Dear Andrea:
I cannot express how proud I am when telling people that my lawyer was a member of our foundation’s very first education program, which means we have interacted since your eighth grade. And I now disclose to you everything pertinent to my multiple activities. My joke that includes a great deal of truth is that I am allowed to be crazy, but you stop me from being insane.

Everything below is absolutely factual, as it happened and was verbalized at the time. Comments in parentheses were not spoken, only thought—by me, either at the time or in looking back on the events of the night. I leave it to you to separate the components into the above mental categories.
**
For some reason, I awoke at 4:30am on Tuesday, August 14. Perhaps it was because I was thinking about an errand I was going to run for a very special person or maybe I was a touch uneasy about an impending x-ray to see if my left hip implant was still in the right place. Who knows. I do know that I was a touch groggy when I went to the great Hunan restaurant in Denville for dinner with a long-time associate. We met up at 7:20pm and left around 10pm. I had ample food and my usual single bottle of Heineken.

Leaving Hunan, I made the turn necessary to put me on Franklin Road. Noticing a policeman behind me, I kept my speed down. On this street, which runs through a lake community, I did what I do too often, which is that I encroached on the yellow lines instead of staying tight to parked cars, from which people could suddenly emerge at any hour. (I paid for this transgression in nearby Wharton a couple of years ago; for a time, I contemplated measuring everything, lanes and cars, to fight the issue, but common sense prevailed … reluctantly.)
Nearing the curve for the underpass, the policeman put on his lights and I pulled over. I asked what was the issue and he responded with the yellow line violation, a $185 violation. Then he asked if I was intoxicated, to which I replied with the information on the lone beer. He said my eyes looked bloodshot and I told him perhaps it was the result of being an old guy at the end of a long day. He asked for my identification and when it took a while to find the insurance card, his thesis was probably strengthened, in his mind that is, not in actuality.

He noticed my front bumper situation, some problems caused by years back concrete barriers in a parking lot. If I cared about cars, the ugly optics would have been fixed. To him, it probably reinforced the point of view he already had about me. (I totally forgot that in my wallet is a “friend” card from a Dover policeman I have known since he was a teenager; I wondered later whether showing it would have changed anything, but the odds are 50-50 whether it would have been positive or negative, given the differences between the two towns.)
I did quietly complain about the number of speeders in front of my home at 50 Smith Road; he said that using radar, he had ticketed two people there in the past week, which is two more than I have seen ticketed in 38 years of living there.

Anyway, said policeman requested that I get out of my car, whereupon he gave me the “keep your eyes on my pen” sobriety test for multiple times, all while his car light was shining in my eyes. He was polite, calling me “sir” repeatedly (he looked to be in his low twenties; I subsequently learned he joined the force a year ago, which maybe explains the feeling that he was proving his bona fides to the older policeman who had joined the situation.)

Next came the leg tests. When I am nervous/anxious, my legs tend to soften and shake. I did terribly on those facets of the drunk driving test, which reinforced the prevailing assertion of the cop.

His next direction was succinct, “face the car, put your hands behind you.” He read me my rights and put the metal handcuffs on. It was the first time in handcuffs for me; they are uncomfortable for sure and they make navigating into the backseat of a police cruiser not easy.
Off to the Denville police station we went, with me being almost completely mute; I had cursed only once, when I was put into the car. (Regardless of my certainty that I would pass the breathalyzer test, I thought of certain negative headlines, as in “leader of non-profit foundation arrested.” Ugh.)

The breathalyzer in Denville was not functional, so we went to the station in Rockaway. The machine that is used needs a 20-minute warm-up. Fortunately the cuffs were off by then but to have this policeman attempting to make small talk was not something I cared about. I did ask what would happen to the paperwork when I was declared innocent. He assured me that nothing would show on a criminal record, but I was totally unconvinced that the episode would not live in some file cabinet accessible under a public information request.

Finally, as it approached midnight, I took the test, twice breathing into the tube as required. He did not announce the results until I asked: “Zero evidence of alcohol in my blood.”

