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In the early 1990’s I lived in one of those hedonistic apartment complexes in north Atlanta.  It was called Spring Crossing and it was in Dunwoody.  It had nice trails, four or five pools, and was filled with young people.

It was a cold, rainy Thanksgiving–the Thursday or Friday.  I remember zipping up my leather jacket tight and putting my hands in the pockets to walk around the complex.

There were gentle hills and I was walking on the narrow private roads.  There was a creek, woods, and a bridge and it was quiet.

Off to one side, maybe a hundred yards away, I saw curtains move.  There was a woman looking out, and moving around the sliding-door walkout.  The curtains were drawn and she was peeking out from behind them.

Maybe ten minutes later as I was concluding my walk, I was stopped by two or three policeman.  It was in front of my building.  They asked me for ID (I had none).  In a physical manner they pushed me against the police car.  They took my apartment key, tested it and confirmed I lived there.

They said I fit the description of someone jiggling locks–tall, brown leather jacket, sunglasses.

I didn’t like it one bit.  The people at my apartment complex got an earful and were adamant:  this is private property, you don’t have to carry ID.

Dunwoody is in Fulton County, Georgia, population 1.1 million.

Monday morning I called to complain.  Within ten seconds I was connected with the commissioner of police.  He listened and apologized compassionately.  I don’t remember the exact word he used–whether it was “will” or “may.”  I think it was will.

He said you will come here, to my office, and make a sworn statement.

He was all business.  And that was all I needed.


EDIT:  He was Black and about 60 years old.