FRESH YARN PRESENTS:

Whatcha Gonna Do When They Come For You?
A completely true, albeit unlikely story about the day I appeared
in an unfilmed, non-televised episode of Cops.
By George McGrath

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So I'm worried that I'm going to be stopped again, and a police car behind me causes more than the standard posturing concern. I tell my attorney what happened, and he has the perfect idea. There is a deputy D.A.. who is gay (!?) and he would be the perfect person to speak to about this. I guess his enthusiasm was based on the old expression "It takes a gay to help a gay" and not the less quoted but equally true "Gays often have a lot of issues with other gays and can sometimes destroy one another and then go out dancing."

So I take my lawyer's advice and I write this guy. (I dare not mention his name, as I am still frightened that he can, and might, send me to prison for life by pushing a button). In the letter I basically tell him what happened, tell him my recently deceased father was a NYC policeman all his life, and that I had lived in L.A. a long time, never had a ticket, donate to the library and other worthwhile L.A. causes, and that I didn't want to sue anybody, but I wanted his help in finding out what happened and get some assurance it wouldn't happen again.

A week later, he calls me. He is not a "fun gay." He is more what you might call a "creepy scary gay." He immediately informs me that there was no mistake. A warrant was issued by a judge (not the D.A.'s office) because my car was used in a crime. I asked what crime and he said "Barbara Stone was driving my car in Compton and they found drug paraphernalia on her, and she never turned up for her court date." First of all, this didn't seem like the caliber of crime required for a super duper felony warrant. But I pressed on without comment.

"I've never been to Compton and I don't know Barbara Stone." "Well, she is a prostitute and of course you're going to say you don't know her. But you're going to have a hard time convincing a judge of that in court." "But I'm gay." "Maybe she is a transvestite prostitute. Of course you're going to be embarrassed and deny it." He is not getting any friendlier.

"No one has ever borrowed my car." "Maybe you fell asleep when she was at your house and she took the car and returned it without you knowing it." "I have an alarm on the garage." "You probably were high and gave her the code or she saw you punch it in." He was quick with each of his insane "but what if" comebacks. No matter what he said, I heard "Another low-life whore-using, car lending scumbag who won't tell us where the damn court no-show is. God you make me sick."

"Believe me, no one has ever borrowed my car." "Well, this isn't a mistake. It's right here. A black Lexus." "I have a silver Infiniti." "Well, they could have the make and model wrong."

"Or they could have it right, and the license plate number wrong." "That's not likely, but I will check it out."

About ten days later, I got a message from him on my answering machine. "They had transposed two of the numbers on your license plate. I'm going to have a judge lift the warrant."

The warrant that, according to DMV records, never was. I didn't call him back. He was too scary to talk to twice.

I know this is a completely unsatisfying ending to this story. I'm with you. I'm unsatisfied, too.

I still am a little more nervous than I used to be when a police car is behind me for too long. And when I think of that day I think, "Imagine if I was less Caucasian, or a guy in a tank top and a ponytail, with laundry in my back window. I would have been put in jail. No question about it. And I might still be there, denying my wild night in Compton with the drug paraphernalia-carrying, possibly transvestite prostitute Barbara Stone."

Follow up: The tile turned out beautiful. I went with marble in the back bathroom and it is still one of my favorite remodeling touches. The Color Tile store has been replaced by a mattress store; I replaced my Infiniti with a Cadillac Catera and then an Acura TSX (It's all about the navigation system.) Jerry's Deli has been completely remodeled and Barbara Stone, as far as I know, remains a drug-addicted fugitive from justice. (Baby, if you're reading this, you know how to get in the garage. XOXO Little Merv.)

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