F.B.I.* and Cubans

Somewhere near the Texan-Mexican border. Tipc is driving. The next thing I know three police cars are behind us with their lights flashing. "Uh, Tipc," I say, "I think it's you that they want to pull over." Tipc looks behind him and asks, "Why?" "Well, I don't know " I sputter, getting more exasperated with him every second, "JUST PULL OVER " After Tipc pulls over to the side of the road and stops, he reaches for the registration in the glovebox. "Hands in the air " the officer practically shrieks at Tipc through the open car window. Tipc looks terrified but he does what he's told. The officer in the second squad car looks into the backseat at me. I try to put on my most dignified, stoic, Indian face but it is hard because even I know how undignified and ridiculous I must look with fifty braids spiking out all over my head. "Why did you run the drug checkpoint?" Officer One asks Tipc. Tipc looks back at me, confused. "What drug checkpoint?" he counters. Officer Two is glaring at me. "What drug checkpoint?" I parrot Tipc. "Drive your vehicle and follow us back to the checkpoint," both officers say in unison. When we get to the checkpoint, comprehension is slowing dawning in my befuddled brain. The German shepherd sniffing around the car is also giving away perfect clues to our predicament.