He Had a Badge. I Had an Attitude.

Case File #043: Serving a Police Officer Shouldn't Be This Difficult

May 10, 2026

I’m standing in front of bullet-proof glass at a Prince George’s County police station. 18’-20’ away, on the other side of the glass, a 6’2”, 240-pound officer is eating. Slowly.

He knows I’m here. I can see him glance at me every few bites. Then he goes back to his meal, chewing each bite an inordinate amount of times.

Twenty minutes. That’s how long he made me wait.

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The woman at the front desk had been helpful. Almost friendly. She’d turned her seat around and said, “Hey Officer [NAME REDACTED], this guy is here to see you. Says he has a subpoena.”

Officer [NAME REDACTED] had just walked in. Uniform pressed and clean. Holding a paper bag from a local sandwich shop in his hand.

“Tell him I’ll be a minute.”

Then he smiled directly at me and sat down at a table less than 20 feet from me. Behind the glass.

He proceeded to unwrap his meal as slowly as possible before leaving it on the table and disappearing for a minute or two. When he returned, he had a cold beverage in hand.

This guy. What an asshole.

Finally, he disappeared and reappeared into the lobby with me. He even brought a napkin to wipe the corners of his mouth like he’d just finished lunch at The Palm.

“Here you go.” I said it with, admittedly, with a little too much attitude and transparent disrespect.

I turned to leave, popped open the glass doors and heard the sudden sound of the ‘whoosh’ as the door opened with a bit too much force. As I exited, I brushed by another incoming officer and headed down the steps. I was just about to put the key in my car when…

“You!”

I stopped and whipped my head around. The same 6’2”, 240-pound officer is heading straight for me. Now he’s pissed.

“A fellow officer told me you called me an asshole as you stormed out the door,” his voice was loud and accusatory.

Hmm. So it wasn’t the subpoena he was mad about. I mean, he knew it was coming. I had left a message that it was about an accident he had responded to. Standard stuff for a patrol officer in Prince George’s County, Maryland.

Before I responded, he was standing over me. Eye to eye. Well, I’m 5’7.5”, 155 lbs. More like, he’s posturing me. So close I can smell the onion on his breath.

“Well, I don’t remember calling you an asshole. I remember thinking you were an asshole,” I said, looking up into his chin.

Another officer had come to see the confrontation. Then another. I felt outnumbered. And yes, intimidated. Until one laughed out loud.

“So, you did call me an asshole,” he thundered. A vein in his neck looked ready to pop.

“No. I don’t remember saying it,” I replied, staring him back down. “I do remember thinking it.”

“I ought to arrest you, you sorry son of a bitch.”

“For thinking you’re an asshole? Will a judge really convict me for thinking you’re an asshole?”

I noticed one of the officers who’d gathered, had stripes on his arms. He walked up to Officer [NAME REDACTED] and said softly, but in command, “C’mon. You’ve had your fun.”

The situation de-escalated quickly. Thank God.

I was outnumbered, though I was pretty sure I was in the right. I was too young, too stubborn, or too stupid to back down.

It could have gone another way. Part his fault. A large part his fault.

Leading up to this event, I’d left three messages for him before this and I had made an additional visit to his station at quitting time, but he’d “already gone.”

Sure.

For this serve, I had arrived before the shift start that day.

Most cops I served over nine years were professional. One time, a Prince George’s officer pulled up behind me while I was surveilling a house. Once he saw my PI license and I explained why I’d been parked there for hours, he basically said, “He’s home. Let’s go.”

I followed him up the stairs. He knocked. Announced “Police.” When the door opened, I served the guy.

After the door closed, the officer looked at me and said, “Now get out of here so the neighbors will quit calling us.” He was matter-of-fact. Not upset. Not kind. Just, “Go.”

So I thanked him, got in my ’87 Ford Escort and popped in The Clash. I responded to Mick Jones that I should go.

Off I went.

Question: What’s the pettiest behavior you’ve witnessed?

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