Grand Theft A$$hole

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 24^th 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.