Several years ago, I think about six years, I could look it up if it mattered, it doesn't, we were traveling cross country in our G6 GT. We had spent the night in
Kearney, Nebraska and in the morning we forsook the interstate and took US 34 westbound.
We were cruising along quite nicely and were probably thirty miles east of Benkelman when I spotted a grey car moving toward me in the eastbound lane. I knew perhaps instinctively more than from visual evidence that it was a state trooper. I glanced at the speedometer which read "76." Though I removed my foot from the accelerator pedal, I knew when he passed me that he was going to turn around. He did. I stopped at the flash of the red light.
"Good morning, sir. License and registration, please." I provided same.
"I had you at 72 miles per hour."
"That sounds about right."
BBBH speaks up from the passenger seat. "We had been traveling on the interstate for a long time." Trying to be helpful, don't you know.
"Ma'am," replied the officer, "You have been off the interstate for quite some time." He spoke truth.
The stalwart and faithful public servant wrote the ticket, handed it to me for my signature, told me he was giving me a "break" by noting "70" on the ticket which would reduce my fine, and advised me that I could either stop at the courthouse in Benkelman and pay the fine or I could mail it in.
We drove on to Benkelman and found a convenient parking spot on the courthouse square. I went to the second floor where the sort of business I had was conducted. The very nice lady cheerfully relieved me of $119. Then she said, "About thirty miles out on 34?"
"Yes, ma'am. Less than an hour ago."
"Yeah. He got me there, too, week-before-last."
What? Cuts no slack for the locals?
I was later advised by a Nebraska resident that fines for speeding on the highway go to the public education fund in Nebraska. Oh, goody. That makes me feel so much better. Maybe some kid will learn to distinguish "65" from "76."