Sometimes justice just isn’t just

Crime-fighter gets fanny pack

It was about 9 o’clock in the evening, mid-September, with the moon shining brightly and a look of hard, wet rain reflected in the dimly lighted parking lot. I was wearing dark slacks and a pink shirt with a wide paisley patterned tie. My light brown hair, which I tamed with a touch of Vitalis, reached close to my shoulders. I was everything a young man who had just started his freshman year of college ought to be. There was little evidence when I punched into work that evening that I was about to have a starring role in an international incident.

I worked nights at a large discount department store. The job was OK, the store manager liked me, and the check-out girls were pretty. The store had only one security man evenings, whose job was to collar shoplifters. His name was Mr. Clark. He was a tall, thin, silver-haired man of 50 or close to it. The law was that you could only apprehend someone once they went outside the store with their purloined items. If the subject was an adult male, Mr. Clark would usually get me to be his assistant. His technique was simple but effective. Right after the shoplifter would walk out the front door, he would slide right next to him, take his left arm, and firmly say: “I want you to come back inside with me.” My job was to take the right arm as we escorted them to the security office. It was often exciting, and I felt like a crime-fighter in the making.

Back to that evening in September: I got the call on the store phone to come outside with Mr. Clark. Standing in that wet parking lot, peering in through the front windows, he pointed out the perp — a short, stocky man with a bushy black mustache, around 30 years old. He moved like a man with sound muscles. Around his waist, he wore a large fanny pack. As we watched, he was very indiscreetly stuffing it with display jewelry items and the occasional ladies’ apparel. “Wow, this one is brazen,” I murmured, but Mr. Clark made no reply. His eyes were fastened on the prey.

Suddenly the man headed for the front door in long purposeful strides, literally walking to us. Mr. Clark made his trademark move, but before I could join him, the shoplifter grabbed him around the waist and threw him up against the door. I then tackled the man, and we both fell on top of Mr. Clark. After a vigorous struggle, and with the assistance of a customer, we finally handcuffed him and called the police.

The next day, I was called to the manager’s office. Expecting congratulations, I was instead met with a closed door while Mr. Clark set silently in the back. “That man you idiots roughed up was an Iranian sailor on leave here, and he didn’t speak English. He called his ambassador, and the company had to make a public apology after they got a call from the State Department. You’re lucky I don’t fire you both!” To quote Raymond Chandler, I walked out as hollow and empty as the spaces between stars.

I learned two life lessons that day: Be careful what you volunteer for and justice is sometimes deferred — not entirely, however; we did keep his fanny pack.