One sunny afternoon, an elderly woman named Violante was cruising peacefully down the highway when she noticed flashing red and blue lights in her rearview mirror. Without a fuss, she pulled over to the side of the road. A young, nervous-looking officer approached her window.
Officer: “Ma’am, do you know why I pulled you over?”
Violante: “Is something wrong, Officer?”
Officer: “Yes, ma’am. You were speeding.”
Violante: “Oh, I see.”
Officer: “May I see your driver’s license?”
Violante: “I would, but I don’t have one.”
Officer: “…You don’t?”
Violante: “Nope. Lost it about four years ago—for drunk driving.”
The officer paused, clearly rattled.
Officer: “Alright… Can I see your vehicle registration, then?”
Violante: “Sorry, can’t help you there either.”
Officer: “Why not?”
Violante: “Because I stole the car.”
The officer’s jaw nearly hit the ground.
Officer: “You… stole it?”
Violante: “Yes. And just so you know, I killed the owner. His chopped-up body’s in the trunk.”
Now pale and panicked, the officer backed away slowly, hand on his radio. Moments later, squad cars surrounded the vehicle. A senior officer approached, hand resting on his holstered weapon.
Officer 2: “Ma’am, please step out of the car.”
Violante stepped out calmly, even smiling.
Officer 2: “One of my officers says you stole this vehicle and… murdered the owner.”
Violante (cheerfully): “Murder? Oh my! Of course not. Feel free to check the trunk if you’d like.”
Cautiously, the officer opened the trunk. It was empty—nothing but a few reusable grocery bags.
Officer 2: “Is this your car, ma’am?”
Violante: “Certainly. Here’s the registration.”
She handed over the papers. Everything checked out.
Officer 2: “And your driver’s license?”
Violante opened her purse and handed it over with a pleasant nod.
The officer looked it over, stunned.
Officer 2: “I don’t understand. My officer said you didn’t have a license, that this car was stolen, and… you’d killed someone.”
Violante chuckled.
Violante: “Let me guess… I bet he also said I was speeding.”
