Signs of Aggression

Drawing of Lady Justice

In my final year of high school, I took Law as an elective course. It was fall of 1999, and the instructor followed a consistent weekly curriculum plan of having us read a book chapter and submit and/or prepare answers to questions from the end of the chapter on Monday, discuss real-world applications and legal scenarios on Tuesday, new chapter and questions on Wednesday, applications and scenarios again on Thursday, and to round out the week, watch a VHS recording of Law and Order on Friday. The episode was usually relevant to the topics covered that week. Short answer and multiple-choice tests that checked our comprehension of terminology like tort, were given every couple of weeks. Pretty scripted.

Mr. B, the teacher, was anything but scripted. He was a very talkative and verbal processing sort of guy -- traits that endeared students to him since he'd share captivating instances from his personal life, his wife's experiences as a social worker, and stories from the local newspaper to illustrate the concepts we were covering. My classmates and I knew we were in for an entertaining, yet educationally relevant, example when he'd utter the words, "Let me tell you a little story, here." It's these seemingly off-script vignettes that stick out in my mind two decades after taking this class, not the textbook content, not even Law and Order.

In processing police brutality in America this week, I'm reminded of a class discussion in Mr. B's class regarding police. 

Mr. B, speaking to us from the front of the class: "What are the two most dangerous call situations for a police officer?"

Twenty-five adolescent white students stare back at him with blank looks.

Mr. B: "Okay, let me rephrase that. What would you say are the two scenarios in a police officer's normal, routine patrol duties that most likely contribute to a serious injury or that officer's death?"

A volley of student guesses and Mr. B saying, "No, not that." takes place for a minute. And then finally, 

Mr. B: "Roadside pull overs and domestic violence responses."

Since more than half of the students in the class were not yet old enough to drive, we needed help understanding why pulling someone over for a traffic violation would be threat number one to an officer. Mr. B explained that the possibility of getting hit by a passing car while working through the procedures of pulling someone over is a very clear and present danger. This is especially true at night. The other danger variable is if the driver has a gun or knife in their vehicle and chooses to use it against the officer. "So if you want to make a police officer less anxious if you get pulled over -- according to my police buddies --  turn on your interior lights and place your hands on the top of your steering wheel. Don't reach for your registration from the glove compartment. Don't reach into your back pocket or purse for your license. That could be mistaken as a sign of aggression. Make yourself visible to the officer and stare straight ahead until he or she asks you to roll down the window. And then, do whatever they say." 

The first time I was pulled over for a traffic violation was in the summer of 2004. I was 22 at the time and driving a 15-person GMC passenger van with the USA olympic rings logo displayed on all sides of the vehicle. My employer, the US Olympic Education Center at Northern Michigan University, had tasked me with a nine-hour roundtrip airport run from Marquette, MI to Green Bay, WI. My mission: pick up a late-arriving boxer who qualified for the 2004 Olympics and bring him back to campus to join the rest of the already arrived USA Boxing team for pre-Athens training at NMU's campus. It was daytime in the middle of the week, and I had just crossed into Wisconsin from Michigan when I heard the police siren. Remembering what Mr. B had said about roadside pull overs, I pulled over immediately, placed my hands on the top of the steering wheel and waited for the officer to knock on the driver-side window before making any movements. 

The officer approaches my vehicle. In the driver's side mirror, I see that the officer is male, white, and in his early thirties. He taps on the glass and gestures me to roll down the window. I comply and move my left hand down to press on the automatic roll-down button. 

Officer: "Do you know why I pulled you over, Miss?"

Me: "I'm pretty sure I was speeding."

Officer: His facial expression demonstrates mild shock at my honest response. He gives a small laugh and says, "Yes you were. About ten over, according to the radar. You in a hurry or something?"

Me: "Not really. Just on my way to the Green Bay airport to pick up an athlete."

At this point, the officer asks me for my license, which I am able to easily give him from my wallet. For the registration, I have to unbuckle my seatbelt and lean way over in the seat to access the glove compartment for the documents. He takes the items he asked for and then walks back to his squad car. I return to Mr. B's instructions: Hands on the steering wheel. Stare forward. Don't move.

A few minutes later, the officer returns. "Okay, Ms. Yoder. Looks like this is your first time getting pulled over, yes?"

Me: "Yes."

Officer: "Just to let you know, the speed limit in Wisconsin is lower than in Michigan. I've decided not to give you a ticket, but I do advise you to slow it down. I don't think your employer would appreciate you getting a ticket in the company car." He gives me my Michigan driver's license back, then the registration. And then he says, "Have a good day," and walks back to his patrol car. 

The most accurate adjective that comes to mind to describe how I felt after the exchange is confused. I was clearly speeding. There's radar evidence. I admitted my guilt. Why don't I have a ticket? Why is he not asking me to pay the $200 on-the-spot fine? It shouldn't matter that it's my first time being pulled over. It shouldn't matter that I'm not from Wisconsin. I deserve the ticket. I'm prepared to pay the fine. It will mean bleaching the US Olympic Education Center's wrestling mats for two months to earn enough money to cover it, but I'm willing to pay it. This is what goes through my head as I put the registration documents back in the glove compartment, as I wait for an opening in the highway traffic to pull back onto the road safely, as I drive the next stretch of highway. I resolve to not look this gift horse in the mouth too carefully. Rather, I guiltily honor the officer's request to slow it down. I stick to the speed limit the rest of the way to Green Bay and all the way back on the return to Marquette. I do the same on other subsequent airport runs to Green Bay and Milwaukee that summer and fall.

I think about that pull over experience, and I think about Philando Castile, who had a very different experience than I did when he was pulled over for broken taillights on his vehicle in a suburb of St. Paul, MN in 2016. After self-disclosing to the officer that he had a firearm in his vehicle, he was shot five times when he reached for his vehicle registration documents. The officer assumed he was reaching for the gun, not the documents. He wasn't let go with a warning. He wasn't given a ticket. He had his life taken from him -- in front of his girlfriend and child.

If it were possible to talk to the dead, I would ask the late Mr. Castile to tell me about his high school education. I would ask him if he ever had the opportunity to take a law class and whether that teacher ever gave advice on what to do when pulled over by the police. If so, did his teacher give him the same advice as me? "Turn on the interior lights. Put your hands on the wheel. Don't move until asked to. Do what the officer says. Avoid nonverbal signs of aggression." Or did his teacher have to give a different set of advice -- a set that takes into consideration that the color of his skin itself is a nonverbal sign of aggression?