Moments ago my chief concern was making it back to work within my fifteen-minute break.

I had made
it home, but not before noticing an elevated police presence on the main road nearby. This particular
officer had managed to slink behind me just as I turned off State Street, following me to my regular spot
in front of my yard. Though I was blissfully unaware until a voice ordered, “Put your hands out the
window!”.

I got to experience throwing my keys out the window, the awkward backwards walk to a safe spot
behind my car and being ordered to the ground. But it was now, after being escorted to the police
cruiser’s trunk, the experience started. The cuffs rattled onto my wrists and were much more rigid than I
imagined they would be. The officer began searching my person, inquiring into my behavior.

“Why did you run, man?” The Officer asked in a concerned voice.

“I know I was going a little fast there, but I promise I didn’t try to run from anyone.”

“Where’s the guy you were with?”

“There isn’t anyone else, man. I’m coming from work. I work at Target, I’m on break. That’s literally my
house right there!” I nodded to my front door.

The conversation with this first officer was professional, as if to apply his own due process, ‘innocent
until proven guilty’ method of investigation. I was sporting my Target uniform, and took the time to
warn, that my name tag had a sharp pin on the back that sometimes comes undone. So perhaps be
careful reaching in there. The alibi that I was in a hurry because of work, seemed to add up in his head.

Imagine the letter ‘T’. That letter does a fine job representing the roads this unfolded upon. My house
sits atop this ‘T’. It was shortly after the cuffs were applied that the inner perimeter of that ‘T’ was lined
with police cruisers. The D.A.R.E. Mustang even made an appearance, as did every officer in the area
who wanted to get up close, and ask me the same question, “Why did you run?”.

The most rotund of these was convinced of my guilt.

“Why the hell would you run!?” Office Portly pushed. I was growing weary of this question.

“I really don’t know what you guys mean. I was just trying to hurry because I only have a fifteen-minute
break.” I repeated, at this point realizing my ordeal may not be related to a broken speed limit.

“So you ran because you’re on break!? And now you’re facing felony evasion charges!?” He implicated.

I felt my brain halt any more attempts to respond. This guy was not going to accept any answer I gave
him, and I had begun to accept that I might be finding myself in court very soon. I resolved to comply to
the best of my ability, if only to assist any lawyers that might be in my future.

I admit I felt somewhat of a celebrity. This many professionals all focused on me, leading me to a
completely different Crown Victoria to experience its luxurious back seat. And by luxurious, I of course
mean a basic plastic piece for which ergonomics were at most a tertiary concern. My new metal
bracelets dug punishingly into my wrists, imprisoned between the bench and my lower back; My knees
pressed into the firm, metal divider that kept the back of the car separate from the free citizenry of the
front seat.
Staring through the holes in my cage, it was then I noticed this cruiser had been outfitted with an iPod
dock, which happened to have AC/DC’s ‘Highway to Hell’ playing. One of my favorite songs, from one of
my favorite bands. Ironic, if not a comedic relief. I had to think to myself, “I would have put on the same
thing”.

At least three times I was asked to repeat my story, start to finish. Leave work, because I was too
hungry. In a hurry because I only have fifteen minutes. Notice there’s a bunch of cops. Get to my house
and, surprise! There’s one behind me with his gun out. Though my annoyance faded with each iteration,
as each retelling was capped with a reminder that I was only being detained. This felt like a good sign.

True enough, the Miranda Rights card had yet to come out. And it was around half an hour of listening
to an unnamed officer’s iPod playlist that I was told “Hey, it looks like you’re probably going to be let go.
We will let you know what is going on in just a moment, sit tight.” The plastic bench became
comfortable, and I become one of the few people capable of saying they relaxed in the back of a cop car.

“Okay, so I was wrong!” Officer Portly exclaimed apologetically, as the cuffs were being removed. They
left red indentations on wrists. Handy for later when trying to avoid the write up I nearly received at
work for taking an ‘extended’ break.

My daily driver was a green Honda Civic, with a loud exhaust (Did I mention I was seventeen at the
time?) This is important in that at some point, a green Civic just like mine had fled from a traffic stop.
Contained within it were, as described, two Hispanic males. The chase had led them to State Street, in
front of Fashion Place mall, where they lost the car and I just so happened to appear. Driving like a bat
out of hell.

As I am not two Hispanic males, my plates did not match theirs, and I complied as much as I did, my
story fit in their minds and I was let go. I made sure to enter my house as evidence of my residence,
though at this point it was safe to say my appetite had been stunted.