I've been watching news reports on the Rayshard Brooks shooting. All sorts of memories have been filling my head. In the Brooks case, we see the kind of shooting that most people have shrugged off as justified. This is someone who tried to run, grabbed a Taser from the policeman, and fled, attempting to fire the stun gun over his shoulder.
It reminded me of a conversation I had with an officer once while I was still working as a cops reporter. He told me that any suspect attempting to flee in a vehicle, should he hit or come close to hitting an officer, becomes subject to a manslaughter/attempt murder charge and that officers were justified in using extreme force. The officer was candid but still chose his words carefully enough that he didn't actually say they could light the car up. This mentality is what a lot of SoCal officers head out into the field within poorer neighborhoods.
That reminded me of an incident I had. I've long regarded the police with what I call a healthy suspicion. My parents and siblings are split down the middle in the looks department as some of us either got the more indigenous looks or the European looks. My sister got good looking genes, long dark hair, gorgeous eyes while Europe apparently pooped all over my younger brother and me.
Still, you could tell we were Latino. As a result, we were often the target of police and the court system. Recently, after finishing up an assignment at son's school, I was driving us home. I turned onto a residential street where I noticed a Sheriff's car. I looked right at the deputy as I made the stop at the stop sign. I made a right and noticed he made a U-Turn and pulled up right behind me with his lights flashing.
I can't tell you the feeling that runs through you when most of your experiences with officers have been negative. My heart started pounding. I started shaking. As I pulled over, I thought about what I should do. I was frozen. I knew I needed my license but I was too afraid to reach for it. I just sat there with Lucky next to me. He obliviously continued to watch videos on his phone. I swallowed hard and tried not to pass out. I prayed the cop would be as nice as the one who pulled me and my white husband over in a neighboring city ... but no dice.
Cop: "Did you make a full stop at the sign?"
Me, quietly wondering if it really mattered what I thought: "I think so."
Cop: "You THINK!?"
He then peers into my car and I follow his line of sight to my CJUSD badge. He then instructed me to hand over my license. I unfreeze enough to ask the oblivious child to hand me my purse. I hand over my license. The officer heads into his car to write me up. I sit there frozen on a hot day. I begin to sweat and to feel woozy. I wish I could turn on the car and run the AC but I'm terrified to do that. Meantime, he is in his air-conditioned vehicle slowly writing the citation.
Sometime later, he comes out and announces he has decided to cite me only for expired tags. I hear part of what he says, I am loopy from fear and heat but I'm mindful to keep my hands where he can see them. I say something to him (I can't remember what) and he gives me a half-smile. Shaking I drive off. I feel relieved because, unbeknownst to the officer, my hubby had already sent off the payment for the tags. They were two months late because I had just started earning a paycheck. We finally had the money to pay.
I remembered that as I watched Brooks run.
P.s. I stood up to my fair share of law-enforcement in my day, but since turning in my press credential, I feel as vulnerable as I did when I was a child watching my parents being treated as second class citizens. There is something empowering about a press badge.
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