The Marathon Border Checkpoint

For those of you not accustomed to traveling through the bottom part of the United States near Mexico, allow me to be the first to tell you that there are checkpoints. What I mean is that if you are entering the US from Mexico, there is one checkpoint directly on the border and an additional checkpoint some 30-50 miles up the road.
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Every route has a second checkpoint. There is no avoiding it if you want to visit the rest of the US. The second checkpoints operate in a similar capacity as the first checkpoint: looking for illegal crossers, scouting out drugs, weapons, and other contraband, trying to detect anything illegal.
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I have now crossed four checkpoints. One going into El Paso, one exiting El Paso, one between Marfa and Presidio, and this last one near Marathon. This story comes from the last one which I crossed twice.
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How can someone traveling on foot pass a checkpoint twice? Simple: Catch a ride with a friend who wants to make sure you get a good lunch, restock your food bag, and refill your water; then get dropped off where you stopped hiking. It seems in some ways like a bit of a cheat, but when people tell you they thru-hiked the Appalachian Trail or Pacific Crest Trail, I assure you they took full advantage of similar situations.
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So a new Terlingua friend agreed to meet me on Sunday and do all of the above. Unfortunately for us, she had contraband on her in the form of 1/4 oz of pot. Legal in California where she was a few months ago but illegal in Texas, she has yet to conform to the region.
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Claire found me on the road and took me to Marathon. Only we didn't make it. The good folks at the checkpoint had a dog who "gave indications" that there might be contraband material in the car. I got out, hoping she didn't have any, and sat on the station seats. Though I wasn't around to hear, the agents asked her if she had any drugs and she told them the truth, that she did. Some agents escorted her indoors, past my seat, and that would be the last time we each other for five hours.
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All the agents were exceptionally professional, courteous, and for the most part, pretty darn friendly. I struck up conversations with several, not really knowing what was going on (but figuring it couldn't be good), and found out some interesting things.
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None of the agents are allowed to share any opinions, personal or political. As a former Peace Corps volunteer, this seems pretty standard, but it was good to hear it. That said, one agent vaguely shared that he understood the point of view of the illegal migrant much better now that he was a border patrol agent. He didn't say anything else, but I got the feeling that a comprehensive view of the border issues would lead one away from a hardline position.
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I joked around with all the agents. It was pretty hard to get them to break their reserved demeanor, though. I had no idea that at this time they were reading Claire her rights. Shortly thereafter, one agent came out to me and told me that while they weren't charging me with anything I was still being detained. "So what you're saying is," I started slowly, "I'm a detainee?" I was really excited. "Where's my white hoody?" I added. I didn't add anything about doberman munching on my privates because, quite frankly, that would be the end of my fun.
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I tweeted a lot, read my Desert Solitaire book (I'm sure Abbey would have LOVED that.), and just waited. The wait, while exorbitant for US standards, was nothing out of the ordinary for someone who's lived in Africa. I once waited three days for a cab ride that only went 70 miles (I could've walked that in the same time.). However, five hours can kill a day, and that's just what it did.
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A deputy sheriff showed up, a real good 'ol boy who had a really jubilant attitude. When he saw my knife (a standard camping tool), he asked if the rust on it was blood. He didn't wait for an answer. "Boys," he said to the agents in the room, "we got the Rest Area Killer here!" Fun and games in Brewster County.
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The deputy sheriff then explained that he was considering giving me the same citation that he was giving Claire. Um, what? He gave the following example: "I didn't rob the bank, but I was driving the vehicle." Um, huh? I reminded him that I got picked up 15 minutes prior and that I wasn't aware of any contraband in the vehicle at that time. He reconsidered.
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Ultimately, Claire got a $300 dollar fine and a Class C Misdemeanor for possession of marijuana. I got nothing but a five-hour wait and a bad name (A day later, another deputy sheriff asked me, "Are you the one the sheriff picked up a day ago?" Great. I've run into half a dozen law enforcement officials in one day, none of them having communicated to the others that I was walking around the outline of Texas. But I get detained with someone who gets a citation, and now everyone knows about me.).
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We followed the deputy to Marathon and went to the judge's house to finish the business. The judge, operating out of one of the messiest home offices I've ever seen, was a kindly looking older woman. She signed the fifty plus pages of paperwork required to charge Claire (1/4 oz of pot, I remind you) and then gave her a receipt for payment.
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The deputy sheriff walked us to our vehicle, happy as ever. "You'd just as soon laugh as cry," he said, trying to make up for the lost day. I can't fault him for attitude. He was a gentleman until the end.
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Until next time...