On the way to baseball practice and after passing the new police station, the following conversation transpired between my husband, Les, and my son, Caden.
Caden: Wow, that’s a pretty big police station.
Les: Yes, it sure is. It is nice.
Caden: I wonder how many people are in there.
Les: I don’t know, they’re probably all working.
Caden: No, I mean bad guys, guys that are in jail.
Les: I don’t know, probably less than ten. You know, I’ve been to the DP jail before and I’ve never seen more than two people in their jail.
Caden: Y’all get a lot in your jail, don’t you?
Les: Yes, it’s usually between thirty and forty people.
Caden: Do they ever cuss at you or spit on you?
Les: No, they’re usually pretty quiet, except for the drunk ones.
Caden: They sell beer in jail?
Les: No, you big dork, they’re in jail because they’re drunk. I’m calling and telling your mom what you just said!
Caden: No, don’t! Please don’t!
One can only wonder if there would be less instances of “resisting arrest” if they actually sold beer in jail.