“I am operating under orders to search your place of residence,” the federal agent announced.

That got my attention at once; I demanded to see his warrant. “Ma’am, under the Patriot Act, if we believe there is an emergency situation affecting national security, we are permitted to bypass the warrant process.” He had a flat nasal twang that made him sound like the quintessential bureaucrat.

“I’m not involved in any emergency situations. And nothing I do affects

national security.” I put my house keys into my back jeans pocket and leaned against the inner door.

“Ma’am, the United States attorney for the Northern District of Illinois is the judge of that, and he deems that the events of yesterday evening are sufficiently alarming to require us to examine your premises.,,

“The events of yesterday evening? Could you stop talking like a damned manual and tell me why you’re here?”

The Chicago cops exchanged grins at that, but the agent continued in his flat way. “Ma’am, you vacated a house where a known terrorist was in hiding. We need to make sure you are not involved in shielding him in some way.”

“Was there a known terrorist there?” I asked with polite interest. “I only knew that a DuPage County lieutenant thought he could lock me in an abandoned mansion all night.”

“Irregardless, I have orders to search your place of residence; if you do not cooperate, the Chicago police are ordered to break down your door.” He didn’t speak with the aggressive glee that some law officers show when they can overwhelm you with force-he had a job to do; he was going to do it.

“What happened to `the right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures’?” My voice was husky with fury.

“Ma’am, if you want to challenge my orders in federal court you will be able to do so at some later point in time, but these officers”-indicating the Chicago cops, who stood stolidly behind him, dissociating themselves from the proceedings-“are here to ensure that I examine your place of residence.”

Before I could escalate the confrontation to a level where I’d spend the night as the taxpayers’ guest, Mr. Contreras erupted from his apartment with the dogs. Mitch took exception to seeing men in uniform in the entryway and hurled himself at the hall door. Peppy barked in support.

I opened the hall door wide enough to slip through and grabbed the dogs by their collars, panting at Mr. Contreras to get their leashes. When I had the dogs under control, I wanted to stay on the far side of the entryway, hurling abuse at the law with the dogs, but I knew that would not just postpone the inevitable, it would make the inevitable more intolerable. I told my neighbor to let the men in.

“What in heck do they want?” he asked.

“To search my home. According to that walking manual in the tan overcoat, they can go to any home in America, claim the owner is concealing Osama bin Laden, and enter without a warrant. And if you object, they bust down the door.”