A Michigan Police Story in Chesterfield Township 5-27-15
 In spite of the title, this could be a story about police anywhere. For the record, I am Caucasian, and so were the cops in this post.
Six years ago, the girlfriend had a workout studio in Chesterfield Township, Michigan. I worked there part time as a trainer, and spent the rest of my time shipping books and taking cases as a private investigator. The studio was on a main road called Gratiot, in a terrific location just south of an intersection. During rush hour, traffic would back up at the intersection somewhat, and people would stare at the studio from their car windows. Guilt would eventually set in weeks or months later, and they would find their way into the narrow parking lot in front of the studio.
Adjoining the studio was a small party store (in Florida they are just called liquor stores.)
The new owner was a chain smoker of Middle Eastern descent, and too late discovered that he paid too much for his establishment from the retiring owner.
The workout studio showed promise for a while, but then the Great Recession hit and people worried about staying employed and alive more than getting fit. Business began to drop off.  Business was bad for the party store as well, but he nevertheless took about 5 deliveries per day from beer trucks, soda trucks, and various snack vendors. The duration of these deliveries could last from 15 to 40 minutes. There was extensive parking in the rear of our little complex, but Saddam didn't trust the vendors to come through his back door.  He claimed they would steal. Instead, the trucks often pulled lengthwise across our two businesses, blocking any possible clients from arriving or leaving. Whenever I was present, I encouraged these truck drivers to move immediately...sometimes loudly. I am not a small person, and most of them heeded my suggestions.
One fine day, a Coca-Cola beverage truck pulled in lengthwise across the two businesses. I was spotting a client on an exercise and by the time I was finished the driver was tugging on a roll-up door. I asked him nicely to move immediately. He placed several cases of soda on a cart and PROMISED he would only be one minute. I had heard that one often and told him so. I went back to my client. Fifteen minutes later, the truck was still blocking the entire parking strip. I flung open the door of the party store where the driver was lounging against the counter. I told him to move...explaining that his minute was up a long time ago. He whined something about still having to collect a check. I ramped up the volume while shouting "MOVE NOW!" I walked out to the offending truck and using only the palms of my hands began banging on the aluminum rollup doors of the trailer. Aluminum dents more easily than steel, and the reverberation of my actions was audible from inside the party store and several blocks away. The truck driver heard the commotion and did what any manly Teamster would do. He waited until I went back into the studio, snuck into the truck, and called the police from a safe distance. They must have talked to him for some time, because the patrol car did not appear at the studio for nearly half an hour. Two sergeants got out. You are no doubt aware that some cops go from burly to fat during their employment. And some were never burly and just go from wimpy to fat. One sergeant fit my first description, and the second fit my second. They had both gone very soft. Without their guns, batons, mace, bullet proof vests, handcuffs and radios they couldn't have apprehended a 10 year old girl. In fact, it looked like the only exercise these donut connoisseurs got was from lugging all their crap around when they weren't sitting in the squad car. I sat peacefully in a chair while a client walked on a treadmill. The sergeants spent a futile five minutes trying to get me to cop to a disorderly conduct admission, knowing that if they didn't witness it they were hosed. In four words, I copped to asking the truck driver to leave. From there, they only received yes or no answers from me. The first rule of dealing with cops...for any race...is to never testify against yourself. They strutted, they blustered, they harumpphed, and then tried to question my client. If she had seen anything she could be of no assistance at the moment due to a bad case of sudden onset amnesia. They hooked their thumbs in their belt loops and accused me of lying. In a pathetic attempt at good cop/bad cop, one blurted out the tired old line "Just tell us what happened so we can leave." Oh...we'll all leave of course...to the station for fingerprinting. I wanted to ask them if I looked too poor to own a television set...did they think I never watched an episode of Law and Order, CSI, or Perry Mason where the first mistake every perp makes is when he testifies against himself? I just shrugged my shoulders. They took one last stab at a collar. They asked to see my identification. Wordlessly, I complied. They jotted a few numbers down. After they left, they could run my ID all afternoon, but they wouldn't be back. There were no wants or warrants. The chubby cop who tried to play good cop said there must be something to the truck drivers story because he admitted to blocking in the studio parking lot. The other fat sergeant looked daggers at him and then quickly looked back to me...but it was too late! I caught it! They had read the truck driver the riot act! He wouldn't be blocking anymore. Fat sergeant blathered on about how lying to the police was in itself a crime. I refused to take the bait. He only received another shrug of my shoulders after his diatribe. Obviously frustrated, they both waddled out. I wanted to wish the both of them good luck with their angioplasties, but didn't even wave good-bye. To return to the Home Page click here.