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A few weeks ago my mother called to say there was a warrant out for my arrest. She received the news from Gladys, her 85-year-old landlady, who barricaded herself inside her Brooklyn apartment and refused to come out and speak with the two plainclothes policemen banging on the door. I was mystified. I'd like to think myself dangerous. But sad to say, I'm a mild-mannered journalist, leading a pretty dull life. I live in a doorman building on the Upper East Side. One of my neighbors is a famous weatherman. I don't have a criminal record, though the address on my driver's license is my mother's--thus the "raid." I hadn't robbed any convenience stores lately, nor fled the scene after backing a Jeep into a crowd of people outside a nightclub, as celebrity publicist Lizzie Grubman did recently.
But this is Mayor Rudolph Giuliani's New York, where it doesn't take much to draw the attention of cops. This is old news for New Yorkers. They know all about Hizzonor's banning homeless squeegee men from approaching drivers and offering to clean their windshields. He's cracked down on street vendors and sent police into neighborhoods to enforce petty ordinances against everything from jaywalking to tree climbing. While the crackdown has been controversial, I can't say I haven't benefited. Crime has fallen. I don't worry about getting mugged. Fewer people hassle you on the subway. Small-time drug dealers no longer mob Washington Square Park.
Yuppie that I am, of course, I've never given much thought to what it felt like to be on the other side of the law. So when the mayor's troopers came knocking, I thought there must be some mistake. Imagine my embarrassment upon discovering my crime. One Saturday night, back in March, I strolled out of my apartment after a barbecue, a Coors Light beer in hand. Quick as a flash, a sheepish twentysomething police officer came up and wrote me a ticket. The charge: violating New York City's so-called open-container laws banning the public consumption of alcoholic beverages. Yeah, I probably should have paid it then and there. But instead I stuck the pink slip in my back pocket--and forgot about it. Until a month or so ago, that is, when some computer at police HQ spat out a list of Wanted Criminals. My name was on it.
At least I keep good company. Lots of my friends have had similar run- ins lately. One acquaintance tried to fight a $20 parking ticket. By the time she got to court, her car had been towed and impounded. Now she owes $400. Another friend was pulled over for running a red light on his bicycle. He was given a ticket for not having a horn or a bell. When ...
Source: HighBeam Research, Letter From America.(policing in New York City)(Brief Article)