My run in with the law
Time flies when you're flitting about the continent.
I'm back in Canada now, having heaved sighs of relief as the country opened its arms and welcomed one of its own back into the fold. I love that feeling as I cross the border. It's unexplainable and Kafkaesque- there is honestly no change in the land aside from making way through a human-made line of demarcation that signifies the beginning and end of geo-political interests, but the second I cross that line the relief sets in. Even as I talk to the border guards, I am always pleased to see them as I know they are always generally gentle in welcoming me home.
When I arrived in Chicago before Nikki and I's wedding, we were preparing a wedding gift for Nikki's sister- a nice collection of photographs from their childhood set in a nifty little modern frame. So as a final step, we send the local drug store the photos to print and they give us a time to come in to pick them up. Four-fifteen PM, perfect.
We arrive to the store and the photos are not finished. No big issue, we wait a few minutes, wander the store a little, and in time the clerk presents us with the now-completed photographs. Big problem- there is a massive printing error. A white line about a quarter of an inch thick runs horizontally across each picture. We inform the clerk these are not acceptable and she cleans the machine and attempts the print one more time.
Total time now spent in drug store: Thirty minutes. I am getting a little restless.
Having already purchased about a hundred dollars worth of other things, we wander the aisles of the store milling about waiting for the pictures to be replicated to a reasonable standard. We are beckoned by the clerk again, and... Success! We obtain them, inspect them, and are out the door. Nikki wants to check out a pair of shoes at a nearby shoe shop so we go in, briefly browse, and leave.
We get in the car in the parking lot, and all of a sudden, there's a knock on the window. It's a police officer, and my eyes dart a glance to the rear view mirror. Three squad cars are blocking my car in. I take a breath, and roll down the window.
“Can I help you, sir?” I ask.
“I need you to step out of the vehicle.” the youngish, stern faced officer says. I'll call him Young Officer.
“What's this all about?” I ask again, befuddled.
“I'll tell you once you step out of the vehicle.” he says, a little more forcefully. I have no idea what's going on, so I do as he asks and clamber out of the car, looking him in the face.
“Do you have any sharp implements, weapons, pain or injuries I should be aware of?” he continues. This does not look good. I know where this is going.
“No, sir.” I say. As soon as the words float into the air, he gives me the unpleasant rub-down and frisk treatment. I now notice three other officers congregating around the car.
“Someone at the drug store called in a theft, and you're the vehicle and person they described.” Young Officer says.
“Wait. What? We just bought over a hundred bucks of stuff from there.” I retort, knowing right away that I am in fact innocent and whoever called in this supposed theft needs thicker glasses. I tell them to search my car, that Nikki has receipts, I explain why we were waiting so long in the drugstore, and offer just about any sort of verification I can prove. I'm still very diplomatic because clearly someone has their wires terrible crossed. Young Officer, Supervisor and Guy Who Looks Like That Dude on Law and Order descend on my vehicle, looking in nooks, crannies, glove compartments, and bags for the evidence. There is none.
Then, as their search concludes and they verify by looking at the closed circuit surveillance of the drug store that I am in fact not guilty, Supervisor and GWLLTDOLAO call the Young Officer over to one of the squad cars blocking me in. They take my auto insurance, passport and driver's license with them and again I start to get just a smidgen concerned.
All of a sudden, Young Officer comes back, turns me around, and throws handcuffs on me. Nikki starts to cry and scream. I don't even hear the Miranda rights.
“What are you doing!? We are getting married in THREE DAYS!” she exclaims, as the cold metal cuffs tighten around my wrists. I've never been in handcuffs before. I don't remember much about that moment except how surreal it was and how I was completely baffled as to what was going on. Nikki starts going into hysterics and GWLLTDOLAO takes her a couple dozen feet away, removing her from the situation.
“Is this your car?” Supervisor asks.
“Yes sir.” I reply, slightly defiantly. Of course it's mine. It has my name on the bloody license plate.
“When did you get it?” he inquires.
“I bought it brand new, October 30th 2006.” I retort again, pleased that I can recall that off the top of my head.
“Says your car is stolen in the database, and that's a felony.” he continues. The words are scary. Stolen. Felony. But also I know that this is a mistake and I am in the right. I know that I was the first person to ever drive that car. I know it had twelve miles on the odometer when I drove it off the lot and my insurance in the glove compartment will say that. I know that getting angry will get me nowhere. It's time to do things the Canadian way: When faced with confrontation, kill them with niceness. (For the record, this does not apply to hockey.) So I smile, and we start to talk about the car, when I bought it, that this is all silly but kind of funny in a dark way, why we drove here, and all sorts of other topics. Young Officer and Supervisor start to crack a little and I can tell they don't want to be as hard on me as they're acting.
I feel the pitter-patter of rain on my face and I try to lift my hand to brush it off. The metal on my wrists gives me a painful reminder that I can't move to do so. I just keep mentally repeating that as long as I keep my cool, keep being diplomatic, keep talking with these officers and keep referring to the truth that I am actually in some semblance of control of this situation despite my being in handcuffs.
