I used to believe that knowing the law would protect me from people who ignored it.<\/p>\n
I was wrong.<\/p>\n
I learned that on a Tuesday afternoon in a small Georgia diner, with a plate of fried catfish in front of me and a sheriff standing close enough to smell the coffee on his breath.<\/p>\n
"Put your hands behind your back."<\/p>\n
I looked up.<\/p>\n
Sheriff Dalton Voss was already reaching for my arm.<\/p>\n
I had never seen him before.<\/p>\n
He had never seen me before.<\/p>\n
At least, not in any way that mattered to him.<\/p>\n
I was forty-four years old, wearing a denim jacket and a pair of comfortable shoes.<\/p>\n
My hair was braided.<\/p>\n
My lunch was getting cold.<\/p>\n
And I was about to discover what happened when a man with a badge decided that none of those things mattered.<\/p>\n
"Excuse me?"<\/p>\n
"Hands behind your back. Now."<\/p>\n
I put down my fork.<\/p>\n
The woman at the counter stopped talking.<\/p>\n
A man in the booth behind me lowered his newspaper.<\/p>\n
I could hear the kitchen fan turning above the grill.<\/p>\n
Nobody moved.<\/p>\n
I remember that sound more clearly than anything else.<\/p>\n
The fan.<\/p>\n
The scrape of Voss's boots against the floor.<\/p>\n
The tiny click of my fork against the plate.<\/p>\n
Then his hand closed around my shoulder.<\/p>\n
"You're under arrest."<\/p>\n
"For what?"<\/p>\n
He didn't answer immediately.<\/p>\n
He pushed me forward against the table.<\/p>\n
My water glass tipped over.<\/p>\n
Ice scattered across the floor.<\/p>\n
A woman gasped.<\/p>\n
I felt the first handcuff close around my wrist.<\/p>\n
It was cold.<\/p>\n
Too tight.<\/p>\n
I could have told him who I was.<\/p>\n
I could have reached into my purse and shown him the credentials I carried everywhere.<\/p>\n
I could have ended the whole thing before the second cuff locked into place.<\/p>\n
But I didn't.<\/p>\n
I stayed quiet.<\/p>\n
At the time, I told myself I wanted to understand what was happening.<\/p>\n
That wasn't the whole truth.<\/p>\n
I wanted to know what he would do if he believed I had no power to stop him.<\/p>\n
I wanted to know whether the law meant anything to him when the person standing in front of him couldn't make him afraid.<\/p>\n
That decision cost me a broken wrist.<\/p>\n
It also changed the lives of people I had never met.<\/p>\n
But I didn't know any of that yet.<\/p>\n
All I knew was that Sheriff Dalton Voss was pulling me out of my booth.<\/p>\n
"You're making a mistake," I said.<\/p>\n
He leaned closer.<\/p>\n
"I don't make mistakes in my county."<\/p>\n
His grip tightened.<\/p>\n
I winced.<\/p>\n
He noticed.<\/p>\n
And he smiled.<\/p>\n
That was the moment I understood something about him.<\/p>\n
He wasn't confused.<\/p>\n
He wasn't trying to figure out whether I had done something wrong.<\/p>\n
He had already decided that I was somebody he could hurt.<\/p>\n
And he was enjoying it.<\/p>\n
"You're being arrested for an armed theft," he said.<\/p>\n
I stared at him.<\/p>\n
"I haven't stolen anything."<\/p>\n
"You're resisting arrest."<\/p>\n
I hadn't moved.<\/p>\n
I hadn't raised my voice.<\/p>\n
I hadn't even stood up.<\/p>\n
He twisted my arm behind me and pulled me away from the booth.<\/p>\n
The pain was sharp enough to make my eyes water.<\/p>\n
I kept my mouth closed.<\/p>\n
I was not going to give him the satisfaction of hearing me cry out.<\/p>\n
That was pride.<\/p>\n
I know that now.<\/p>\n
I should have said something.<\/p>\n
I should have demanded that he explain the charge.<\/p>\n
I should have asked for another officer.<\/p>\n
But I was also afraid.<\/p>\n
Not of the handcuffs.<\/p>\n
Not even of the pain.<\/p>\n
I was afraid of what I was beginning to recognize.<\/p>\n
This man had done this before.<\/p>\n
And nobody in that diner seemed surprised.<\/p>\n
An older man near the window started to stand.<\/p>\n
Voss looked at him.<\/p>\n
The man sat back down.<\/p>\n
That small movement told me more about Pell County than any newspaper article could have.<\/p>\n
Nobody wanted to be next.<\/p>\n
Voss dragged me toward the entrance.<\/p>\n
The glass doors opened.<\/p>\n
The afternoon air was hot and heavy.<\/p>\n
His patrol car was waiting outside with the engine running.<\/p>\n
A young deputy followed us.<\/p>\n
He carried my purse.<\/p>\n
His name tag read MILLER.<\/p>\n
He looked like he was still young enough to believe that doing the right thing would be enough to protect him.<\/p>\n
He glanced at my wrists.<\/p>\n
Then at the sheriff.<\/p>\n
Then back at me.<\/p>\n
He didn't say anything.<\/p>\n
I wondered whether he had seen this before.<\/p>\n
I wondered how many times he had watched someone get hurt and convinced himself that staying quiet was the same as staying out of trouble.<\/p>\n
