Did I mention, I was pulled over last week?

On our way home from Dancing in Murray, I made a safe illegal turn. While traveling South along State Street, I discovered that I needed to make a right to find the freeway. Unfortunately, I was one lane away from the "protected-right-turn-lane". I signaled and checked all my mirrors carefully. No on-coming traffic so I made the turn. What I didn't notice was that the jeep blaring its headlights through my back window was actually a City of Murray, K-9 Police Unit.

Lickety-split, his police lights turned on and I pulled over into the hospital entrance lane. (One thing I learned from being pulled over in someone else's car is that police typically don't care where you pull over. They are accustomed to parking where ever they want, so if you prolong pulling over, it just annoys them and they sometimes suspect you are trying to evade them and call for backup.)

Anyway, when we were fully stopped it took the officer less than 10 seconds to get out of his car---that's when I knew I wasn't going to be ticketed, as long as I didn't mess it up. That is why I still can't understand what I did next.

I opened the car door and made as if I were going to get out and chat with him outside. "Please GET BACK IN OUR CAR and LET ME SEE YOUR HANDS," shouted the officer. I closed the door and stuck my open hands out the window. (Maybe it was a smart move after all. The possible good that came from it was that it illustrated my inexperience with the ritual of being pulled over, therefore tipping off the officer that I was not a habitual law-breaker.)

"Do you know why I pulled you over." I knew that officers generally like to tell you anyway, so I waited that extra split second. Sure enough, he answered his own question. "You made an illegal right turn at the light back there." "Oh, I'm sorry." I replied penitently.

"License, registration, and proof of insurance, please." I had them ready. While he check their dates, I explained that we were simple, BYU students on our way home from a fun night of dancing in his charming and progressively modern town of Murray. I hadn't notice until it was too late to get into the farthest right lane and hoped that our lane was also a turn lane.

He listened to my story and asked, "Do you have any weapons or firearms in the car, sir?"

"No."

"Any illegal substances or open alcohol?"

"No, officer."

"Any illegal workers or vagrant workers?"

(At this point, I wasn't sure if he was joking with us or not. I glanced back at my obviously Vietnamese passenger, Phuong, and replied, "not that know of, sir."

"O.K., have a good night. Drive safely."