I want to test my limits a little bit and see where I stand with the officers. I know they wouldn't give anyone they honestly believed was a felon any slack. So, as the rain continues to fall I ask the officers to pop my trunk so I can sit under the hatchback and not get wet. They oblige, and with that I go a little further, asking them to place my insurance, passport, and other documents currently resting on the hood of the police cruiser back in my car as I don't want them to get wet either. Once again, they do it. I relax a little more because if I was someone they really saw as a threat, they wouldn't give me my identification back and they wouldn't be giving me any wiggle room at all. We start to have conversations about the wedding, how we met, what my job is, and all sorts of other things. Part of me wants to fly off the handle and tell them they're wrong and to get me out of these things but I maintain a relatively pleasant disposition and cater to the conversations as they come and go.
The officers check every nook and cranny of my car, looking for matching vehicle identification numbers and of course, everything matches. My insurance records in the glove box go back two years. My FIRST NAME is on the LICENSE PLATE. It can't be more of a clear case than this, but the system continues to read that the car is indeed stolen.
Canadian insurers are called, but it's too late at night. No one answers. Youngish officer walks back over to me.
“Cuffs too tight?” he asks. His face has softened considerably and I can tell he's at the point where he knows this is a massive mistake.
Another hour passes and after much futzing about with each other the police make a judgment call and release me.
“Listen, I have no idea why your car comes up as being stolen in the database.” Supervisor says. He continues. “You don't seem like a felon.”
“I guess I should take that as a compliment.” I reply, cocking a little bit of a grin.
GWLLTDOLAO brings Nikki back, and she's still a little spooked but everything has settled down a considerable bit. After a little more conversation, and the officers showing me on their in-car database that my car reads as being “a hit”, they shake my hand and apologize. I tell them that I understand, and I honestly mean it. My car seems, for some reason, to come up as being stolen on the American database of automobiles. Of course they're going to think it really is because that's what they go off of. I really do know that these guys are just doing their job (one of the hardest ones) and they were following protocol.
It should be noted that I later called Canadian Police, my insurance company and the lender of the money I used to buy the car, all of whom would be notified if the car was stolen. The car raised no flags whatsoever anywhere in the Canadian systems.
Ultimately though what really bothers me the greatest is the paranoia that got us there to begin with, as well as the humiliation of having to sit in my trunk in handcuffs for almost two hours. The paranoia that dictates to someone that because I was walking around a store waiting for photographs, I was suspicious of stealing. The worst part is it doesn't seem like it's just me- it's a paranoia of others I see as becoming more and more pervasive in many parts of America and I just don't understand it.
When did people in America start being perceived as guilty before innocent?
I'm back in Canada now, having heaved sighs of relief as the country opened its arms and welcomed one of its own back into the fold. I love that feeling as I cross the border. It's unexplainable and Kafkaesque- there is honestly no change in the land aside from making way through a human-made line of demarcation that signifies the beginning and end of geo-political interests, but the second I cross that line the relief sets in. Even as I talk to the border guards, I am always pleased to see them as I know they are always generally gentle in welcoming me home.
When I arrived in Chicago before Nikki and I's wedding, we were preparing a wedding gift for Nikki's sister- a nice collection of photographs from their childhood set in a nifty little modern frame. So as a final step, we send the local drug store the photos to print and they give us a time to come in to pick them up. Four-fifteen PM, perfect.
We arrive to the store and the photos are not finished. No big issue, we wait a few minutes, wander the store a little, and in time the clerk presents us with the now-completed photographs. Big problem- there is a massive printing error. A white line about a quarter of an inch thick runs horizontally across each picture. We inform the clerk these are not acceptable and she cleans the machine and attempts the print one more time.
Total time now spent in drug store: Thirty minutes. I am getting a little restless.
Having already purchased about a hundred dollars worth of other things, we wander the aisles of the store milling about waiting for the pictures to be replicated to a reasonable standard. We are beckoned by the clerk again, and... Success! We obtain them, inspect them, and are out the door. Nikki wants to check out a pair of shoes at a nearby shoe shop so we go in, briefly browse, and leave.
We get in the car in the parking lot, and all of a sudden, there's a knock on the window. It's a police officer, and my eyes dart a glance to the rear view mirror. Three squad cars are blocking my car in. I take a breath, and roll down the window.
“Can I help you, sir?” I ask.
“I need you to step out of the vehicle.” the youngish, stern faced officer says. I'll call him Young Officer.
“What's this all about?” I ask again, befuddled.
“I'll tell you once you step out of the vehicle.” he says, a little more forcefully. I have no idea what's going on, so I do as he asks and clamber out of the car, looking him in the face.
“Do you have any sharp implements, weapons, pain or injuries I should be aware of?” he continues. This does not look good. I know where this is going.
“No, sir.” I say. As soon as the words float into the air, he gives me the unpleasant rub-down and frisk treatment. I now notice three other officers congregating around the car.
“Someone at the drug store called in a theft, and you're the vehicle and person they described.” Young Officer says.
