn the penny over to a certified coin collector.

Me.

You’d think after all that, the penny would at least try to be civil, maybe show some appreciation, but you’d think wrong.

The drive home was bad enough with all his yakking, but at least I could turn up the radio. As soon as I got home, he started in again.

“Do you really live here? This place stinks – put me back in your pocket!”

“Shut up or I’ll melt you myself!”

“You can’t – I’m rare, so treat me with respect!”

“Here’s your respect!”

I put him in my jar of old coins and he shut up, at least for now. If he couldn’t get along with these guys, it was back to the tip jar at Hank’s.

Unless he could finally remember something big for me, something good. If he did that, I'd treat him square.

I'd shine him up and mount him on the wall of my new office after his big score got me promoted back out of this dump.

In the meantime, I was going to bed and he could stew. After a night in the jar with that back-alley change, he just might decide to sing for me after all . . . .

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I want to thank