A Brush With The Law

I was inside my house and walked out the front door to pay some day laborers who had done some chores for me. A Sheriff's car was idling in front of my house. I didn't give it a second thought and directed my attention to giving a check to the workers. With my peripheral vision, I detected sudden movement. Looking back at the Sheriff's deputy, I saw him jump out of his car and stand hunched over behind the car door. He was clearly alarmed over something. Over what, I couldn't imagine.

Then, he yelled out, "Do you live here?"

I yelled back, "Yes."

He yelled back, "Did you hire those guys to do some work for you?"

I responded, "Yes, I had them move some firewood for me. "

At this point, I thought I understood what the problem was. The workers, in his eyes, clearly could not live in my neighborhood. This is an affluent area and two El Salvadorians in plaid shirts and an old pick up truck stood out. They could be doing some work for a homeowner or they could be burglars. He wanted to make sure which.

What the officer said next floored me. He yelled, "Bring me some proof that you live here."

Obviously, the officer didn't believe that I looked like I could live in my neighborhood either. Granted, I didn't look my best. I had been working on the pond in the drizzle and my old, ragged, mismatched sweats were covered in mud. I had last combed my hair the day before. But still, under all the dirt and rags, I was still blond and middle aged. I thought that I fit the demographics even though I was dirty.

I thought about the events that led to the beer summit, that is, the black college professor who was doubted my a police officer to be the owner of his home and ended up arrested when the situation escalated. Although my feelings were hurt, I was going to remain polite, calm and reasonably friendly.

I yelled out that I was going to go in the house and come right back. Although it was annoying to have to produce papers when I had done nothing wrong, it was easy enough to show a driver's license. Then I suddenly remembered. My driver's license had my old address on it. Walking in my house, I was wondering how I was going to prove that I lived here. I did a quick search of the tabletops and found some escrow instructions with my name and current address.

I walked over to the deputy, who was no longer crouched behind his car. Back up had arrived while I was inside the house and I guess he was feeling more comfortable. I handed him my papers while the second set of officers watched me. He took the papers and sat in his car and copied the information. When he was done, he handed them back to me and explained that a neighbor had called the police because they saw suspicious men walking around my house.

Forcing a smile, I thanked him, thanked the day laborers and walked back in the house. Everyone drove off. Thank goodness the officer didn't question the workers about their immigration status. I will never be able to run for public office.