The left turn signal light flashed in sync with the rhythmic tick, tick, tick. I looked over my shoulder to the left, then stepped on the gas to merge onto the Northbound State Highway 99 towards Lodi, leaving Stockton in the rearview mirror.
A little lighter traffic than normal at 6:30 pm, that’s good. Everyone must be watching the big 49ers’ game tonight. Like I will be in about twenty minutes… if I ever get home. “Hurry up, hurry up!” I shouted impatiently at the slow-poke car ahead.
I reflected on the game currently in progress. Big game tonight. If they win, they’re going to the playoffs. Go Niners! I tried to tune in the local station that carried the game, but got too much static to hear much. “Darned station,” I muttered, “why does it have to flake out now?”
Couldn’t find any other station carrying the game, so I tuned to my favorite smooth jazz station, which came through loud and clear. Take Five, Dave Brubeck, a classic. I hummed along to the catchy tune, in more-or-less perfect time, to the unusual 5/4 time signature that made the song so memorable.
I pushed my speed up to about 70 mph—69 to be exact—to keep pace with the traffic. Four miles over the speed limit, but little chance of getting a ticket as long as I’m going with the flow. Actually, I’m going slower than those crazy leadfoot drivers whizzing by in the fast lane to my left.
Really need to baby my ride and keep the speed down, I reminded myself. With over 120,000 miles on my little Nissan Altima, I gotta give it some TLC. Gotta make it last a couple more years. Or at least until I can afford a newer one.
I heard the roar of several revved-up engines, so loud it nearly drowned out the music playing on my underpowered radio. “Sheesh, slow down, people!” I yelled, knowing nobody heard me but myself. Four muscle cars–a Challenger, Mustang, Porsche and Corvette–sped by to my left side, weaving in and out of the fast lane between slower moving cars racing and jockeying for position.
“Darned kids!” I shouted, “and Gramps.” I couldn’t help but chuckle as I saw a mane of silver hair in the Corvette’s cockpit, speeding by at least 80 or 90 miles per hour, I guessed.
Where’s the cops when you need them? I shook my head, knowing that with my luck, I would already see the flashing lights in my mirror if I drove like that.
All four cars roared past me to the left and were out of sight in moments. No flashing lights, no sirens, no police car giving chase.
Let ‘em go. I relaxed my grip on the steering wheel, the tension of the speeding cars past. Just hope those jerks don’t hurt anyone.
I thought back to the time I got a ticket on Kettleman Lane in Lodi once and I went a few miles over the 35 mph posted speed limit. I didn’t even notice the 35 mph speed limit posted along the entire stretch of Kettleman, but I’m not always the most observant.
Not paying attention cost me a hefty ticket that day, and I had to go to traffic school to keep the points off my record. Don’t the cops have anything better to do than write tickets to law-abiding citizens like me? Maybe they should spend more time looking for aspiring race car drivers like these clowns in their fancy muscle cars. Ah, whatever.
Getting close to the Kettleman Exit now, and I’d better not speed. Sure don’t need a ticket tonight. I got a game to watch.
I wondered how the Niners were doing. Stupid station. I can’t believe such crappy reception. Really need to get home, probably in the second quarter by now. Hope they’re winning, they’ve gotta make the playoffs this year, then all the way to the Super Bowl.
“Go Niners, Go Niners!” I chanted, completely out of time with the music.
As I approached the exit and turned on my signal, a car traveling slightly faster than my current speed passed me on the left a few feet away. A rather nondescript, gray-colored import that looked like so many other cars on the road–nothing special, nothing of interest. But as the car drove by, my heart skipped a beat.
For a couple of seconds, I saw two people in the backseat, their mouths taped shut, staring at me wide-eyed through the passenger window. I gasped at the sight. The person by the window made a motion with his hand. A wave, a gesture for help? I couldn’t tell.
What the heck? It happened so fast and my attention was half diverted towards the exit I was about to enter in a few seconds.
I blinked to clear my eyes and looked again. The car had already pulled ahead several feet to my 10 o’clock position and I could no longer see the backseat passengers. It was just far enough away that I couldn’t make out the license plate number, nor could I determine the model or make of the car. Maybe a Toyota or Nissan?
I was at the exit. I made a split-second decision, and I kept the steering wheel straight, continuing down the highway past the Kettleman exit, following the car.
Where did it go? I scanned the cars all around me and spotted it in the distance. Wow, that car is moving fast. It was nearly out of sight and ahead of me with several cars between us. I sped up, but the car continued to widen the gap.
Sheesh, why am I chasing a car? I’m not a cop. I shouldn’t get involved. They may be criminals, they may have guns. Maybe it’s just a dumb prank or something. Not my business.
Cops. Yes, call the police now!
I dialed 911 but got a “beep beep beep,” my phone flashed 0% and went dead. Oh, come on! Not now!
