Grand Theft A$$hole: The legend of Zoe’s
stolen jeep
Sometimes
stories write themselves. As a writer, I like to think that my pieces reflect
the literary traditions of all the great writers throughout history. And, much
like Shakespeare, a story of tragedy can also be one of comedy. As is the case
of the stolen Jeep saga of 2016, a tale of suspense, intrigue, and comedy- with
a side commentary about the inadequacies of our city’s public services.
July 23, 10 am MST: A crime has
occurred, call the authorities
My
2011 Jeep Wrangler was stolen early in the morning hours of July 23 from right
in front of my apartment complex. (While my complex is very nice, a realtor might describe our area as "hood-adjacent").
Naturally, I
thought it had been towed since the city of Salt Lake has an unnatural affinity
for two things: regulating alcohol and towing vehicles.
(Perhaps I
was parked a millimeter over the white line and for that, my punishment would
be one of a $250 fee.)
I called
parking enforcement and a very bored woman named Rhonda told me that it hadn’t
been towed overnight and “everything is in the database.” Not trusting in
Rhonda’s word, I called every towing company in the city- only to be told the
same thing.
After
realizing it hadn't been towed for whatever reason, I called the police and was
placed on a “brief hold” by the operator.
July 23, 1 pm MST: Still on hold
Thinking about what Detective Horatio
Caine would do.
July 23, 1:30 pm MST: Still on hold
Thinking about what Detectives Elliot
Stabler and Olivia Benson would do.
July 23, 2 pm MST: The cops spring into
action (yeah, right)
“Yes, hello,
I believe my vehicle has been stolen. I’ve called parking enforcement and it’s
not there,” I said, frantically.
(I know from
watching almost two decades worth of crime dramas that the first 48 hours are
crucial.)
“Are you sure you didn’t just forget where you
parked it?” the helpful public servant asked, a tone of mocking in his voice.
“No, I
definitely didn’t,” I replied, too angry to even come back with a snarky
retort. “Here’s the information about the car- blue four door 2011 Wrangler,
vanity plates DR ZOE. Z-O-E.”
“Is the word
‘doctor’ spelled out?”
Still too angry to be sarcastic I replied that it was indeed not and refrained from
asking him he knew how many characters could be on a license plate.
He sighed and
reluctantly took it down.
“So are you
going to like go look at traffic cameras or security footage from nearby
businesses?” I asked, thinking of everything that the great detectives Caine,
Stabler, and Benson would do.
“I’m entering
it into our database of stolen vehicles. You’ll be assigned a detective on
Monday. In the meantime, I’d recommend driving around and looking for it.”
“In what car?” I asked.
(Clearly the
snark monster had made a triumphant return.)
“I’m assuming
you have friends,” he said, probably mad because I had interrupted his YouTube viewing.
“I’m guessing
that you assume that based on my charming personality and sweet disposition?” I
asked, not giving him a chance to look up what those big words meant. “Fine,
where should we go look?”
“Well, I’d
recommend nearby your house and in other high-crime areas. If you find it, you
can take it, but you have to call it in so you’re not pulled over. If there’s
someone in the vehicle, we recommend that you don’t approach them, but I can’t
tell you what to do. I wouldn’t really worry though. It’s in the database.”
(These people
sure put a lot of faith in the omnipotent databases.)
July 23, 4 pm MST: No signs of the Jeep
My one friend
and I took off in her car while I assigned my other friends different parts of
the area to go look.
(More of a Criminal Minds technique, but effective
nonetheless. They always find the unsub in under an hour.)
After 20
minutes, my friend said that we were wasting her gas and should just go home.
My other friends also reported no signs of the vehicle, but then again, I’m 90%
sure that their search radius was limited to the Wendy’s drive thru.
Defeated, I
began to sit shiva and drink some Fireball in my lost homey’s honor. (And tell
anyone and everyone of my troubles.)
July 26, 1 pm MST: The detective is on
the case (sort of)
By Tuesday, I
was assigned a detective. (I would have been assigned one Monday, but July 24th
is an official Utah holiday in which we celebrate Brother Brigham’s arrival in
Utah, where he established an economy solely based on Brother Brigham’s Briefs ©
(aka Mormon magic underwear). Or something like that.)
After leaving
three messages, Detective R of the Salt Lake Metro police finally called me
back.
“What’s your
name again?” he asked, not even bothering to turn down his YouTube.
“Zoe. You
just called me, remember?”
“Oh yeah,
about the car.”
(No, ass hat,
about the illicit fight club going on upstairs in the apartment above me.)
His official
expert advice was as follows: "Well, that's a high crime area. It might
turn up. Or it might not. They usually do. But sometimes they don’t. It’s in
the database.”
Wow, thanks
Detective Stabler for that awesome investigative work.
