Prologue “We’re state employees with a job to do, but we’re a fraternity too. You don’t say, ‘I work for the highway patrol.’ You say, ‘I’m a member of the highway patrol.’ It’s like joining a club, with a very elite membership.” —Anonymous trooper It is 11:05 on a Friday night and North Carolina highway patrolman Joel K. Reece is parked in a silver, unmarked LTD, calibrating a VASCAR unit. The device earmarks speeding drivers by measuring and computing the distance between two points of reference. Troopers like it because it allows them to spot potential violators without being detected. There’s nothing to do now but wait in the dark. Reece leans back against the seat and taps his hand against the steering wheel, forefinger and thumb pressed together—a sure sign he’s getting restless. At five feet eight and 160 pounds, the thirty-two-year-old officer is small but powerfully built, with dark good looks and an impish grin.
