criminals do. No matter how you sugarcoat the justice system, those are the facts. You wind up categorizing people—us and them—and you judge them accordingly. And harshly.
Yesterday afternoon, I was repulsed and frightened by a homeless woman who was timidly begging for a quarter or fifty cents. What was I afraid of, for God’s sake? She was a bag of bones, a strong wind would have blown her away. And what would it have cost me to donate my so-called spare change to her? Nothing. Yes, I might have been besieged by a horde of her fellow travelers, the way well-meaning tourists are mobbed in Africa or India, but that’s conjecture. That woman, and what she represents, yanked me out of my comfort zone, which freaked me. So I turned my back on her.
My cowardly act, because that’s what it was, took place in broad daylight, on a populated city street. Now, in my mind, I step into another person’s shoes.
I’m a cop who is cruising the late-night streets, protecting and serving. A beat-to-shit truck comes lurching into view. A quick look-see tells me the truck is in violation of a dozen vehicle codes. The driver, who is Mexican, is not from this area. I’m a professional law enforcement officer. My instincts, honed over years of life on the streets, real life, not some fairy-tale bullshit, tell me this doesn’t add up. So I pull him over.
Do I have reasonable cause? What’s reasonable cause—not in some law book but in the world which is imperfect and mean? The tread on his tires is too low; that’s probable cause. His muffler sounds loud to me, which means it may be emitting too much exhaust; again, probable cause.
He hands over his license and registration, and I can see he’s nervous. Maybe it’s because he’s Mexican and I pulled him over. I can understand that. Cops make everyone nervous. But there could be another reason.
I call in his documents. In a minute, the results come back—he’s clean. I could write him up for the tires, and the exhaust, and the stop sign which he did run, although at two in the morning, on a deserted street, I’m not going to do that, it’s too petty.
But he seems awfully nervous. He keeps looking back at the closed part of his truck. Is he hiding something in there? Christ, what if there are a dozen illegal aliens in there that he’s smuggled into the country? They could be dying.
I need to see inside that truck. So I tell him I think he has a problem with his tail-lights. I’ve decided I’m not going to give him a ticket, although I could. I just want to make sure there’s nothing in there, and I’ll send him on his way.
He resists, which further fuels my suspicions. He gives me some song and dance about the lock being hard to open, he’s already late, yada yada yada. But finally, he reluctantly obeys. I’m a cop—you don’t say no to a cop, not under these circumstances.
And what do you know? Jackpot. Once again, my instincts have been proved right.
I pull into the parking lot adjacent to my office building. It’s eight-thirty. My official workday is about to begin.
SIX
I T’S MIDAFTERNOON. EARLIER, SALAZAR met with a probation officer, who certified that he met the requirements to be granted bail via self-recognizance. One obstacle removed. Now, as I enter Judge Rosen’s courtroom, I see a young Latina sitting by herself, in the back. She looks at me with hopeful eyes as I walk over to her.
“Mrs. Salazar?”
Her nodded yes is guarded. She is obviously frightened out of her wits.
“I’m Jessica Thompson, your husband’s lawyer. We spoke on the phone.” I put out my hand. Her hand is rough; it’s a hand that does manual labor. “I’m glad you could come,” I say. “So you were able to find someone to stay with your children?”
“Yes.” Her voice has an anxious trill. “My sister.”
That’s good to hear. Not that I was worried whether I’d have to shell out twenty dollars, but whether her family was supporting her. Family support
Yesterday afternoon, I was repulsed and frightened by a homeless woman who was timidly begging for a quarter or fifty cents. What was I afraid of, for God’s sake? She was a bag of bones, a strong wind would have blown her away. And what would it have cost me to donate my so-called spare change to her? Nothing. Yes, I might have been besieged by a horde of her fellow travelers, the way well-meaning tourists are mobbed in Africa or India, but that’s conjecture. That woman, and what she represents, yanked me out of my comfort zone, which freaked me. So I turned my back on her.
My cowardly act, because that’s what it was, took place in broad daylight, on a populated city street. Now, in my mind, I step into another person’s shoes.
I’m a cop who is cruising the late-night streets, protecting and serving. A beat-to-shit truck comes lurching into view. A quick look-see tells me the truck is in violation of a dozen vehicle codes. The driver, who is Mexican, is not from this area. I’m a professional law enforcement officer. My instincts, honed over years of life on the streets, real life, not some fairy-tale bullshit, tell me this doesn’t add up. So I pull him over.
Do I have reasonable cause? What’s reasonable cause—not in some law book but in the world which is imperfect and mean? The tread on his tires is too low; that’s probable cause. His muffler sounds loud to me, which means it may be emitting too much exhaust; again, probable cause.
He hands over his license and registration, and I can see he’s nervous. Maybe it’s because he’s Mexican and I pulled him over. I can understand that. Cops make everyone nervous. But there could be another reason.
I call in his documents. In a minute, the results come back—he’s clean. I could write him up for the tires, and the exhaust, and the stop sign which he did run, although at two in the morning, on a deserted street, I’m not going to do that, it’s too petty.
But he seems awfully nervous. He keeps looking back at the closed part of his truck. Is he hiding something in there? Christ, what if there are a dozen illegal aliens in there that he’s smuggled into the country? They could be dying.
I need to see inside that truck. So I tell him I think he has a problem with his tail-lights. I’ve decided I’m not going to give him a ticket, although I could. I just want to make sure there’s nothing in there, and I’ll send him on his way.
He resists, which further fuels my suspicions. He gives me some song and dance about the lock being hard to open, he’s already late, yada yada yada. But finally, he reluctantly obeys. I’m a cop—you don’t say no to a cop, not under these circumstances.
And what do you know? Jackpot. Once again, my instincts have been proved right.
I pull into the parking lot adjacent to my office building. It’s eight-thirty. My official workday is about to begin.
SIX
I T’S MIDAFTERNOON. EARLIER, SALAZAR met with a probation officer, who certified that he met the requirements to be granted bail via self-recognizance. One obstacle removed. Now, as I enter Judge Rosen’s courtroom, I see a young Latina sitting by herself, in the back. She looks at me with hopeful eyes as I walk over to her.
“Mrs. Salazar?”
Her nodded yes is guarded. She is obviously frightened out of her wits.
“I’m Jessica Thompson, your husband’s lawyer. We spoke on the phone.” I put out my hand. Her hand is rough; it’s a hand that does manual labor. “I’m glad you could come,” I say. “So you were able to find someone to stay with your children?”
“Yes.” Her voice has an anxious trill. “My sister.”
That’s good to hear. Not that I was worried whether I’d have to shell out twenty dollars, but whether her family was supporting her. Family support
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