“Don’t you
have traffic cam footage?” I asked incredulously as I had already made a list
of everything that Detective Horatio Caine would have done. Looking at traffic
cam footage is mission critical to catching the perp by the last commercial
break.
“We do, but
they don’t record.”
“Why would you have traffic cameras that
don’t record? Do people just sit around and watch cars at intersections for
fun?” I asked, my head an inch away from banging itself into a wall.
“There’s not
enough money in the city budget for it.”
(Probably
spent it all on their massive databases.)
“Report it to
insurance. Here's your case number. We’ll call you if we find it,” he said,
hanging up.
(Don’t call
me, I’ll call you.)
July 31, 6:00 am EST: An early morning
miracle
Eight days go
by and I get the call at 6 am EST (4 am MST) that my jeep has been recovered
and suspects are in custody. As I was in Canada at the time, I had to wait
until Tuesday to retrieve my vehicle from the state impound.
August 1, 10:00 am EST: The dream
sequence
I picture Detective R getting the report
on Monday morning that the Jeep has been found. He pats himself on the
shoulder, says a few words of congratulations, proudly closes the case, knowing
that his close rate went up just a little, and celebrating with a
congratulatory donut.
Or 12.
August 2, 2:00 pm MST: We’re having
technical difficulties
However,
before going to said impound, I had to go to our friendly DMV and get a letter
saying that I did indeed own the vehicle in question. On Tuesday morning I
called the DMV to make sure that I was going to the right place.
They informed
me that their Internet was down.
"Have
you tried unplugging your modem and waiting two minutes?" I asked Brenda,
the helpful employee who answered the phone.
Brenda promptly hung up on me.
That
afternoon I drove down to the DMV because surely our government needs Internet
so that their precious databases can function right?
Wrong.
I was greeted
with a sign directing me to the DMV half an hour to the south because their Internet
was still not working.
(Maybe they
didn’t pay their Comcast bill?)
An hour and
change later, after sitting in a waiting room that smelled of stale burritos,
body odor, and broken dreams, I had my letter in hand and was on the way to the
impound.
August 2, 4:00 pm MST: Topless isn’t
always sexy
I got to the
impound and, after handing over more than $300 in fees, the impound owner
pulled my jeep (or what was left of it) around to the front.
The doors,
roof, and seat covers were gone. My vanity license plate was gone. There were
various dents, dings, scratches, and marks all over the car that weren't there
before. It had rained the previous night
and since there was no top, the car had a musty odor.
Or maybe that
was the drug residue. I don’t know.
The interior
was trashed and the back of the jeep was filled with all sorts of random items
that definitely didn't belong to me including three cell phones.
More
importantly, it was making awful weird noises and the impound guy said
something wasn't right with how it was driving.
“Here’s
your key. The police left it with the vehicle,” the impound guy said, handing
me a key on an “Alive at 25” keychain.
Oh the irony.
“That’s not
my key,” I replied, holding up my set and jingling them in front of him. “I have both of mine right here.”
“It’s a
wipe,” he said, turning and walking back to the office. “Look closely.”
I looked at
the third key and compared it to my first two.
Motherf***er.
He shaved (“wiped”) a key that was able to start mine. I was going to murder
this little bastard.
As I had to
get back to work, I left it there and drove my rental car back to work, taking
only the three cell phones with me and attempting to charge them at home.
August 2, 7:00 pm MST: Returning to the
scene of the crime
Later in the
night, I went down to assess the damages further and move the jeep about a mile
to my friend's house so it wasn't in the impound parking lot anymore.
We took
inventory of the jeep and in it, we found a bunch of trash, a box of women's
high heels (the kind that are typically worn by ladies who get paid primarily
in one dollar bills- and I'm not talking about waitresses), a bike, a half
eaten sandwich, various fast food wrappers, a few boxes of cigarettes, two
pairs of women's size 16 jeans (one with one pant leg rolled up LL Cool J style
circa 1993), a small bike, a bunch of tires, long plastic tubing, six bottles
of car oil, a plastic pipe, and a metal pipe with the end of a pool stick in
it.
We also found
mail addressed to the individual who stole my car. Believe it or not, none of
the letters were his acceptance to MENSA.
"Do you
think this is a crack pipe?" My friend asked me.
"Either
that or a sex toy. And you just touched it," I replied.
"No I
don't think so," he said before dropping it and wiping his hand on his
shorts.
I put a few
other things in a bag to take to the detective and went home to see what
treasures the cell phones beheld. I would not be disappointed.
August 2, 7:45 pm MST: The law catches
up to me.
Since the
impound owner said my car needed to be gone from his parking lot by morning, I
figured it was driveable to my friend's house a mile up the road.
We were
almost to his house when I saw the flashing red and blue lights behind me.