Voss opened the back door.<\/p>\n
"Get in."<\/p>\n
I sat down.<\/p>\n
The metal partition was warm from the afternoon sun.<\/p>\n
He shut the door.<\/p>\n
The locks clicked.<\/p>\n
I looked through the window at the diner.<\/p>\n
A waitress stood behind the counter with both hands pressed against her apron.<\/p>\n
She was young.<\/p>\n
Maybe nineteen.<\/p>\n
Her eyes followed the patrol car as we pulled away.<\/p>\n
I didn't know her name.<\/p>\n
I would learn it later.<\/p>\n
For now, I watched the diner disappear behind us.<\/p>\n
The sheriff drove with one hand on the wheel.<\/p>\n
Country music played softly through the speakers.<\/p>\n
He hummed along.<\/p>\n
Every few minutes, he glanced at me in the rearview mirror.<\/p>\n
I sat with my hands cuffed behind my back.<\/p>\n
My left wrist was already beginning to swell.<\/p>\n
I tried to keep my breathing steady.<\/p>\n
Four seconds in.<\/p>\n
Four seconds out.<\/p>\n
My grandmother had taught me that when I was a little girl.<\/p>\n
She said a person could lose almost everything and still keep control of her breath.<\/p>\n
I had remembered those words through law school.<\/p>\n
Through my first years on the bench.<\/p>\n
Through cases that had made me question whether justice was something people could actually achieve.<\/p>\n
Now I was using them in the back of a patrol car.<\/p>\n
Voss glanced at me again.<\/p>\n
"Where are you from?"<\/p>\n
"Georgia."<\/p>\n
He laughed.<\/p>\n
"I can see that."<\/p>\n
I didn't answer.<\/p>\n
"What's your business in Pell County?"<\/p>\n
"I was having lunch."<\/p>\n
"At the Magnolia Diner."<\/p>\n
"Yes."<\/p>\n
He shook his head.<\/p>\n
"Funny place to be if you're looking for trouble."<\/p>\n
I looked at him.<\/p>\n
"I wasn't looking for trouble."<\/p>\n
He turned up the radio.<\/p>\n
Then he said something that made my stomach tighten.<\/p>\n
"Pruitt's Pharmacy has been having problems. You been around there?"<\/p>\n
"I picked up a prescription."<\/p>\n
"That right?"<\/p>\n
"Yes."<\/p>\n
He nodded as though I had confirmed something important.<\/p>\n
"Thought so."<\/p>\n
I stared out the window.<\/p>\n
The road stretched ahead through dry fields and tall pines.<\/p>\n
Pell County was a place I knew from childhood visits.<\/p>\n
My mother's family had lived there for generations.<\/p>\n
My aunt Lorraine still lived on a small piece of land outside Halvorsen Springs.<\/p>\n
She was seventy-six.<\/p>\n
She had spent thirty-four years teaching third grade at the elementary school.<\/p>\n
She still sent me newspaper clippings in the mail.<\/p>\n
Every clipping had a handwritten note attached.<\/p>\n
Thought you'd want to see this, baby.<\/p>\n
I had kept them all.<\/p>\n
Some were about school board meetings.<\/p>\n
Some were about church events.<\/p>\n
Others were about arrests.<\/p>\n
The arrests had become more frequent.<\/p>\n
A mechanic detained beside his own garage.<\/p>\n
A deacon charged with obstruction after questioning a search of his son's car.<\/p>\n
A widow who lost her house after spending nearly three weeks in jail on a charge that was later dismissed.<\/p>\n
I had read those stories in Atlanta.<\/p>\n
I had read them in my chambers.<\/p>\n
And I had wondered whether there was more to them than the newspapers were reporting.<\/p>\n
Three months earlier, my aunt had called me.<\/p>\n
She sounded tired.<\/p>\n
"Amara, I need to ask you something."<\/p>\n
"Of course."<\/p>\n
"I've got some letters here."<\/p>\n
"What kind of letters?"<\/p>\n
"People writing about what happened to them."<\/p>\n
I sat down.<\/p>\n
"Who have they written to?"<\/p>\n
"The governor. The GBI. The county commission."<\/p>\n
"And?"<\/p>\n
"Nothing."<\/p>\n
She paused.<\/p>\n
"Some of them got visits from deputies afterward."<\/p>\n
I closed my eyes.<\/p>\n
"Aunt Lorraine, I can't investigate this."<\/p>\n
"I know."<\/p>\n
"I'm a judge."<\/p>\n
"I know that too."<\/p>\n
Her voice softened.<\/p>\n
"But somebody in Atlanta needs to read these letters."<\/p>\n
I didn't answer.<\/p>\n
She continued.<\/p>\n
"Somebody who can tell me where to send them."<\/p>\n
I told her to put them in an envelope.<\/p>\n
I told her not to contact anyone else until I could speak with the chief judge.<\/p>\n
The next morning, I brought the letters to Chief Judge Harold Brennan.<\/p>\n
There were thirty-one of them.<\/p>\n
Some were written on notebook paper.<\/p>\n
Some on church letterhead.<\/p>\n
One was written on the back of a feed-store receipt.<\/p>\n
We copied them.<\/p>\n
We logged them.<\/p>\n
Then he sent the originals to the United States Attorney's Office and the FBI.<\/p>\n
I documented my family connection.<\/p>\n
