JessicaRulestheUniverse.com

One advantage of riding taxis is that I get stories I can repeat in my column. Like the one about the driver who was reading a warrant of arrest for murder, which I hope he had not personally committed. I have had some memorable conversations with cabbies; practically the only thing we have not discussed is the Hardy-Ramanujan taxi number (1729), and when that comes up I know it is a sign that I should start a taxi company.

In recent years I’ve had only two arguments with drivers. The first driver checked the route with me every 30 seconds, and when I said, “I don’t know, you’re the driver,” flew into a rage and cried, “Kailangan mo bang mag-Inglis?” The other was a cranky old person who said we could not go straight on Legaspi Street towards Greenbelt, and when I pointed out that we could, launched into a stream of invective about women being possessed by the devil. Which made me furious, but I was not as proficient at cussing in Tagalog as he was, so I just tossed the exact fare on the front seat and said, “Mamamatay ka.” I had meant to say “Mamatay ka”—drop dead—but in my rage repeated a syllable, so it came out as “You will die.” Which is a statement of fact: everybody dies, if not now then eventually, but the crabby cabbie interpreted it as a threat and started screaming out the window as I walked off, thus increasing his chances of having an aneurysm and proving me psychic.

Read our column at InterAksyon.com.

From the archive: Makati Murder Mystery (2009)

So I’m in a taxi on a sweltering Tuesday afternoon, crawling through
the traffic on McKinley Road, and we stop at a red light. The driver
opens the glove compartment and takes out a sheaf of papers. I don’t
mean to look but I can read the print clearly over his shoulder. I
wish I hadn’t looked because it’s a document issued by a Regional
Trial Court. A warrant of arrest.

For Murder.

I straighten up in my seat. This is more interesting information than
I’m used to reading in a taxi on a Tuesday afternoon. Also more
disturbing information than one hopes to hear in a moving vehicle,
even if it’s caught in traffic. Unless that’s the driver’s typing
exam, someone has been killed, and the driver may have had something
to do with it.

No, I’m not getting out of this cab, what am I, nuts? It’s hot, the
traffic’s awful, try getting a cab on this street at this hour.

Read the name of the accused. Okay. Now check out the driver’s ID.
There is no ID hanging from the rearview mirror or displayed on the
dashboard. No Santo Niño or miniature beer bottles either, just a
plastic toy tank. I can’t tell if the person accused of murder is the
driver himself.

Maybe he threw away his ID so no one can identify him!

He’s poring over the papers so the case is clearly on his mind. He’ll
probably be inclined to talk about it. Shut up, idiot! What are you
going to say? “Excuse me, Mr. Driver, I couldn’t help noticing that
you’re holding a warrant of arrest, is it yours? Are you accused of
murder? Who’d you kill? Not that I’m suggesting you did it. . .”

Maybe he has no ID because he’s. . .a fugitive from justice! Maybe
this isn’t even his taxi. He could’ve stolen it to make his getaway!

And then what, he decided to make a little money as long as he was driving it?

Well he could’ve killed the real cabbie. For all you know the dead
body could be in the trunk.

So what, am I supposed to run screaming out of this cab? In this
traffic? And this is a chi-chi neighborhood, people don’t take public
transportation here. There won’t be any taxis. They’ll probably arrest
me for vagrancy, or failure to carry a designer bag.

Besides, if the cabbie were accused of murder, shouldn’t the police
have nabbed him when they presented the warrant? Maybe he’s out on
bail. I don’t think murder is a bailable offense. But one hears
stories, you know, powerful patrons, corruption, stuff like that?

Now you’re suggesting that the driver is an assassin working for some
bigshot with extra-legal powers. Where’s my pen, I should get Jason
Bourne’s autograph as long as we’re waiting for the light to go green.

It’s green. We’re off. The cabbie doesn’t look like a murderer, but
what are murderers supposed to look like? Look at the pictures of
serial killers, the only thing they have in common is how ordinary
they look. Nondescript. You couldn’t pick them out in a crowd. What
does the cabbie look like?

Don’t stare at him, idiot! Observe him casually. Pretend you’re
looking at the car in front of you. Oh look, it’s a European sports
car. Nine times out of ten those things are driven by hideous trolls,
cause you know, they need to compensate. Which is not to say that guys
driving regular cars are the catch of the century either, they’re
just. . .

Focus! You’re investigating a murder mystery here. We know someone’s
been killed. We don’t know who the victim is, but we may have a perp.
What does the taxi driver look like? Ordinary. Nondescript. I couldn’t
pick him out in a crowd.

Serial killer! He’s got a necklace of human ears under the seat!

Surely there’s some logical reason why he’s carrying a warrant of
arrest. Maybe he’s a relative or friend of the victim, in which case
he’s bereft and grieving. And you, cruel passenger, have cast
aspersions on his character without knowing the facts.

Naah, I think he’s the murderer. I mean, the accused! The accused!
Because we live in a democratic society and you’re innocent until
you’re proven guilty. And then you’re punished. Theoretically.

“Which Greenbelt?” the cabbie asks.

I leap out of my seat. “What?”

“Which Greenbelt are you going to?”

“Greenbelt 1, please,” I reply. “Sir. If it’s alright with you.”
Shoot, I should’ve given him a fake destination. Then he can’t find
me. Wait. Why would he even look for me?

Because he knows that you know!

What exactly do I know?

I’ve got it, he must be an off-duty policeman who’s been assigned to
arrest the accused. Should be perfectly safe. Unless the accused
happens to be crossing the street at a red light, and the cabbie looks
up, and they lock eyes and start shooting at each other.

There’s a gun in this cab?! Note to self: Pay the fare, don’t ask any
questions, and don’t complain about the speed of the meter.

We’re here! Pay the man. Remember to tip him. More! Now get out before
anything happens.