Who Polices the Police?
We met at a neighborhood dive bar, talking about music and television shows. Our meeting was random–I go to that bar often to write and squirrel myself in the corner near the Jagermeister machine. The heat and hum of the machine helps me focus, and usually no one bothers me or tries to strike up a conversation. The day we met it was crowded, and the only empty seat was next to me and my laptop. He was a charming man, about my age, who had a deep throaty laugh.
One hour in, I closed my laptop and–to the amusement of the bartender–started shamelessly flirting with him. Mike was tall, well-dressed, and had a disarming smile. “What do you do for a living?” “I’m APD.” Mike paused. “Yeah, I’m a cop.” Interesting, I thought, but I didn’t know that his profession should have made me run screaming out the bar.
We went on a date a few days later and it’s lovely. Quiet conversation, leaning in close, touching each other’s thighs–it was a perfect date straight out of the romcoms I hate so much. When the night was over, we stood in the parking lot as he gently pressed to come back to my place. I wanted to say yes, but I was looking for a relationship at the time and wanted to wait. Mike opened my car door and kissed me good night. “I’ll see you soon.” I thought he was such a gentleman, I didn’t realize it was a threat.
A few days later, back at the bar, Mike comes in all smiles. “I knew you’d be here!” We chat some and then he pauses and says “my partner thinks you’re cute.” I was confused–we hadn’t taken any photos on our date. “I showed him your driver’s license.” Mike goes on to tell me that he searched me in the system and he was impressed that I hadn’t had tickets in fifteen years, but that my tag gets scanned in the same neighborhood on the way to the bar. “That’s how I knew you’d be here!”
I was speechless. All of my privacy was stripped away without my consent. Mike really thought he was being romantic, I thought it was wild and creepy. Mike asked me out for another date, but I blew him off, saying I was overwhelmed with work, when really I just wanted to distance myself from him. There’s a difference between looking a person up on social media and looking them up in a police database. It felt like an abuse of his power.
Mike wasn’t done yet. Two days later, when I got home from teaching, there was a card, flowers, and a cupcake at my door. The card had a beautiful inscription: to a woman who lights up a room. It would be very sweet, except he had never been to my house. He did have my address though–from my driver’s license. Mike starts calling a dozen times a day, but I didn’t answer. Each message became increasingly aggressive. I considered parking on a different street and then walking to my house, but it wouldn’t matter; he knew the make and model of my car and probably would patrol the area. I developed a mild fear about him showing up when I’m home, but I can’t report him because he worked in my residential zone. Who am I going to report it to–him? I was even wary of going back to my beloved bar, for fear I’d run into him.
It’s an odd, itchy feeling when you are worried about a police officer more than a carjacker. Finally, the calls stopped and there were no surprise gifts on my doorstep. I relaxed some and started going back to the bar. Hesitantly, I asked if anyone had seen Mike lately and was met with peals of laughter. “Mike’s in jail. He got caught having sex while he was on duty.” The regulars all started telling me all the rumors of the illegal things he’s done. Bribes. Drinking on shift. I was horrified, but in hindsight, not surprised.
I know Mike is “one of the bad apples,” but between my experience and the 24 hour news cycle of “bad apples,” I think I’ll take my cubby hole at the bar over another police officer. At least it’s not running my tags when I’m gone.