(Question: if somebody had snapped a picture of me in handcuffs up against a police car, would they have stuck around for a picture when I aced the breathalyzer test. How many employers of low-level wage-earners would be patient enough to know the whole story.)
We got back in the car and returned to the Denville station for paperwork. While he was so occupied, I gazed at the police department group photo: 38 white males (who could have been clones, they looked so similar), one guy named Fernandez and four white females, three of whom appeared to be in administrative positions. (I got to thinking, given my views on the desirability of diversity, why was I living in this white town.)

When the policeman returned, he gave me the news – when he had said earlier they would take me back if the test was okay, he meant to my house, not my car. Because the latter had been impounded!

I was dismayed and posed the question of why my car was impounded if I was innocent. Standard procedure was the answer. I attempted a comment along the lines of Catch 22 and thought better of it. I refused his offer of a ride home — no way that my emotions would not boil over being cooped up with him. I told him I would walk home; he suggested it was a long way (about five miles). I stormed out and let loose a sufficiently loud f……. that it could have been heard throughout the town.

Yes, it was a touch late, but It was a nice night for a walk, which I like to do. Only a CVS was open to provide some sustenance, in this case, an energy bar. My only real concerns in walking at this totally dark hour were whether it would rain or whether a sudden noise would convince a homeowner that a prowler was afoot and he or or she would exercise their God-given right to fire away.
I had reached Route 10, climbed over the median barrier to walk facing what little traffic there was, and was less than a mile from my home, when – a police car pulled off the road in my direction. I laughed, thinking this was really my night. It was the same policeman.

After expressing amazement that I had walked this far, he was insistent about taking me the rest of the way. I briefly contemplated total refusal (could I be arrested for walking against the advice of the authorities) but said, “enough,” and climbed in.
Finally I hit the bed at 2am, rising entirely too soon at 8am. Shortly thereafter I called a Dover cab (Denville is apparently too affluent to have such a convenience and I have not yet signed up for Lyft.) Naturally he was twice as long as promised in coming for me and then asked where I was going –I had already provided that information multiple times to the dispatcher. When he asked for directions, I was speechless; then he went to one of his iDevices to guide him.

As I was waiting outside my front door for the cab, the developer of the McMansion in the next lot stopped by and among other items, informed me he would be moving his work trailer closer to my property and that he would need to connect to my electricity. While I mumbled something like, “how does that work?,” inside I was thinking that maybe I was wearing an invisible t-shirt which indicated it was time to be taken down a peg, to be educated about not really being in total control of my life.

Eventually, the cab did get to McCarter Towing in Rockaway. It would have been nice to have been informed by the policeman that cash was required to get one’s car out of hock. The bill was $205; of the total, $125 was simply the hook-up function. I paid and thought better of saying anything about the huge Trump sign in the office. I muttered “scam” a few times but not loudly, remembering that a member of the McCarter family is a Denville policeman.

As I drove away, I was reminded — not for the first time even though these particular circumstances were unique in my experience – of my being in a privileged position. Through the whole episode there never was a risk of ethnic stereotyping, of gender characterization, or documentation scrutiny. These thoughts mixed with the economic facts of life for the median wage-earner, whose income has not budged in many years, and for whom a $390 hit (plus two points) could easily mean severe damage to the ability to afford normal household expenses.
**
Andrea:
I know it is too late now, and the idea of calling you in the middle of the night never occurred to me (as I told you subsequently, I would have done so if the situation had escalated) – because I knew I was guilty of the driving violation and innocent of the drunk driving charge, but are there suggestions as to how I could have acted, and reacted, differently in this situation?
As always, thank you for your sage advice.

Bob Howitt

Dear Andrea: The Sequel
It has been interesting to read the various reactions to my not-quite-excellent adventure. Every person’s comments come from their own context of course, which would be equally true if the roles were reversed and I was the person making an observation. For young people (and others at different stages in their lives), this point about context is useful to keep in mind when talking with college professors and administrators, with staff at places where one is seeking an intern position or outright job, and with friends or networking contacts.
**
As a sometime writer, when a reader says, “I felt like I was right there,” it warms my heart irrespective of any commentary on the “details” of the incident. To have this appraisal coupled with “I love your style of writing” is too much. Okay, now you know, I do have an ego, even though I abhor arrogance. And I assure you that in leading with an appraisal of my writing, I am in no way trivializing the incident.

