Me llamo Stephen Pembleton

As some of you know, I have a part time gig working in federal law enforcement. To give you an idea of what I do, I’m like the Federal Probation Office’s version of Frank Pembleton, except that instead of manipulating housewives and drug dealers alike into confessing their deepest secrets, I try to get Cuban smugglers to tell the parole officer their real address and exactly how many illegitimate children they have back in Havana.

My favorite standard questions are the following:

-- How long have you been living with the mother of your child?

-- Do you have any identifying scars or tattoos? (I often have to follow this one up by stipulating that no, we don’t want to see the scar if it requires the lowering of pants.)

-- Have you ever received counseling for psychological problems?

-- When you take your drug test, what will we find?

Two of my favorite answers (not to any of the questions above):

-- I have fat knees.

-- The Virgin Mary told me to.

Yesterday’s episode of Homicide: Life on the Streets: Key West (HLOTSKW to the hardcore fans) was pretty anticlimactic. I went to the county jail to interpret for the parole officer I usually work with, but the human trafficker lawyered up (see how casually I use the jargon?), so all I had to do was make a five-minute phone call to another smuggler’s wife from the parking lot of the jail. I still get my $100.