RUN IN WITH THE COPS

A RUN-IN WITH THE COPS
My first encounter occurred many years ago. I’d locked my keys in the car (the one and only time I did that) across the street from the post office and in front of a rough and tumble kind of park (full of rough and tough kind of folks). Having heard that it was possible to pop up the door lock with a coat hanger, I ran to the post office and begged one off of the man behind the counter. Evidently I wasn’t the first postal visitor to lock their keys in because the hanger was already prepared for its new job.
Unaware that I had an audience, I tried to get the straightened hanger beyond the closed window and into the car. On about the third attempt I heard a man loudly moan, “You’re going to rip the gasket!”
I looked behind me as a tall, dark man appeared at my shoulder.
“Give me that!” he demanded, ripping the coat hanger from my hand.
It was miraculous; in less than five seconds he had the door open!
But before I could thank him he dropped the hanger to the sidewalk and took off like a Jack rabbit with his tail on fire. For anyone who has read my novel, SCREAM ONCE FOR HELP, yes, this scenario was included (sort of).
I watched in amazement as the good Samaritan (with lightening speed) disappeared down a hillside. Stunned by his quick departure I was staring like a goofus at the empty hill when I heard my name being broadcast. I turned back toward my car and saw that a patrol car had pulled up, and a patrolman was climbing out.
Upon approaching me he demanded, “Do you know that guy?”
“No, I locked my keys inside and he was helping me get in,” I stuttered nervously.
Glaring ominously, he snarled, “He’s a convicted car thief!”
Like that’s my fault?
“Show me some identification,” he ordered.
The patrolman was obviously angry, but I was getting a little hot under the collar, too. It was bad enough that I’d locked my keys in, now I was being treated like I’d broken the law!
My hands shaking, I handed over my driver’s license.
“See how nervous you’ve made me!” I blurted out.
But honestly? I don’t think he cared.
The latest encounter occurred more recently when I received a call from a police sergeant asking if he could use my backyard for a stake-out. I agreed (contrary to the patrolman’s opinion, I am a law abiding citizen – besides who wants a ring of potential thieves working in the area).
The sergeant arrived that afternoon and upon scoping things out decided that the best place to see what was going on was behind my yard in a small plot being used as a vegetable garden by one of the neighbors. I showed him how to access the garden by squeezing past a brick wall, and then I got a chair for him.
I watched (which he probably loved!) as he set up headquarters (binoculars, walkie-talkie, movie camera and bottled water) behind a row of very tall broccoli. When I heard my phone ringing I ran in and grabbed it.
“What were you doing?” my sister wanted to know, since I normally answer by the third ring.
“I was taking a chair out to a policeman,” I answered breathlessly.
“What?”
“There’s a policeman doing a stake-out behind the neighbor’s broccoli and I was giving him a chair so he wouldn’t have to squat in the dirt,” I explained.
“Figures,” she replied before stating the reason she was calling.
Unlike the patrolman that had me a nervous wreck, all of the officers on stake-out were polite and friendly except for one who had a somewhat sour disposition. The first time he arrived he knocked on the front door to introduce himself and show me his badge (which they all did). I accompanied him to the back wall, showed him how to get into the garden and explained that the other officers had used the broccoli as a blind. After staring down the long row of tall plants he grumbled, “I hate broccoli!”
Ahhh, sir, I wasn’t suggesting you eat them, only that you use them to hide behind.
It was a little over a week before the sergeant and his men got what they wanted…or at least I guess they did; it’s been several years now and none of them have been back.