I pulled into
a drugstore parking lot, handed the cop my ID and said, "Dude, I know I
have no plates. I just picked my jeep up from impound after it had been
stolen." I told him my case number and my detective's name along with the
story, sweeping my arm to indicate damage that I surely would not have
inflicted myself upon my precious vehicle.
(Yes, I
called an officer of the law “dude.” My give a damn was so busted.)
 |
| Actual footage of the cop behind me in the parking lot. |
He looked
from my blank, expressionless, and somewhat dejected face over to my friend who
had pulled up next to me in his truck.
"Stay
here," he said, returning to his car, only to emerge a minute later.
"You
know what? I believe you. Your story is too crazy not to believe," he said, shaking his head. "Is there
anything else I can do for you?"
My friend and
I looked at each other.
"Is this
a crack pipe?" I asked, handing him the PVC apparatus.
"Uh, I
don't believe so. I believe those are made of glass. But this could be maybe
used for some sort of drug," he replied, sniffing it. "But I don't
smell anything on it."
"What
about this?" I asked, handing him the metal pipe.
His eyes
gleamed as he got to use his cop deduction skills that had lay dormant for so
many years as he instead spent his days puling over Midvale soccer moms for
applying makeup while driving. For a moment, I could tell that he was
pretending he was Horatio Caine, I was Callie, and my friend was Adam
Rodriguez, the guy from Magic Mike who really didn’t do much on CSI other than
flex his muscles and nod his head.
"Maybe a
weapon?" he suggested.
(No,
definitely a sex toy.)
August 2, 8:00 pm MST: A crack in the
case (literally)
Two of the
phones had passcodes on them, but we were able to charge, unlock, and get into
the third even despite its cracked case.
 |
| Really? He's not even wearing a Hayward jersey?? |
There
was no passcode.
After
clicking on the Facebook icon, we discovered that the phone belonged to a 24
year old male named Andrew Labbe from West Valley who had an affinity for NBA jerseys, Lil Wayne,
and engaging in all kinds of criminal activity, including stealing vehicles.
OH. MY. GOD. THE
PHONE BELONGED TO THE GUY WHO STOLE MY CAR. HE BRAGGED ABOUT STEALING MY CAR IN
HIS MESSAGES.
In the
criminal mastermind's Facebook messages, the individual in question admitted to
not only stealing my Jeep, but also a number of other crimes including breaking
and entering, stealing bikes, watches, and laptops, and dealing black and clear
(heroin and meth, respectively).
(Yeah, we had
to look up what "clear" was at first too).
In his (grammatically
inaccurate, logically incoherent) messages, he and his friends, all of whom
were Caucasian, must have used the N-word at least a hundred times, especially
when commenting how on fleek the perp's cornrows looked in one picture.
Yes, my
precious vehicle was stolen by a white guy who, at one point in recent months,
had corn rows.
He had a
gallery of photos on his phone of stolen items. Literally. Allow me to repeat
that. A gallery of stolen items. With serial numbers of the electronics he
stole.
He also had
messaged people addresses that he and his crew had robbed and what they took.
 |
Trading goods for meth? Tsk, tsk, tsk. Someone has been
bad, bad boy. |
Additionally,
his inbox was filled with messages from various ladies demanding to know his
whereabouts. Based on the poor grammar and spelling, one could deduce that he
was entertaining various lady suitors- a skill that will surely come in handy as
he entertains his many suitors in prison.
(Gentlemen, I
now have the names of at least ten very desperate and very lonely girls with
some serious daddy issues. Hit me up for contact into.)
The critical
piece of evidence was from a message to someone named “Lil B” at 4:45 am on the
morning of July 23.
“I got a
jeep, yo. With a wipe. Ima come scoop you. It’s almost out of gas.”
Looks like
being lazy paid off for once in my life.
August 2, 10:15 pm MST: And somewhere a
phone rings…
It takes me a
minute to realize that’s not my ringtone- it’s the guy’s phone. I answer it.
“WHO DIS?”
shouts the voice on the other end.
(Clearly
someone has watched Straight Outta Compton one too many times.)
“NAH, WHO DIS?” I
shout back, feigning a hardcore persona I’ve developed from years of listening
to music with parentally objectionable lyrics.
“Where Andrew
at [n-word]?”
(Seriously,
this douche canoe didn’t even have a cool street name? I'm thinking "F*** Face" would suffice.)
I frantically
waved my bro in from the other room.
“He’s busy,
ya know I’m sayin?” I asked.
“We’re getting hella turnt!” My bro yelled. “HANG UP! LET’S GET F***ED UP!!!”
“His level of
turn up is off the chain now and he just injected like... a f***-ton of black into his ass.”
Crap. Is that
where people inject heroin? Or is that steroids? Dammit Zoe!
“Well tell
that [N-word] to get at me at me, yo.”
(I don’t
think that word means what you think it means, yo.)
