So, I work at the District Attorney’s office where I do lawyerly-type things (think less Law & Order and more Eli Stone just minus the dancing, hot girls, prophecy-visions, and sassy-yet-wise black secretary) and, as with the nature of the job, there’s also a lot of interaction and cooperation with the local police and detectives. Last Monday two of the detectives stop by and ask me if I want to tag along with them. I don’t ask questions (being outside = better than brief-writing), agree, throw on my suit-jacket and coat, and run outside to their SUV to wait for them.

While the detectives are often armed, even around the office, they do not often – if ever – wear bullet-proof vests, so imagine my surprise when they step outside and are both armored and armed.

I, on the other hand, have neither a gun nor a vest specifically designed to stop bullets. Indeed, all I have is my tie of Justice and my two fists – named Lightning and Righteousness.


It all looked something like this. But, you know, very much not.

I’m assured that I need neither a bullet-proof vest, a gun, nor running shoes. “Easy for you to say,” I grumble to the two armored and armed detectives as I get into the SUV. First stop? Picking up the arrest warrant.

At this point in time, I’m equal parts thrilled and terrified about this whole thing. Thrilled because, well, I’ve been studying this entire process for three years now and here I am! A warrant’s been signed! 4th Amendment! Probable Cause and all that jazz! Terrified because, well, a warrant’s been signed! That means we’re arresting a bad guy! Bad guys are not nice people!

We get back in the SUV and drive over to the suspect’s home. The detective calls in for some backup and I cry a little bit on the inside. We then arrive to the suspect’s home. The detectives get out of the car.

“So, I should stay in the car, right?” I ask.

“Nah, I’m sure it’ll be fine,” says the detective as he reaches for his gun and starts scoping out the area.

I sigh and step out of the SUV.

One of the detectives checks the back of the house. I follow the lead detective to the front door and knocks.

Sketchy short guy (SSG) opens the door. We ask whether the suspect’s home. SSG nods in the affirmative and lets us in. The Detective’s hand is on his gun and he checks out the room, looking for corners and ambush areas. I pretend like I know what I’m doing and pretty much do what the detective does. The second detective and a uniformed officer show up as the suspect steps down. He gets patted down, searched, cuffed, and the detective asks me if I want to read him his Miranda rights. In my head I clap my hands like a retarded seal and squee, but in real life I manage to play it cool and start reciting the suspect his Miranda rights.

We then put him in the SUV (not next to me) and took him to the station.

And.It.Rocked.

Well, not for him, he got arrested and – let me tell you – that does not look like fun. In fact, I think I can say that it pretty much seems like a terrible and absolutely sucky process. At no point in time was he smiling, nor do I think he’ll be jovial anytime soon. But who cares about him? For me? Totally rocked! Terrifying, but still, really awesome experience that I can’t wait to do again.

But at least with a vest next time.