Close Encounters With The Police
by B.J. Stolbov
I was driving alone at night on a deserted road, when, in my rear-view mirror, I saw behind me the blinking lights of a police car. I pulled over. Out of the police car, coming toward me, was a tall young man with a big stiff hat, sunglasses (it was night!), and, around his waist, enough equipment to fight an army.
“What’s the problem, Officer?” I asked respectfully.
“Do you know your left rear tail light is out?”
“I did not know, Sir.”
“Get it fixed!” he growled.
“Yes, Sir, I will get it fixed.”
Then, just for the heck of it, I suppose, he ordered me to get out of my car and to take a test to see if I was drunk. Walk the line, stand on one foot, then the other, touch the nose. I passed.
“Get that tail light fixed,” he snarled and drove away.
“Whew!” He could have killed me out there for no reason and not even reported it, and there was nothing I could have done.
I’m a white guy, not too big, normal-looking, clean, well-groomed, thick glasses, college graduate, articulate, reasonable, sometimes sarcastic, in other words, I appear, and I am, harmless. I do not purposely try to provoke the police. I do not intentionally break the law. I have never owned a gun, have never had any desire to own a gun, and I would never seriously consider shooting a cop, that’s a death sentence.
Years before that, I was hiking in southern New Mexico with a French-Canadian who I had met on the trail. I was blissfully wandering in the desert in search of my soul, while Jacques, a bird-watcher, was looking for birds of the Chihuahua Desert. Following the birds, we would cross and re-cross the border between the U.S. and Mexico. In those days, I remember some old wooden posts to mark the border, but I don’t remember if there was a strand of barbed wire. One late afternoon, a pick-up truck approached us. A large man with a long rifle came toward us and said that he was the Border Patrol.
Jacques and I had already worked out a routine, just in case. Jacques was to speak only French and a little broken English, and I would speak no English at all and, at last, I would get to use my high school French. My line was “La chat est bleu.” The Border cop looked confused. He saw two white guys, not speaking English, and not speaking Spanish, Jacques babbling in French, and me mostly silent. Finally, he said to us slowly and loudly so that we would understand, “Do not cross over the border and keep on the U.S. side.” Jacques and I smiled subserviently at him and the Border cop drove off. “Whew!” He could have killed us out there and left us to the coyotes and vultures, and no one would have ever known. And we were white. What if we had been Mexicans or Black?
Years before that, I was living in Washington, D.C. I was walking through a park in a nice neighborhood of Georgetown in the middle of the day when a man came up to me and told me to give him my money. He said he had a gun in his pocket, but he probably didn’t, and I didn’t ask. He was courteous and professional; I was courteous and calm. All I had was $20. I knew he didn’t want to kill me for $20, and I didn’t want to die for $20. So, I gave him the money and we parted ways. “Whew!”
I know what a criminal wants: money, and as little trouble as possible. The problem is that I never know what a policeman wants, and that is frightening to me. Yes, I know that not all policemen are bad, but how do I know which ones are good and which ones are bad, before it’s too late? (Ever notice that this is not such a problem with policewomen?)
Years before that, I was living in a small town in Pennsylvania. An acquaintance of mine was a small-time drug dealer – marijuana and pills. One morning he was found dead in the deserted railroad yard. He had 11 bullets in him. E-L-E-V-E-N! That’s either a gun emptied and reloaded, or two people shot him. If it was a drug deal gone bad, why shoot this small-time dealer? If he was killed by the police, no one would know and who would ask them any questions. No one was ever arrested. The police decided it was suicide.
Criminals scare me. The police scare me even more. I’m a white guy, now nearing 70 years old, and the police still scare me. The police have unlimited power over my life and death. They can stop me, assault me, kneel on my neck, or kill me without any reason. Maybe there is something that I can do about it. I don’t know. I do know that I’ve learned to be courteous, respectful, and subservient to the police in any and all circumstances. I definitely do not like it, but it’s better than being dead.
Author’s Note: I wanted you, our readers, to know that these kinds of incidents have happened to me (and possibly have happened to you, too) and are, unfortunately, all too common. This problem of police harassment is NOT a "they" problem, it is an "us" problem. My conclusion of passive acceptance, while realistic and safe, is not helpful or hopeful. I would like to encourage some positive activism. I am open to your suggestions.
