AN ENCOUNTER WITH SOVIET-STYLE PATROLMEN

In the name of its drug war, the government is eroding our liberties while
making a mockery of the rule of law.

I've made this point on several occasions in the course of writing about
innocent people caught in the pincers of arbitrary law-enforcement officers
fighting the drug war. I can now narrate my own tale of a crime of war.

The weekend before last at midday, a highway patrolman pulled me over on
Interstate 275 in St. Petersburg. I was traveling with my young son. For
both of us the experience transformed St. Pete into an American Leningrad.

The patrolman alleged that I had exceeded the speed limit. I knew that he
was in error (or lying) because I was using a sophisticated anti-radar
device in my car. Even before the radar buster alerted me to the police
monitors, I had been driving under the speed limit.

Either way, I made the mistake of extending a simple courtesy to the
officer. As he checked my license and registration, I informed him that I
was carrying a revolver in my car. But I also told him that I had a valid
Florida concealed weapon permit.

He did not ask to see my permit. Instead he mumbled something into his
radio. Other police cruisers surrounded us. An officer asked me to step out
of my car. When I asked her why she was making such a request, she claimed
it was "routine procedure."

"For a dubious traffic citation?" Perhaps in Colombia's guerrilla-controlled
territory. But not in Pinellas County, U.S.A.

Then a sergeant appeared. He asked if I had a permit for "the pistol." I
repeated what I had already said to his underling, pointing out that the
"pistol" was a revolver.

"So why do you have a concealed weapon permit?" he prompted.

I told him that I worked as a journalist in Miami: "Over the years, I have
received several death threats. But even if I had never been threatened I
would have nevertheless applied for the permit. I can't always count on the
protection of law-enforcement officers. Some of you are far too busy
stopping innocent motorists."

Irritated, the sergeant noted that I seemed "nervous." The trick of a
B-movie interrogator. "I am not nervous; I am angry at this waste of
valuable public resources."

"Maybe" he said, "you'd be more comfortable with Hispanic officers from
Miami. ... By the way, have you ever been arrested?"

I explained that during my adolescence I had been detained for anti-Castro
activities. However, charges were never filed. Then one of the officers
asked me if I belonged to the Israeli army. (I was wearing an Israel Defense
Force T-shirt.) "The question," I said, "is not relevant to the matter at hand."

It then dawned on me that it was relevant: In the eyes of these characters,
I was a longhaired, gun-carrying Hispanic-Jewish resident of Miami who
talked back to figures of authority.

The sergeant had uttered a self-fulfilling prophecy: I became nervous.

The officer who had pulled me over also asked me if I had ever been
arrested. I repeated the statement I had made to his superior.

"Well, Mr. Mestre, our computer tells us that you have an arrest record for
trafficking in narcotics."

It became darkness at noon. Without losing my composure (which I supposed
they expected), I told them that their computer was infected with a virus
that had turned their data base into pulp fiction.

"Maybe," said the sergeant, "but we believe the computer." I asked them
whether a citizen convicted for drug trafficking was eligible for a Florida
concealed-weapon license and requested the specifics of my imaginary record.

Two of them began to stammer. One of them had the presence of mind to ask me
whether I had taken illegal drugs that day. "Of course not."

"But your eyes are bloodshot, Mr. Mestre."

"In my case, the redness is called chronic conjunctivitis."

That's when the sergeant announced that he wanted to search my car. I
affirmed that this was an outrage; that they had defamed me in front of my
son, concocting a tall tale about my alleged criminal past. "Though I have
nothing to hide, I suspect that if I refuse, you will take me in, obtain a
search warrant and subject us to a nightmarish delay in a St. Pete police
station."

While the sergeant conducted a thorough search of the seats and trunk, I
watched him closely. I feared that he was capable of planting a bag of dope
in the car.

He didn't, giving me the drug war's version of a safe-conduct pass. I took
the opportunity to repeat my request for the specifics of my "criminal
past." I've searched public records and have never come across my history as
drug trafficker.

In response, the patrolmen babbled something about an enigmatic code. Was it
perhaps the Code of Hammurabi? Who knows.

The first cop finally wrote up the speeding ticket, 50 minutes after he had
stopped me. He was helpful: "If you plead Not guilty, the hearing will be
held up here."

"That's fine," I said. "I'll fly."

As we fled St. Pete-Leningrad, my son and I talked at length about the
traits of a good police officer and the mark of a deceitful, abusive cop.
The boy was angry and shaken. I reminded him of our beloved Thomas Jefferson
(my son was born in Virginia on Jefferson's birthday) and the Bill of Rights.

"Luckily," I told him, "unlike most other countries, in America we can still
count on good cops; wise, independent judges, and fair prosecutors. We'll
have our day in court. And we'll beat the highwaymen who ambushed us."