Then I remembered. Darn it, I forgot to charge it last night. Seriously, the worst timing ever! I reached in the center console for the power bank, which wasn’t there. Crap! Joe at work borrowed it from me yesterday and he never gave it back.
Now the car was so far ahead I couldn’t see it any more. No car, no phone, no description. I didn’t know what to tell the police, even if I could call them.
I kicked myself mentally for once again for not paying more attention to things. I just saw two people with mouths taped in the backseat of a car, but didn’t notice if they were male or female. I didn’t get the license number, so no way to identify it to the police. Other than it being a gray import of some kind, I didn’t get details like make, model or year of the car. I didn’t charge my phone and didn’t have my charger.
Mental laziness, I scolded myself. I really need to get it together.
My mind raced, turning and churning, trying to make sense of what I had just witnessed moments before. Did I really see that, or did I imagine it? Did I just see a kidnapping? Human trafficking? A drug deal gone wrong? A prank or some weird college initiation. Are my eyes playing tricks on me? Am I going crazy?
I scanned the highway one more time, and couldn’t see any sign of the car. Maybe it was too far out of sight, or maybe it had turned off at an exit somewhere ahead of me. Whatever the case, it was gone by now.
I turned off at the Liberty Road Exit, crossed the overpass and took the Highway 99 South on-ramp back towards Lodi.
For the first time in ages, I noticed the well-tended vineyards, houses, barns, farm machinery and tractors on either side of the highway. The colors were vivid, so much brighter and clearer than I had ever noticed before. Beautiful!
I passed the Lodi airport on my right where a group of skydivers were making their descent to the tarmac. Exciting!
I felt that all five senses were active and alert, as though awakened from a long sleep. I was noticing things I had never noticed before. My skin tingled, my heart raced, and I felt alive.
Adrenaline rush? Flight or fight response? Fear? Whatever the cause, I was in a heightened state of awareness, wide awake. Why couldn’t I have been more aware earlier?
A few minutes later I exited at Turner Road at Lodi, onto Cherokee, then to Elm Street towards the Police Department downtown. I arrived at the station and walked in to find a uniformed officer at the front desk. He appeared to be middle-aged with salt and pepper hair, and a smile that hinted at an affable nature. He didn’t look too intimidating.
I introduced myself, showed him my ID, and observed the name Smith on his badge.
I told what I had seen in the car barely thirty minutes before. He looked at the monitor and entered my information on his keyboard.
“Place of incident?” he began.
“Northbound 99, Kettleman Road Exit,” I replied.
“How fast was the car going, approximately?”
“Slightly faster than me when I first saw it, maybe 75. But they sped up right after I saw them, a lot faster and I couldn’t keep up.”
“Did you take a photo?”
“No.”
Officer Smith looked up. “Did you dial 911?”
“No, my phone went dead at that very moment.”
“Make and model of car,” he continued. “And approximate year, if you can estimate.”
“I couldn’t tell. Asian import, I think, maybe Toyota, Nissan or Kia or something. About ten years old, maybe a little older.”
Color?
“Gray.”
“License plate number?”
“I couldn’t see it. It went by too fast.”
He paused for a moment as he typed. “Driver description?”
“I didn’t see the driver.”
“Description of passenger one. Male or female?”
“Uh…couldn’t really tell,” I replied.
“Age?”
I couldn’t see much, it happened fast. I saw a person with duct tape on their mouth. Couldn’t tell the age, maybe early 20s, maybe younger, maybe older.”
Officer Smith raised his eyebrows.
“Description of passenger two?”
“Same,” I replied, “I could only see someone with their mouth taped shut liked they were gagged. I couldn’t tell if it was a guy or girl, or their age.”
“Any other passengers besides the two in the backseat, and the driver you didn’t see?”
Ooh, a little snark there. “Uh…no…I didn’t see anyone else.”
“Did the passengers see you?”
“Yes.”
“Did they mouth any words or make any gestures or motions?”
“One of them waved or something as they drove by, but it happened fast and I don’t know if he…or she…was waving for help or just a friendly wave like people do sometimes.”
He sighed and stopped typing. He looked me square in the eyes and said, “we’re going to need more information than that. Think hard. Can you think of any other details that can help us out here?”
I grimaced at my answer. “No, not really.”
“Take a moment.”
Great. He thinks I’m a crackpot. Or just making it up. It’s a crime to file a false police report. An alarm clangs in my head. Why didn’t I pay more attention? I’m a worthless witness.
Officer Smith waited expectantly as I stood there and racked my brain for any nugget of information I could give him.
“I’m sorry, officer, everything happened so fast.” I said. An image flashed across my mind. “Wait, I remember something. Part of the license plate number. E…Z…M. That’s it, I’m sure. But I can’t remember the rest”.
