File under: Learning How to Live
Due to the fact I live in the middle of nowhere, no internet service providers offer a reliable broadband service where I live. Therefore, you will often find me sitting in my car in a random parking lot, catching up on social media, whenever I travel into the city. Yesterday evening, I was sitting in the CVS Pharmacy parking lot, as I am wont to do. It was after dark, approaching closing time for most stores in the plaza. I was sitting some distance away from the store away from all the other cars. Having just finished an emotionally difficult telephone call, I began to draft an even more emotionally difficult text message. Peripherally, I notice a car pass in front of me turn and travel on around the lot. Being distracted, as I was, I did not notice this vehicle had circled back and pulled up on my rear. Startled, I get a knock on the window and look up to find a county sheriff standing outside my door.
Due to the fact I live in the middle of nowhere, no internet service providers offer a reliable broadband service where I live. Therefore, you will often find me sitting in my car in a random parking lot, catching up on social media, whenever I travel into the city. Yesterday evening, I was sitting in the CVS Pharmacy parking lot, as I am wont to do. It was after dark, approaching closing time for most stores in the plaza. I was sitting some distance away from the store away from all the other cars. Having just finished an emotionally difficult telephone call, I began to draft an even more emotionally difficult text message. Peripherally, I notice a car pass in front of me turn and travel on around the lot. Being distracted, as I was, I did not notice this vehicle had circled back and pulled up on my rear. Startled, I get a knock on the window and look up to find a county sheriff standing outside my door.
My immediate reaction was anger. All I could wonder is what
yokel called the cops on me for sitting here, minding my business--not
bothering anyone. I go on the defensive and a flood of legal knowledge and
situational drills rush to the forefront of my brain. What seems to be the
problem officer? Was there a complaint? Is there a reason you approached my
vehicle? Do you have some reason to believe some sort of crime is occurring?
Has the owner asked that I leave the premises?
Much to my consternation, the officer was not being
confrontational, aggressive, authoritarian, demeaning or disrespectful in any
way. This threw a wet blanket on my fiery libertarian zeal. It is much less
vindicating to rage against the machine when the machine is not being a tool. I
realized…this guy is just doing his job…we both just want to get through this
and go home. I reminded myself that I do not have the right NOT to identify
myself when operating a motor vehicle.
Being a jerk can only make things worse, so just shut up and go along
with it.
With my hands on the steering wheel of the car, I informed
the officer that I have no weapons in the cabin of the vehicle, but there is
ammunition in the glove compartment and an unloaded firearm in the trunk. I ask
if it is all right to turn the dome light on so that he can see into the
vehicle. When he says it is ok, I do so…slowly. Now that he can see into the
vehicle, I ask if it is ok that I retrieve my wallet from my left side front
pocket. When he says it is ok, I do so…slowly.
While he is communicating with dispatch, I keep my hands on the steering
wheel. He encourages me to “relax,” and states that it will not take long. My
record is spotless, so I am not worried I will not be driving home soon.
However, as I am sitting there, something I did not expect occurred: he struck
up a conversation.
He remarks that I am very familiar with the regulations for
carrying firearms and asks why I do not apply for a permit so that I can carry
mine in the car with me. I remark that this situation would be much tenser if
there was a firearm in here with me (the real reason is I am a notorious
procrastinator). He quips, if I need it in an emergency I cannot ask the
attacker to “hold on” while I retrieve it from the trunk and load it. We both
laugh at that. We talk about our common interest, firearms, for a while:
favorite carry options, EDC, favorite caliber, ranges to go to… Turns out we
both favor the same round, for the same reason (although he is a Glock fanatic,
sigh). He talked about the time while on vacation an officer stopped him after
he fell asleep in his civilian vehicle in a hotel parking lot. We
talked…lightly…about the subject of our tension: bad cops and bad interactions
between them and the public. He professed that bad cops make his job harder and
those like him want them gone. He admitted in a number of high profile cases
that many of the shooters “got away with murder.” He states that is a pleasure
to be able to talk with a member of the public about common interests and
concerns, without animosity or distrust. I agreed and explained to him that my
grandfather, a retired deputy sheriff, and father were both involved in law
enforcement at one time, so I understood “both sides” of the issue.