“Wait. What? We just bought over a hundred bucks of stuff from there.” I retort, knowing right away that I am in fact innocent and whoever called in this supposed theft needs thicker glasses. I tell them to search my car, that Nikki has receipts, I explain why we were waiting so long in the drugstore, and offer just about any sort of verification I can prove. I'm still very diplomatic because clearly someone has their wires terrible crossed. Young Officer, Supervisor and Guy Who Looks Like That Dude on Law and Order descend on my vehicle, looking in nooks, crannies, glove compartments, and bags for the evidence. There is none.
Then, as their search concludes and they verify by looking at the closed circuit surveillance of the drug store that I am in fact not guilty, Supervisor and GWLLTDOLAO call the Young Officer over to one of the squad cars blocking me in. They take my auto insurance, passport and driver's license with them and again I start to get just a smidgen concerned.
All of a sudden, Young Officer comes back, turns me around, and throws handcuffs on me. Nikki starts to cry and scream. I don't even hear the Miranda rights.
“What are you doing!? We are getting married in THREE DAYS!” she exclaims, as the cold metal cuffs tighten around my wrists. I've never been in handcuffs before. I don't remember much about that moment except how surreal it was and how I was completely baffled as to what was going on. Nikki starts going into hysterics and GWLLTDOLAO takes her a couple dozen feet away, removing her from the situation.
“Is this your car?” Supervisor asks.
“Yes sir.” I reply, slightly defiantly. Of course it's mine. It has my name on the bloody license plate.
“When did you get it?” he inquires.
“I bought it brand new, October 30th 2006.” I retort again, pleased that I can recall that off the top of my head.
“Says your car is stolen in the database, and that's a felony.” he continues. The words are scary. Stolen. Felony. But also I know that this is a mistake and I am in the right. I know that I was the first person to ever drive that car. I know it had twelve miles on the odometer when I drove it off the lot and my insurance in the glove compartment will say that. I know that getting angry will get me nowhere. It's time to do things the Canadian way: When faced with confrontation, kill them with niceness. (For the record, this does not apply to hockey.) So I smile, and we start to talk about the car, when I bought it, that this is all silly but kind of funny in a dark way, why we drove here, and all sorts of other topics. Young Officer and Supervisor start to crack a little and I can tell they don't want to be as hard on me as they're acting.
I feel the pitter-patter of rain on my face and I try to lift my hand to brush it off. The metal on my wrists gives me a painful reminder that I can't move to do so. I just keep mentally repeating that as long as I keep my cool, keep being diplomatic, keep talking with these officers and keep referring to the truth that I am actually in some semblance of control of this situation despite my being in handcuffs.
I want to test my limits a little bit and see where I stand with the officers. I know they wouldn't give anyone they honestly believed was a felon any slack. So, as the rain continues to fall I ask the officers to pop my trunk so I can sit under the hatchback and not get wet. They oblige, and with that I go a little further, asking them to place my insurance, passport, and other documents currently resting on the hood of the police cruiser back in my car as I don't want them to get wet either. Once again, they do it. I relax a little more because if I was someone they really saw as a threat, they wouldn't give me my identification back and they wouldn't be giving me any wiggle room at all. We start to have conversations about the wedding, how we met, what my job is, and all sorts of other things. Part of me wants to fly off the handle and tell them they're wrong and to get me out of these things but I maintain a relatively pleasant disposition and cater to the conversations as they come and go.
The officers check every nook and cranny of my car, looking for matching vehicle identification numbers and of course, everything matches. My insurance records in the glove box go back two years. My FIRST NAME is on the LICENSE PLATE. It can't be more of a clear case than this, but the system continues to read that the car is indeed stolen.
Canadian insurers are called, but it's too late at night. No one answers. Youngish officer walks back over to me.
“Cuffs too tight?” he asks. His face has softened considerably and I can tell he's at the point where he knows this is a massive mistake.
Another hour passes and after much futzing about with each other the police make a judgment call and release me.
“Listen, I have no idea why your car comes up as being stolen in the database.” Supervisor says. He continues. “You don't seem like a felon.”
“I guess I should take that as a compliment.” I reply, cocking a little bit of a grin.
GWLLTDOLAO brings Nikki back, and she's still a little spooked but everything has settled down a considerable bit. After a little more conversation, and the officers showing me on their in-car database that my car reads as being “a hit”, they shake my hand and apologize. I tell them that I understand, and I honestly mean it. My car seems, for some reason, to come up as being stolen on the American database of automobiles. Of course they're going to think it really is because that's what they go off of. I really do know that these guys are just doing their job (one of the hardest ones) and they were following protocol.
It should be noted that I later called Canadian Police, my insurance company and the lender of the money I used to buy the car, all of whom would be notified if the car was stolen. The car raised no flags whatsoever anywhere in the Canadian systems.
Ultimately though what really bothers me the greatest is the paranoia that got us there to begin with, as well as the humiliation of having to sit in my trunk in handcuffs for almost two hours. The paranoia that dictates to someone that because I was walking around a store waiting for photographs, I was suspicious of stealing. The worst part is it doesn't seem like it's just me- it's a paranoia of others I see as becoming more and more pervasive in many parts of America and I just don't understand it.
When did people in America start being perceived as guilty before innocent?