What I Learned from Almost Being Arrested

Almost three years ago I had a severely unpleasant experience with a police officer that left me completely shaken. Up until this point, I’d been given no reason to distrust cops. Ever since this moment, though, I’ve understood why many people have their reservations. If I could have an experience like this—and I’m white, educated, and middle class—I can’t imagine how much worse it must be for those who are black, or poor, or in another marginalized group. As protests continue in Ferguson, my mind has gone back to this experience, and how it affected me.

I was on a grocery run to Walmart. I had two-year-old Sally with me and was visibly pregnant with Bobby. Sean was still at work, and it was winter so it was dark out even though it wasn’t all that late. I parked, went into the store, and filled a cart with eggs, milk, flour, and other things we needed. As I finished checking out, I heard the loudspeaker asking for someone with the same name as my husband to come out to his car, because there was a problem. And then I realized—the loudspeaker was calling for me, because our car was in my husband’s name. I hurried out to the car wondering what could have happened.

There, at the car, was a police officer and an older woman. The officer informed me that I had hit the other woman’s car, which was directly in front of my car in the next spot, when parking. I was doubtful, though careful to be polite and deferential. The officer showed me the bumpers of the car, which appeared, in the darkness, to be touching, or nearly so. I assured him that I had not felt any impact when parking. The car had not rolled back, or jerked, or anything—nothing had felt out of the ordinary. Again I was careful to be polite and deferential, but I was growing increasingly frightened by the officer’s demeanor. He was antagonistic, he clearly didn’t believe me, and he looked ready to book me. The vibes coming from him surprised me. I was afraid. I had never been afraid of a police officer before. Sally shivered in the grocery cart beside me, wrapped snugly in her coat but still cold in the winter weather.

Satisfied that everyone had gotten a good look at the cars’ bumpers, the officer told the other woman to pull her car back a few feet. He then had each of us inspect her bumper, using his flashlight. There was not a scratch, not a dent, not a mark—nothing. The officer grudgingly admitted that I had not actually hit the woman’s car.

“If there had been even the smallest scratch,” he told me, “I would be taking you downtown right now for a hit and run.”

The officer was very clearly disappointed that he could not arrest me. I puzzled over this for weeks afterwards, because it shocked me. This man wanted a reason to arrest me, and I could not understand why. I still don’t understand why, but I remember how shaken I was as I watched the officer walk away. I wondered what would have happened to Sally if he had arrested me. Would she have ridden with me downtown in the officer’s car? Would they have tried to locate hy husband? Would social services have been called?

I was shaking as I loaded Sally and the groceries into our car. I cried—sobbed—as I drove to pick Sean up from work. I called my sister in tears, because I absolutely had to talk to someone, I felt so sick. I’m kind of surprised I didn’t throw up. As I’m typing this now, there are tears running down my cheeks from simply remembering—and reliving—the emotions I experienced. I was so shaken.

Of course, some of this was the doing of the woman who called the cops—the owner of the other car. She was very very angry herself, and had called the officer out on a cold evening solely on the basis of her bumper and my bumper being so close they looked like they were touching. There was no dent, nothing was smashed, and as we saw when she eventually pulled her car forward there wasn’t even a scratch or the tiniest mark. She said she was upset because she couldn’t load her groceries into her trunk, but then it’s rarely easy to load your groceries into your trunk when you back in, as she had. She probably gave the officer an earful and that may have contributed to his mood. But that didn’t make how he treated me okay—he was the professional.

I really don’t have anything to complain about, I realize that. I’m white, educated, and middle class. I’m at very low risk of being harassed or harmed by the police. I’m not trying to tell some sort of “woe is me” sob story when so many people have it far, far worse. I’m also not saying that all police officers are like this. What I am saying is that this very unpleasant brush with police has helped me understand what the people in Ferguson and elsewhere are talking about.