Officer Smith typed in the information. “Good. Can you think of anything else?”
“I think there was an 8 too. EZM8, yes, I’m sure.” I wonder how I know this. I must have glimpsed the plate as they passed and unconsciously tucked it in the back of my mind.
“Hmm…interesting,” mused Officer Smith as he worked the keyboard. “Easy Mate.”
I read the characters out loud. “Oh, it is!” I exclaimed. “And I remember one more thing. It was a Nissan. It had a round logo with the line in the middle that I recognize because I have a Nissan myself. Compact, smaller than my car, probably a Versa or Sentra.”
“Very Good,” said Officer Smith. “Anything else?”
“That’s it,” I answered. “Hope it helps.”
“It does. Thanks for coming in and making this report. Here’s my card. Be sure to call me if you think of anything else. Have a great day!”
A week went by, and I couldn’t shake the image of the two gagged passengers out of my mind. The incident haunted me, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I felt so stupid for not noticing more details, for not taking a photo or getting the license plate number.
I heard nothing on the news, no buzz around town about an abduction, nothing about bodies found at some rural wayside. Not that I hoped to hear of any dead bodies being found. But not hearing anything played tricks with my mind. I really hoped it was only a prank or an initiation or something harmless, and that they were not hurt.
I know what I saw was real. Wasn’t it? Did I really see what I think I saw? I sometimes doubted my sanity, doubted my perception of what was real or imagined.
I hoped those people in the backseat were OK. I hoped my fears were unfounded, and that it was only a prank or initiation or something.
A second week passed, and still nothing. I was obsessed by it, and that’s all I could think about. I failed those two people in the backseat. It was my fault. I felt responsible for their fate. I wondered if I would ever find out what had become of them.
One evening, I was watching the local news and saw a report about a human trafficking ring the police had busted yesterday in Sacramento. Police arrested five suspects and rescued twenty-three women and children from a warehouse where they were being held.
I felt a surge of hope. Maybe the people I saw were in that group. But how would I ever know? I found Officer Smith’s card and called his number. He answered, and I identified myself.
“Ah, yes, I remember,” he said. “I was just about to call you, actually.”
“Did you find out anything about the car or the people in it?” I asked.
“Well, a few days ago, we found a car that matches your description, abandoned on a rural road a few miles from where you saw it, near Galt. A Gray Nissan Versa, license plate of EZM84U. Matched the info you gave me. Thankfully, there were no bodies in the car, and no evidence of a crime.”
“Great,” I said. “Isn’t it strange that they abandoned it?”
“Abandoned cars are not all that unusual when they’re used in illicit activity,” he said. “The license plate is fake. It’s a counterfeit plate that we can’t trace. But it’s obviously the same car you saw.
“I wonder if maybe it had something to do with the human trafficking ring they just busted up in Sac?” I asked.
“Yeah, I don’t know,” said Officer Smith. “Frankly, there’s a lot more human trafficking going on around here than we would care to admit. But I think we’ve hit a dead-end on this one, and I closed the case file.”
I thanked him and ended the call. I breathed a sigh of relief. Finding the abandoned car with no sign of foul play provided a sense of closure. I did my part and was ready to put it out of my mind and move on.
Three days later, as I prepared for work, the phone rang. The Caller ID showed a call from an unknown number. I hesitated. Who could be calling me this early in the morning?
“Hello?” I answered.
“Hi, is this the guy who reported two gagged people in the backseat?” asked a deep, masculine voice.
“Um…who is this?” I stuttered.
“My name’s not important,” he replied. “But I want you to know that those two women are safe.”
“How do you know who I am?” How do you know I reported anything?”
“I can’t reveal that,” said the man. “But I can say that you did the right thing reporting what you saw. Thanks to your tip, the women were rescued from a prostitution ring and are now safe in a women’s shelter.”
“We need more outstanding citizens like you, who are willing to get involved. Thank you, sir.” The line went dead.
I stood there and reflected on what had just happened. Who was that guy? How did he know me, and where did he get my number? Did he work for the police?
I will probably never know, but some pieces just fell into place, and it makes some sense now. So the gagged women must have been kidnapped and forced into sex work. And the license plate EZM84U, or “Easy Mate for You,” was probably the name of the “service” they provided.
Emotions flooded over me–feelings of relief, happiness, gratitude, and vindication. It was real; it happened. I didn’t imagine it. Those people I saw were victims. I burst into tears. Thank God they were rescued!
Some time has passed since the events I call “a most mysterious matter on Highway 99.” To this day, I can’t imagine the horrors those women endured, and I don’t want to know. But I know I had played a small part in their rescue, and that gives me great joy. I feel a sense of purpose and pride I have never known before.
I learned that small actions can yield big results. Awareness of surroundings and a willingness to get involved can indeed make a difference in the lives of others, and you and me.
