It became obvious very quickly that none of these officers had ever arrested a suspect in a wheelchair and weren’t certain how to proceed. While a female officer frisked Laura, another cop ran an electronic wand over Mighty Chair. The wand crackled like a terrestrial radio in a mountain pass. Every inch of the metal chair triggered a warning. The cop finally gave up and patted me down. I thought he looked embarrassed as he did so. Other officers hand-searched Mighty Chair and swarmed through Van. As far as these officers were concerned, we were terrorists, and clearly they feared we might have some type of booby traps. A big cop with a blubbery face gingerly unhooked my backpack, laid it on the ground, and opened it cautiously. Right on top was a black plastic kidney-shaped container with a tube running into it. Admittedly it was an odd shape and that tube could have been carrying wires. He took a step back and pointed at it with his weapon, demanding, “What the fuck is that thing?”

“That’s my urinal tank,” I told him. “Go ahead if you want, open it.”

He grimaced, as if he was too close to a decaying body part. Using the barrel of his gun he moved it to the side and searched the rest of my backpack. The other officers stepped back, several of them covering their mouths. “Well, look at this,” he said with some delight, drawing attention as he pulled out my cowbell. It clearly had captured his fancy. He happily clanged it several times until he was ordered to “put that damn toy away.”

A sergeant read us our revised rights. He held a card at arm’s length and squinted, then reluctantly put on a pair of tortoiseshell-framed reading glasses. “We have been authorized by the Department of Homeland Security to detain you until further notice…” No mention of the right to remain silent or the right to an attorney. Gone. The protection from self-incrimination. Gone. Instead, “… as duly authorized law enforcement agents we have the right to take any and all actions we believe necessary to carry out our orders.” The sergeant lowered the card and said in a sad attempt at a Southern twang, “’Nother words, your ass is grass and we are the lawn mower.”

This “warning” was only slightly different from the notice I’d been given by the feds. I guess we were being “detained” by local authorities until we could be “taken into protective custody” by the feds. There is something chilling about the fact that authoritarian leaders believe they need to create a facsimile legal system to do whatever it is they want to do.

There were nine officers, eight men and a woman. The patrons and some of the staff from the diner had come out to watch the proceedings. That little kid was standing in front, his father’s hands on both his shoulders, smiling and pointing at me. From the bits I could overhear, these officers had no idea how to proceed. They were trying to determine if Mighty Chair would fit into the trunk of a squad car. Apparently, they were waiting for Homeland Security agents to arrive and take us into custody. I wondered if it would be Corbin and Russell. I admit it, part of me was hoping it would be.