It was late — close to midnight on October 20th, 2024. I was on my way home from my sister’s house, driving her car. I wasn’t in a rush, wasn’t speeding. Seatbelt on. Signal lights working. Headlights on. Everything by the book.
The light turned red, so I stopped. To my left, I saw a patrol car easing through a yield sign. And in that split second, I felt it — deep down in my gut, in that part of your soul that whispers warnings before your brain catches up. He’s going to get behind me. He’s going to pull me over.
I wasn’t wrong. He busted a U-turn and slid in right behind me.
At first, I tried to shake off the feeling. Maybe he’s just headed this way, I told myself. But deep down, I already knew — this had nothing to do with traffic laws. This was about something else entirely.
I was still on the phone with my sister. “I haven’t done anything,” I told her. “Not one damn thing.”
But the worry started crawling in. Not for myself — for what might be lingering in that car’s past. My uncle had driven it before my sister. Who knows what he did with it, or what might still be tied to it?
The light turned green. I drove on, still doing the speed limit. I was literally a block away from my destination. I signaled left, turned onto the street, and pulled into the apartment driveway. I shut the car off, pulled the keys out, and began gathering my things.
That’s when the red and blue lights lit up behind me.
I told my sister I had to go — an officer had just hit his lights. But I knew — legally — I didn’t have to speak to him. I was parked, the car was off, I wasn’t driving. He had plenty of time to pull me over from the light to where I stopped. But instead, he waited. Why?
Out of respect, and honestly, out of fear — fear of what refusing to speak could turn into — I rolled my window down. That’s where it all started unraveling.
He approached my window, young and brimming with testosterone. You could see it in the way he walked — chest puffed, chin high, like he had something to prove. I asked why he pulled me over. And of course, the go-to excuse: No tag light.
I handed over all the documents. Calm. Collected. Respectful.
As he walked away, I asked — politely — if he could turn off his flashing lights. It was past midnight, and elderly neighbors were likely peeking through blinds, wondering what was going on.
He turned around and gave me a look. Not just any look — the kind that says, How dare you, of all people, speak to me like that. Like I was supposed to sit in silence, grateful for his attention.
When he came back, something had changed. His demeanor went from cocky to cockier. I didn’t even know that was possible.
Then came the twist — “Do you know you have a warrant out for your arrest?” he asked, smug as hell.
I nodded. “Yeah, the one from 2020 — it’s invalid. I’ve been in court all through 2023, fingerprinted multiple times. Nobody’s ever brought it up. Dispatch told previous officers to let me go.”
He tells me they’re waiting for dispatch to confirm whether to bring me in. I begin to roll up the window to collect my things. That’s when he ripped my door open.
And just like that, my switch flipped.