“Aight, peace
out. It’s going up…on a Tuesday! YOLO!”
I shouted as my bro stifled his laugh with a pillow.
August 3, 8 am MST: The plot thickens
I called Detective R to tell him about the phone and ask if he wanted it.
“Oh, I’ve closed that case,” he says, a hint of triumph in
his voice.
(Of course you have.)
“It’s a Unified [greater Salt Lake County police] case now.”
“Well who should I call?” I asked.
“I don’t know. It’s their case.”
“Do you not have a database?” I asked, not even bothering to
hide my sarcasm.
He sighed and transferred me through a series of equally
helpful city employees until I had a case number and a detective’s name.
“Oh this is interesting,” said the desk sergeant on the
other end.
“What is?” I asked.
“The arresting officer is actually the detective on this
case. That’s unusual. It’s Detective P of the gang unit.”
No way. The guy who stole my jeep was way too dumb to be
engaged in any sort of organized activity- criminal or otherwise.
I get ahold of Detective P and in contrast to Detective R,
he is eager to see my evidence and asks me to come see him at the sheriff’s
office when I get off work that night.
August 3, 5:30 pm MST: I find out the
truth
I meet with
Detective P of the Unified gang unit who informs me that the suspect is currently in jail. I show him
the phone. He scrolls through the messages and his eyes light up.
“There’s a
warrant out for this guy’s arrest. And I just picked up this guy in a G-ride
the other day. That’s stolen vehicle.”
“I know,” I
replied, trying to sound cool. (I didn't know.)
“This dumbass
just admitted to at least a dozen felonies,” he said, chuckling as he scrolled
through the messages. “This is amazing, thank you.”
“You’re
welcome, can I hear the story now?”
“Oh yeah,” he
replied, settling into his plastic chair in the investigative division waiting
room.
(Side note:
everyone else in the waiting room looked nervous as you know they were about to
go narc on their homies in exchange for lighter sentences. We were way too happy to be there.)
The following
is his story as told to me:
So my partner and I were running gang
surveillance down on this shady motel off of south State street. It’s about two
in the morning and he pulls up with four other people in the jeep. They back
the car in so that you can’t see the tags- a sign that they don’t want the tags
being seen.
Once they went in, I walk around back
and run the tags- they had put temp tags on them. They didn’t match so I ran
the VIN. I saw that it was stolen, so when they came back out, we followed them
and pulled them over.
As soon as I hit the lights, they all
jumped out of the jeep and fled. The doors were off, so this was easy. But they
didn’t put it in park, so it hit the car in front of them.
“Seriously?
Am I going to have to deal with that?”
No, no. So I pursued the driver through
he neighborhood- at first in my vehicle and then on foot before I apprehended
him. My partner got the passenger and eventually we picked up the others.
“Badass,” I
noted, high-fiving the detective. “Is there body cam footage?”
“No, but
wouldn’t that have been cool?” he asked.
“Hell yeah!
So you had him dead guilty. What did he say?”
Well he said
the car was a gift and when I asked who gave it to him, he replied that a
friend did. I asked who the friend was and he said it was a guy named Thunder.
I asked if “Thunder” had a last name, phone number, or address, but he didn’t
know any of that.
“So that was his defense? That a guy named
Thunder gave him a $20,000 vehicle out of the kindness of his heart? He didn’t
try to pin it on a rival drug dealer?” I
asked, thinking of what I would have done in that particular scenario.
“I guess some
people are just really charitable,” he replied, before the two of us burst into
laughter.
“F***ing
retard.”
“Dumbass.”
He stood up
to shake my hand, explained the next steps of talking to the prosecutor, and
asked if I had any more questions.
“Just one.
Based on his pictures, he’s just a little guy it looks like. Is that right?” I
asked.
“Way little- not
much bigger than you.”
“So he’ll be very popular in Cell Block 8 then, eh?” I
asked, smiling a little too much.
“Oh yeah he
will,” the cop replied, high-fiving me.
August 3, 6:30 pm MST: Horatio Caine
would be proud of me
She exits the main door, the setting sun reflecting off the
glass windows of the county building. She looks at her keys.
“Looks like in lockup, homeboy Andrew is going to be the Thunder…”
(Removes sunglasses.)
“…down under.”
Yoooowwwwww….won’t get
fooled again….
CSI theme song plays and credits roll.
Upon apprehending the MENSA reject that stole my car, the case was turned over to the Salt Lake County prosecutor's office. Based on my limited knowledge of the legal system, I knew that I was possibly due some restitution as the result of my troubles. In September, the gem that stole my vehicle had received a court date. I just had to call the court to find out more information. After screaming "representative" at automated systems for the better part of an hour, I was finally transferred to the "waiting on hold" level of purgatory- a level with which I am unfortunately all too familiar.
