I Fought the Law

Just kidding, I certainly did not!

The other night, my son Billy came banging into my room at around 9:30pm. After I got him to slow down and explain, it appeared that he and one of his friends were swept into some kind of text scam. They were added to a group text of strangers, then it somehow appeared that Billy was sending the texts, even though he was playing baseball at that time. Then someone in the text sent some nasty photos and that’s when the phone calls started. I knew I was going to need to contact the police.

I shouldn’t have any qualms about calling the police: I’m middle-class, white, and my dad’s political life means, frankly, that my name is known. Obnoxious and wrong as it is, I should not have to fear the police.

I mean, I was scared of them when I was a minor at a house party that was raided… but not once I turned 21 — I recall setting my beer on the mantle and walking out of the house, nodding casually to the officers on the way out. (They may have been rolling their eyes.)

Then there was the time (again, college) when a few of us decided to take a road trip to see friends at a school a few hours away. One of us had a car — not I — so he was driving. Two of the others had gone to the Pig’s Eye brewery tour that day, so they were a little tipsy already. The 5th member of the party was a girl who was a friend of ours, but we were dropping her off at a different house when we reached our destination. She carried a lunchbox: a lunchbox full of weed.

Our trip was uneventful in all ways, right up until we stopped at a gas station about a half an hour outside our destination. While I was inside using the bathroom, the boys decided they wanted to start the party, and would I please drive so they could drink a bottle of Boone’s Farm in the back seat? “Of course!” said I, and the car was rearranged accordingly. Our one friend — I’ll call him Dummy #1 — who happened to be 6’7” (and was on the aforementioned brewery tour) started dancing around the lot, holding the “wine” in a paper bag and crowing, “I’m going to drink it like a wino!” We hustled him into the car pretty quickly… but not quickly enough, it turned out.

The boys made quick work of the Boone’s Farm and threw the bottle out the window. About 10 minutes later, I saw flashing lights in the rearview mirror. Everyone shouted at me to pull over, and I did… nearly taking out a mailbox in my state of anxiety. All I could think of was the girl sitting next to me with that lunchbox on her lap. The stupid, plastic, children’s lunchbox with cartoons all over it — packed to the brim with cannabis. I rolled down my window as the officer approached, and he shone his flashlight at all of us as he informed me he had received a call from a gas station attendant about a group of kids waving liquor bottles around and getting in a vehicle that matched our description. He asked me to get out of the car, and I complied. We walked to the back of the vehicle and I saw that there were actually THREE cop cars lined up behind us.

He asked me if there was alcohol in the car and I said, “No, officer,” with what Dummy #2 later called my “Dorothy from Kansas” look. The cop then shone his light through the back window and illuminated the souvenir beer can obtained by Dummy #3 on the brewery tour. “WHAT IS THAT?!” demanded the officer. I quickly explained that it wasn’t real; it was empty and didn’t have a sealed top.

After that, I was instructed to get back in the driver’s seat, while everyone else vacated the vehicle. The lunchbox was left sitting on the front seat. The officer shone his light all throughout the car, but since Dummies 1, 2, and 3 had chucked it out of the window, there was no damning evidence. Then the flashlight beam landed on the lunchbox. “WHAT IS THIS?” the officer asked me. “Just some of her stuff,” I replied, gesturing to the girl. The officer opened the lunchbox.

There was a pause, then he slammed it shut and shoved it onto the floor. The Dummies and the girl reentered the car, and we were on our way. I was, of course, shaking like a leaf. I received many atta-girls and beers upon reaching our destination.

The majority of all my interactions with law enforcement have been less dramatic than this. Other than a few warnings for speeding (ok yes and a ticket for expired tabs) I have had no reason to fear conversations with police officers.

However. Officers have been at our house several times through our struggles with our daughter’s mental illness. These occasions have always gone well, but I could tell as she got older that there was less leniency — perhaps less empathy — present in the interactions. I choose to believe that is why, when a group of teens broke into our house last fall, the officer that came to the house treated my husband’s account with skepticism. He just could not believe that, in a house with two teenagers, they wouldn’t have had something to do with the incident.

So there was some justification on my part for waiting until the next morning to deal with Billy’s text issue. You see, I work in the town over from where we live. The town is much smaller, and I know several members of the police force. More importantly, they know me as a teacher of their children, with no other baggage. My principal contacted an officer, and covered my class while I used her office to talk to him. He was familiar and friendly, and immediately went to the high school to talk to the boys. We have been told it is most likely a scam, and they will look into it. At no time did any of us feel that we had done anything wrong, or that we weren’t believed. My relief was palpable.

The reality is that I hold immense privilege to not have to fear law enforcement. There is overwhelming evidence that this is not the case for so many (most?) Americans. Just this year, our local department came to pop popcorn for our students, and I found one kid hiding just around the corner. He wanted a bag of popcorn, had his quarters, but knew that he didn’t want to approach those officers. His experience, his family’s experience, had not been positive.

I believe that law enforcement in this country needs to change purpose and focus. I believe that police officers need much more training in psychology, social work, and multiculturalism (for a start.) There are plenty of smart, courageous humans who decide to protect and serve — let’s provide the education and tools to allow them to do their jobs for all of us.

The car ride to school with Billy that next morning was fraught with anxiety, and eventually the confession spilled out of him. He was worried that the police would have to take his phone for evidence. He was worried because, last year, his group of friends decided that it was the height of hilarity to send each other photos of their buttcheeks. Billy said he thought he had deleted all the buttcheeks off of his phone but he knew you could never really erase that stuff.

“Why are you laughing, Mom???”

Thanks for reading.

Love, Susie