He concluded the stop by shaking my hand and thanking me for
the service of my father and grandfather. This heart-felt gesture touched me in
a very profound way. For the first time in a long time, I felt a feeling of deep
pride and connectedness to my father and grandfather. I let go of what was
dogging me, and a sense of the peace and calm came over me. I finished writing
the missive I was having difficulty writing and went home feeling unexpectedly
inspired.
What I said about my father and grandfather was only mostly
true and only in an esoteric sense. It was an olive branch—a peace offering—to
build trust and extend empathy. The truth is I never knew my grandfather, as
him and the family had estranged since before I was born. Further, I did not
know much about his or my father’s experiences in law enforcement. My father was not fond of talking talk about
his former life, or overmuch about his father in more than a general way. Many
of the stories from that time in his life seemed to take my father to a bad
place; so, as I became wiser, I stopped asking about them. I gathered that, ultimately, it was that life—law
enforcement—that wedged into the cracks of my father and grandfather’s
relationship.
I have only ever seen my grandfather in pictures. He was an
imposing man with a genial smile, the spitting image of my father, save my
grandfather’s rusty hair had not darkened with age the way my father’s hair had.
I knew he did dote on his grandchildren. Much of what I knew about him when I
was a child I learned from my eldest siblings and cousins; at one time, he was
a constant fixture in their lives. I never heard my grandmother so much as
speak his name in all the years she lived.
I did speak to him once, over the telephone. I was maybe
eight or nine years old at the time. All these years later, I do not remember the
sound of his voice, but I remember every word he spoke and how I felt, finally, to talk to my grandfather. He introduced himself, “Grandpa Bane,” and asked
me who I was. We spoke very briefly. He told me that he wanted to see me, gave
me his number and told me to call him. Few times can I remember being as happy
as I was that day. As I often did, I waited impatiently and excitedly for my
father to get home from work; I liked to be the first person to greet him when
he came through the door. I wanted to
tell him my grandfather wanted to see
ME. Over the turbulent years, my
father and I have had some tense, heated and emotional conversations. None,
however, was as heart-rending and agonizing, for both of us, as when he had to
tell me I would not be seeing my grandfather after all. I never did. He passed away a short while later.
I thought about my grandfather for the first time in a long
time on the drive home—whimsical things, not sad things. Like, did he have a disarming demeanor and a
strong handshake like the deputy? What would be his choice in firearm or
caliber today? What would an old-timer like him think of mine? What would he
have to say about the state of law enforcement today? Would he have wanted me
to continue in my pursuit of a career in criminal justice? I thought about all
the conversations we never had and, for the first time, thinking of them did
not make me angry or bitter—it made me smile.
Now that I have forced upon you a boring story, a sad story
and a sob story, what is your reward for all that? What is the lesson in all of
this? One thing about law enforcement that my father did share with me was the
importance of the beat cop. Officers in the community patrolling the streets,
interacting with business owners and homeowners, being a visible deterrent to
criminals are vital to strong, safe communities. A couple years ago in my
hometown, my cousin—a bailiff himself—was waiting in the parent line to pick up
his daughter from elementary school when a criminal shot him in the back during
an attempted robbery. In the world we live, a criminal will shoot a father in
front of his wife at his daughter’s elementary school over a cellular
phone. If not for the efforts of dedicated
law enforcement officers—officers like the deputy, my father and my
grandfather—I would not have felt comfortable sitting in my car, in that
neighborhood without my firearm within reach. Police are not the enemy; evil
people and the hatred in all of us is. Catharsis is hard to come by in the
world in which we live, where not much ever makes sense and true closure is rare.
I narrowly almost prevented myself from making peace with a demon that has
plagued me all my life. Closed minds and closed hearts stubbornly clinging to
principle and jaded perceptions prevent us as a society from embracing one
another, healing our wounds and moving beyond the hurts of the past. If
humankind is ever to reach its moment of catharsis, it has to click in each of
us that we are all just people, people doing our jobs—if imperfectly—and we all
want to get through this life to find our way home.
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