If the FAA had taught me nothing else, I learned (so listen up) that the closer your back is to the wall the more tightly shut you keep your mouth. Besides, I couldn't work up enough spit to talk. I just peered up (way up) at the trooper's face and made kind of a croaking noise. There goes my job, my pilot license, hell, probably my freedom. I saw them handcuff me and, with a hand on my head, firmly push me into the back seat of the police car. There were no door handles and, through the heavy screen, I heard them in the front seat on the radio, "Says she works for the FAA ... ." Then the finger-printing and mug shots and the too-big orange jumpsuit. Finally, there I was in a cell full of prostitutes, druggies, welfare moms gone bad and low-flying pilots. Too embarrassed to call a lawyer or my family, I'd just hope for the best with a public defender. With luck and no previous record maybe I'd get community service ... like scrubbing the runway at Lumberton with a toothbrush.