More seriously by far, minority readers were divided as to whether they would have been more aggressive but unanimous in their belief that my treatment was more gentle than they would have received. Their stories of being stopped by the police underscored the role of luck in how they were treated. They were almost of one mind in their condemnation of my midnight stroll, the exception being a social worker who accepted my premise that the walk had a perceptible calming effect.

“OMG” and “nightmare” came from those with nothing resembling a comparable experience, although they did comment about the unknowingness of life.

“Wow” was the response from more than a few who never would have envisioned yours truly being in handcuffs in a police car. Uh, me neither.

A lengthy critique of the inadequate car information provided by the policeman and the unfairness associated with the car impounding was intellectually appropriate but the timing for me to deliver such an analysis could not have been worse.
The suggestion of a selfie with the policeman — and me in handcuffs — was facetious for sure, as was the comment that the essay reader had some spare cash in a drawer in case I needed to be bailed out.

A person on a multistate journey assured me she would be more careful than heretofore.

I should have shown the “friend of a policeman” card that is in my wallet, according to more than one informed observer, but somehow that seems a touch unfair. (OK, I know that if life was fair, Elvis would be alive and all his imposters would be deceased.) In any case, the policeman’s tone was even and polite, which is good, because my distaste for undue displays of institutional power would otherwise have been reflected in verbal escalation. Not good.

Descriptors like “hilarious” and “had me in stitches” do puzzle me somewhat. Did these readers mistake the writing for fiction? Are they laughing with me or at me or is their context some similar incident in their own lives and it is funny to see another person having said experience. Or, is it that human inclination to sometimes laugh as a defense mechanism, covering up more difficult emotions?

Interestingly, the one military person who commented said he would have called his lawyer immediately. This seems counterintuitive, i.e., one accustomed to power and structure and regulations would seemingly be inclined to side with an organization having the same characteristics. Instead, perhaps it is because of this experience that he sees the warts, the inconsistencies which cry for redress.

“There are so many different ways that systems, assumptions, power, and resources impact the story” was probably the most philosophically encompassing reaction.
**
I appreciate the suggestions of fighting the violation (I could note a trivial mistake, namely the color of my car was wrong, or a not-so-unimportant error, namely the expiration date of my license), but this summer has drained that kind of energy. I have spent multiple hours with credit card/computer people because of hacking, there has been a clustering of difficult student situations, and a personal matter has made emotional equilibrium a challenge.

No, an Op Ed piece is not appropriate. The policeman, by the book, did not nothing wrong. And an essay on the unfairness of an innocent person having to pay for an impounded car does not exactly bring in a tremendous number of readers or computer clicks, even when the headline is about a car being taken to a location run by a member of the same family that includes a policeman from the sending town.

I confess that now I do notice yellow lines with a fixation that is obsessive, at least for a while. I observe that government entities – mail carriers, utilities and roadwork people – typically cause a driver to have to cross those lines, as do private companies – FedEx, UPS, garbage trucks and dozens of landscapers. The list of reasons for yellow line transgressions also includes evading potholes, turning left in many instances, pedestrians, backing out of my driveway, and … avoiding truly drunken drivers.

Did I learn a lesson from this episode? Yeah, do not cross those yellow lines, regardless of how tired I am and irrespective of any parked cars on the shoulder. Will I still have a single Heineken at dinner? Yes.

Did I gain additional insight into my level of empathy for those in more financially and legally challenged positions? I am not certain – given that I have spent 25 years attempting to assist young people fighting battles of cultural adaptation, documentation, jobs, college, and most importantly, the misconceptions and quick labeling by the prevailing ethnicity in this country of those who are different.

Peace.

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