When a Cop Pulled Me Over, I Learned What Fear Really Feels Like

Photo by Max Fleischmann on Unsplash

I was on my way to a client meeting in Indiana when I noticed an SUV following me for several miles. I was on a rural roadway on Route 30, where towns were infrequent and long stretches of fields lined the road. It was late in the afternoon and the sun was starting to set. This area was truly middle America.

I kept my eyes on the SUV behind me and wondered if it was a cop. I watched my speed carefully and figured the driver would pass eventually. But then I saw bright blue lights. He was pulling me over. I drifted over to the shoulder and parked.

A heavyset man in his 30s, with curly hair and a brown uniform, stepped over to the right side of my rental car.

“Hi officer. Did I do something wrong?”

“Well, yeah. You were following a truck back there a bit too closely. You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No.”

“Well, in Indiana you have to have four car lengths between you and the next vehicle. Is this a rental car? Can I see your license and the rental car agreement?”

I gave him my license and the rental-car agreement and tried to think of any truck I’d been behind. I couldn’t recall one.

“You know, I don’t want you to be cold in your car, so how about if you join me in the front of my vehicle?”

This request seemed odd. And I wasn’t sure what to say.

“Um… OK.”

I walked to his SUV and got in on the passenger side. He had a ton of things in there—a laptop mounted next to his seat, some type of radio, and lots of paper. He typed my license number into his computer and the program kept saying “Not Found.”

“Hmmm… that’s odd,” he said, puzzled. “I can tell that it’s not a fake license, but it’s not finding you in the system. Let me see if I can get my folks to run it.”

He got on his radio and gave my license number to a woman.

And then we waited. And I started to get nervous. What was going on here? Why did he want me to sit in his vehicle?

“So why are you in Indiana?”

“I’m going to visit a client.”

“What client?”

“Um… a company called SRH—they invented a new type of igniter for stoves.”

“Uh huh… When are you coming back?”

“Tomorrow.”

“How long you renting this car?”

“One day.”

“Is that so?”

“Um… No, two days. I come back tomorrow, but I can’t return it until the next day.”

He looked at me for a bit too long after I answered.

A woman’s voice crackled over his radio: “We’re having trouble locating this Illinois license…”

He responded, “Keep trying.”

He turned to me. “Have you been on this road before?”

“No. There aren’t many buildings. It’s pretty—”

“Desolate,” he interjected.

Now my hands were sweating. I felt a tremor in my voice. How would this end?
“You know, while we’re waiting for her to find your license, do you mind if I search your car?”

I looked at him and tried to be assertive without sounding too scared. “It’s a rental car. It’s not my car. There’s nothing in it.”

He looked at me like I was a bad school child. “So, no alcohol, no drugs, nothing that you shouldn’t have in there… no dead bodies,” he said with a chuckle.

“No… of course not. I’d really like to get on the road soon. I don’t like to drive at night.”

“I need to search your car,” he said flatly and looked me in the eye.

I thought of Sandra Bland—how quickly things escalated when she pushed back. I had just read a book that included the transcript of her interaction with the police. I could see how this situation might go the same way. If I said no, or asked for someone else, he would find a reason to search the vehicle anyway—and I’d be stuck here for hours. He’d been looking for an excuse from the start. Why else ask me to get out of my rental car? And if I said no, that would just confirm his suspicions.

“OK,” I said quietly.

He got out and slammed the door. My heart pounded in my chest, and my mouth felt dry. What if this was a dirty cop, and he planted something in my car? What if he insisted I go somewhere with him? I was in the middle of nowhere.

I imagined my car being towed, sitting in the back seat of his vehicle, and then ending up in a small jail cell in Indiana. How would I explain this to my client when I couldn’t make the meeting… “Um, it’s a long story.”

I pictured myself hiring an attorney, protesting my innocence. I could see myself looking tired and overwhelmed, my attorney trying to convince a judge this was a mistake. And the judge looking down at me, glaring.

I looked up to see the cop slamming my passenger side door. He moved slowly to each door, opened it, and looked under the seats. He checked inside the wheel wells. He opened the hood and checked the engine. Then he moved to the trunk. I’d never opened it. I had put my suitcase on the back seat.

He removed the carpeting in the back of the trunk and then paused. He got his phone out and started taking pictures.

My heart was throbbing in my chest, and I felt my face flush.

What is going on? What had he found?

He pulled out a flat, square package, about six by eight inches and two inches thick. It said “DO NOT REMOVE” in big block letters.

He looked giddy when he came back to the SUV with the package in hand.
“So, what’s this?” he demanded.

“I have no idea. I never opened the trunk, and I don’t know what it is,” I said, my voice quavering.

“Well, we’re going to open it now.”

I had seen him open the trunk, so I knew he hadn’t planted it. But my heart was about to jump out of my chest.

He unzipped the top of the package and reached inside.

I held my breath.

It was two manuals for the car.

He looked at me, visibly disappointed.

Just then the radio crackled, and a woman’s voice said: “We found the Illinois license. It’s all clear.”

“You can go,” he said. “I was looking for drugs. You have no idea the kinds of people who are transporting drugs through Indiana. They look just like you and me.”

I nodded and got out of his car.

For the very first time in my life, I’d been profiled by the police as a potential drug mule. I thought of Sandra Bland. Even though she had done nothing wrong, he could only look at her as a potential criminal. It was the same for me. But the difference was I was white.

I got back into my car, and the cop followed behind me closely for another ten miles. He was waiting for me to slip up. The feeling of terror crept up my back and took up permanent residence in my body. The tension was unbearable.

He followed me closely, forcing me to watch the speedometer. I didn’t dare drift under or over the limit. Every few seconds, I flicked my eyes to the rearview mirror. My hands clutched the steering wheel, slick with sweat. My mouth was so dry I could barely swallow. I needed water, but I couldn’t risk taking my hands off the wheel.

The sheriff finally passed me at great speed. It almost seemed like he was irritated as he did.

This terrifying experience happened because I fit the profile of a drug mule. I looked at my pale white skin and blonde hair and wondered how this might have gone if I’d been African American. How often does this happen to people who are profiled every day of their lives?

It happened to me once—and it changed the way I see every traffic stop. For some, it’s not a moment. It’s a life.