I’ve been pulled over for suspicion of drunken driving, at least twice, although I don’t drink.

The first time was by a cop who was convinced I had been drinking. He was wrong. This fact only made him more determined to prove I was intoxicated. He conducted all the typical sobriety field tests in my car and on the street. I had no problem passing them. Disgustedly, he had to let me drive away. I had to keep telling myself that he was just doing his job.

A second incident took place when a parked cop saw me driving too slowly, then stopping to open my driver’s side door. He thought I was drunk and either disoriented or vomiting. In fact, I was sober and spitting out my mouthwash. I showed him the bottle of minty Act that I keep in my car. He chuckled about it afterward. I was aggravated by the accusation. But … but …

I again told myself that he was just doing his job. And this particular job duty is one that I applaud.

Drunken driving is a cardinal sin in my book. It has been the cause of too many crashes, injuries and deaths. I detest drunken drivers. So I applaud police efforts to pull these potential killers off the streets, even if it wrongly interrupts my life and rightfully angers me.

These are merely two examples of the many encounters I’ve had with law enforcement over the past 40 years. I’ve had my share of speeding tickets, traffic infractions and random exchanges with police officers in public.

My emotionally conflicted encounters with police officers popped up in my mind this past week during National Police Week. I’ve experienced several scenarios with police who had to investigate a situation with too little information at their disposal. And too many assumptions about people. In some cases, me.

Earlier last week, I interviewed an older man outdoors at Valparaiso University because he got lost meeting me downtown. He knew how to find VU so I told him to meet me there instead. We parked our cars and found a bench with no one else around. I needed only 20 minutes before he drove back to his home in Dyer.

As I video-recorded our conversation, I noticed a VU security officer driving past us. He stopped, backed up, parked his car and approached us. “Are you faculty members here?” he asked.

No, I replied, explaining the situation. I didn’t see any posted signs about no visitors allowed, possibly due to the pandemic.

“Is there a problem?” I asked the officer.

At that moment, a door opened behind us and a woman approached the officer. They had a serious conversation. He took notes. She apologized to me for the interruption. The old man and I had nothing to do with her call to that officer. He didn’t know that.

Two gray-haired men casually sitting on a bench obviously posed no public safety concerns. Still, I politely excused our presence and we walked back to our vehicles. At first I was annoyed. Then I had to remind myself, again, that the officer was just doing his job.

I try to keep this in mind during any encounters with cops. Last week served as an annual reminder to all of us.

In 1962, my birth year, President John F. Kennedy signed a proclamation designating May 15 as Peace Officers Memorial Day. The event has grown to a series of events celebrating the contributions of police officers. One of those events takes place Saturday evening in Chesterton with a performance by the Pipes and Drums of the Lake County Sheriff’s Department. The band honors fallen law enforcement officers, firefighters, and military personnel throughout Indiana.

According to statistics reported by the FBI, 46 law enforcement officers died as a result of felonious acts, and 47 died in accidents in 2020. As we know, last year was an exceptionally challenging year for law enforcement in our country. Police have been in the crosshairs of public outrage, and for understandable reasons. Police brutality and violence is not a myth perpetuated by the Black community. It needs to be investigated and prosecuted.

However, as a police chief told me years ago for a column about National Police Week, “We are asked to be a counselor, a healer, a mentor, a temporary parent, a voice of reason, the clergy, make arrests and so much more. And we are expected to do all this without emotion, judgment or feelings.”

I haven’t forgotten his sobering job description.

It’s a job I could never do. And I don’t hesitate saying this to police officers who I consider my friends. I don’t envy their role as public protector or peacemaker, especially when it involves the well-being of children.

I’ve also experienced this scenario firsthand. Two years ago, a police dispatcher’s phone call took me by surprise.

She said a police officer was on his way to our home to speak with my fiancée about the whereabouts of her two children. Two minutes later, our doorbell rang. A Porter County police officer stood on our front porch, armed with questions about a situation he knew nothing about.

Earlier that night, police received a complaint call from the kids’ biological father, claiming they were missing from his home. He told police that my fiancée and I wrongly took the kids during “his” weekend with them. Police believed him.

The responding officers didn’t know that the “children” were now adult age, and they hadn’t seen their father in years. We quickly brought the cop up to speed on the facts, and introduced him to my fiancee’s daughter. It was obvious she was a female adult, not a “missing” little girl. And her brother was attending college, we told the cop.

He apologized for troubling us late at night, then called in to dispatch to relay the reality of the situation.

“Sorry folks, I hope you understand,” the cop told us politely. “We’re just doing our job.”

Inside, I was fuming.

I shook his hand and said, “Thanks for doing your job.”

Jerry Davich is a columnist for the Post-Tribune of Merrillville. Send comments to [email protected].