I also documented that I would have no role in any case that came out of the investigation.<\/p>\n
I was not an investigator.<\/p>\n
I was not a prosecutor.<\/p>\n
I was a judge.<\/p>\n
My responsibility was to report what I had received and then step aside.<\/p>\n
I thought that would be the end of it.<\/p>\n
Three weeks before my arrest, Aunt Lorraine had fallen and fractured her hip.<\/p>\n
I took a week off to help her.<\/p>\n
Chief Judge Brennan knew where I was.<\/p>\n
He called me before I left Atlanta.<\/p>\n
"Be careful in Pell County."<\/p>\n
I laughed.<\/p>\n
"Judge, I'm going to help my aunt recover from surgery."<\/p>\n
"That's not what I mean."<\/p>\n
I knew what he meant.<\/p>\n
Still, I didn't think much of it.<\/p>\n
On my fourth day in Pell County, I left Lorraine resting on the porch with her physical therapist.<\/p>\n
I drove into Halvorsen Springs to collect her prescriptions.<\/p>\n
Then I stopped at the Magnolia Diner.<\/p>\n
I ordered catfish.<\/p>\n
I sat in a booth.<\/p>\n
I took out my phone.<\/p>\n
And twenty-two minutes later, Sheriff Dalton Voss arrested me.<\/p>\n
The patrol car turned onto the road leading to the sheriff's office.<\/p>\n
I looked at the building ahead.<\/p>\n
A squat brick structure beside the courthouse square.<\/p>\n
A flagpole.<\/p>\n
A faded sign.<\/p>\n
Serving Pell County with Pride Since 1871.<\/p>\n
I had seen the building before.<\/p>\n
I had never been inside.<\/p>\n
Voss pulled into the rear entrance.<\/p>\n
He got out.<\/p>\n
Opened my door.<\/p>\n
And grabbed my arm again.<\/p>\n
"Come on."<\/p>\n
I stepped down.<\/p>\n
My wrist hurt.<\/p>\n
He didn't care.<\/p>\n
Inside, the air smelled of old coffee and floor polish.<\/p>\n
The fluorescent lights hummed.<\/p>\n
A clerk sat behind the booking desk.<\/p>\n
Two deputies stood near the holding cells.<\/p>\n
Another officer worked at a computer.<\/p>\n
Every one of them looked at me.<\/p>\n
Then looked away.<\/p>\n
Voss pointed toward a chair.<\/p>\n
"Put her there."<\/p>\n
Deputy Miller guided me forward.<\/p>\n
I sat down.<\/p>\n
My purse rested on the booking desk.<\/p>\n
My government phone vibrated inside it.<\/p>\n
I looked at Miller.<\/p>\n
He looked at the purse.<\/p>\n
Then at the sheriff's office door.<\/p>\n
Voss had already gone inside.<\/p>\n
I heard him shut it.<\/p>\n
A few seconds later, he laughed at something on his phone.<\/p>\n
Miller stood beside the desk.<\/p>\n
He looked nervous.<\/p>\n
He looked young.<\/p>\n
And he looked like a man who had reached the end of what he could pretend not to see.<\/p>\n
He unzipped my purse.<\/p>\n
He removed my wallet.<\/p>\n
Then he opened it.<\/p>\n
And stopped.<\/p>\n
Source: kaylestore.net<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n I used to believe that knowing the law would protect me from people who ignored it. I was wrong. I learned that on a Tuesday afternoon in a small Georgia … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":10808,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-10809","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-sharestory"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/onesharedstory.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10809","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/onesharedstory.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/onesharedstory.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/onesharedstory.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/onesharedstory.online\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=10809"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/onesharedstory.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10809\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":10822,"href":"https:\/\/onesharedstory.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10809\/revisions\/10822"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/onesharedstory.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/10808"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/onesharedstory.online\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=10809"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/onesharedstory.online\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=10809"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/onesharedstory.online\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=10809"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nClick here to continue reading: PART 2: The Young Deputy Found Something in My Wallet That Changed the Room, but It Was the Message on My Phone That Changed Everything<\/a><\/strong><\/h2>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"