I grew up in Rapid City. In 1983, I was 16 and on top of the world. It was a perfect fall morning as I drove my Camaro breezily past the West Side Dairy Queen – a tad over the 30-mph speed limit. It was a Sunday, so the streets were quiet. A very fine day.
I spotted the speed trap just as I passed it and realized immediately that my goose was cooked. A squad car, concealed under the shade of a yellowing cottonwood, was parked where Elmhurst intersects Canyon Lake Drive. Sure enough, a few seconds later, a red and blue flicker and a half-second ‘squak!’ of the siren alerted me to pull over.
At the time, I worked most weekends at Mister Donut. As a result, I knew just about every city cop in town, some better than others. So, I recognized the officer as he ambled toward my open driver side window. I don’t know if I ever knew his surname but if I once did, I have since forgotten it in the intervening forty-plus years. Everyone knew him as BJ.
BJ, I would say, was probably approaching retirement. It was well-liked. He was comfortable with his peers and unfailingly polite; good-natured. His jaw was strong. He was broad-shouldered, ramrod straight, and he typically wore aviator sunglasses.
I remember one weekend he had stopped by the donut shop for a coffee to-go wearing his civilian garb. He swung into the Mister Donut parking lot in one of the most majestic creations I had ever seen. I think it was a 1970 Eldorado convertible, painted a deep bronze. Just him. Top down. Out for a drive.
Even today, I am unsure if he recognized me when he asked for my driver’s license and directed me to step into his squad car, but I imagine he did. He just gave no indication of familiarity. Neither did he pretend not to know me. He had a very mature, professional approach to delivering a teenager a ticket.
As I squirmed a bit in the police car, he explained that I had been going ten miles per hour over the speed limit but that he was writing the ticket for just five. I should watch my speed, he suggested, almost gently. And, he concluded, once he had finished the paperwork, I would be free to be on my way and enjoy the rest of the day. He put me at ease.
Promptly, he did just as he had said, handed me the ticket, and I drove away, a bit more deliberately this time.
I felt a bit sour about the ticket, but mostly I was appreciative. That’s the word for it, appreciative. I felt gratitude for the way that BJ had handled the entire encounter. Calmly, decisively, respectfully, and confidently. He was perfectly in control of himself, his tone, and of his words.
Getting the speeding ticket that morning had been a character-building event. Somehow the power of BJ’s integrity permeated the space that he occupied. It was infectious. I wanted to be like him. (I also watched my speedometer more closely.)
I even considered a career in law enforcement for some time after that.
You may know the police officer I’m describing. If you are my age, you may literally know BJ. Or you may know a cop like him. There are many like him; mature, respectful officers whose first inclination is to de-escalate and ameliorate – rather than compound – anxiety. Would that there were more.
The opinions Professor Simmons do not reflect those of the Board of Regents, the University of South Dakota, or its Knudson School of Law.
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