I’m a police officer in a small town with a lot of wealthy individuals. I have just finished breaking up a drug deal and have arrested a fifteen-year-old dealer with eight grams of cocaine and we’re waiting for his father to show up.

Kid: “Man, you better let me go. My dad’s a lawyer and there’s no way you have a case.”

Officer: “Listen, kid, just wait for your dad to show up before you say something stupid. Now, turn around if you want those cuffs off.”

The officer goes to uncuff the kid who suddenly violently breaks off.

Kid: “What the f***?! Get your hands off my balls!”

Me: “He didn’t even touch you yet.”

Kid: “Oh, yeah? Well, who’s the judge gonna believe? You two idiots or my dad?” 

Me: “I’m pretty sure they’ll believe that camera.”

I point to one at the end of the hall pointed at him.

Me: “Or that one.”

I point to one literally just above him.

Kid: “Well, f*** you! You’re nothing but a bunch of podunk pigs!”

It took another thirty minutes for his father to show up, the little drug dealer screaming and cursing the whole while. Luckily, his dad didn’t see it as such a clear-cut case of innocence and took a plea deal forcing his son into a house arrest with rehab and weekly drug tests, as well as freezing access to his trust fund. He also apologized to the department and said if his son ever ended up here again, he would cut him out of the family will.

My wallet got stolen when I was working in another city, and I went to the cop shop — only to discover that in the province of Ontario, you cannot report stolen ID without showing ID!

The only thing not with me at the time was my passport, so I asked the boyfriend to go to my place to scan my passport and email it.

He got to my apartment… only to realize he’d left his keys at his place.

I asked him to break in, but the only reachable window was through the AC — which he’d stupidly installed so it could just be pushed in — in the living room, which was facing the street!

I begged the cop to vouch to the Toronto police that my boyfriend did have permission, in case he got arrested for breaking in. Then, I put the phone on speaker and stayed with him through the sound of my home being broken into.

The cop just laughed the entire time.

(I’m in my senior year of college, preparing to start the student teaching portion of my degree along with many of my classmates. One of the requirements to begin student teaching is to be fingerprinted for a background check. To ensure this gets done by the deadline, my professor decides to use a portion of class time to walk us down to the police station to be fingerprinted. There are a couple of officers working through 20 or so of us — an older officer and a guy probably not much older than we are. When it gets to me, I’m assigned to the younger officer. He rolls my index finger in ink then rolls it onto the paper. The officer examines the print thoughtfully.)

Officer: “You know, you have really pretty fingerprints.”

Me: “Uh, thank you?”

(He went on to awkwardly explain that they’re well-defined and it means I shouldn’t go out committing any crimes, but it remains the strangest compliment I’ve ever received!)

(I work in a very rural county where there are only one high school and two stop lights, and the main highway that leads to a city across the Virginia state line runs through the middle of town and past the sheriff department. It’s one of those ‘everyone knows everyone’ kind of Southern towns. It is an early Sunday morning; a state trooper is finishing up a report at our desk from an earlier accident while I am processing a public intox just brought in by a deputy.)

Dispatch: “Communications to any unit in [Town]?”

Deputy: “Go ahead, Communications.”

Dispatch: “[Deputy], EMS [Truck #2] advises they are behind a wrong-way driver heading into town.”

(The driver is all over the roadway and has nearly run off the road multiple times. It’s a possible DWI. The deputy and trooper practically run towards the door. While our county may be rural, the highway is frequented by big rigs and the occasional wayward livestock this late at night.)

Deputy: “Communications, I’ll be in route with [Trooper].”

Dispatch: “10-4, EMS has lights and sirens on, but the driver is not slowing down.”

(The two run out the door just as my coworker comes into the office.)

Coworker: “Oh, boy, DWI?”

Me: “Yup, going the wrong way down the highway.”

(Not even a half-hour later the two return, along with the patrol sergeant, and in between them they are escorting an intoxicated woman.)

Woman: “I swear I’m not drunk!”

Patrol Sergeant: “Ma’am, you just drove nearly five miles the wrong way, flew through a red light, and almost ran over one of my deputies!”

Woman: “Oh, he’s okay. Besides, I only had one shot.”

Trooper: “Ma’am, you blew twice the legal limit.”

Woman: “Okay, so it was more than one shot of gin.”

Coworker: “Oooh, she’s in so much trouble!”

Me: “What do you mean?”

Coworker: “Her mama is a minister at the church down the street. She’s gonna get it.”

Many years after the fact, my husband related to me and his parents a story of his first and only encounter with law enforcement.

When he was fourteen, he did one of those stupid things under peer pressure that was considered a badge of honor back then: driving a motorbike without a license, or indeed without being the appropriate age to get one. Of course, he was stopped and taken to the police station. As a minor, his parents were to be called, but there was an unofficial, alternative punishment: a couple of whacks across the buttock of the child in question. Different times, back then. It was not legal, of course, but deemed appropriate.

Given the choice, my husband without hesitation chose the alternative. The friendly police sergeant opened a drawer and gave him a choice of the tool. There was a colorful collection of batons of various materials, from wooden, to rubber, to plastic. My husband chose the least impressive, small one. The policeman said okay, grabbed the stick… and expanded it to working length. Yes, it was the first model of telescopic baton in use, and according to my husband, it stung.

Still, my husband maintains, that it was much better than what his father would have done to him, had he known about his ride without a license.

“You bet I would,” said my father-in-law, when my husband finished. “In fact, I still should!” and jokingly undid his belt.