The police stopped by my house today. I happened to be looking out the window when the unmarked sedan pulled into the driveway. I say unmarked because the car didn’t have the aggressive black and white badging of Bethlehem’s patrol cars, although the matte-black Challenger with the extra antenna and “hidden” lights on the grill and inside the windshield is obviously a law enforcement vehicle.
Two people got out, the tall, thick, balding one in a pea coat and the short woman encased in a uniform with enough hardware and armor to make her fit for battle.
They knew to use the breezeway door rather than take the walk to the front door. They rang the bell and the plainclothes showed me his ID, asked if they could talk with me.
Sure, sure. I held the door open.
For a mellow and safe suburb like Bethlehem, the police have a pretty significant presence and must be well-funded. We see their cruisers all the time, going back and forth from the station, patrolling the quiet neighborhoods. Their uniformed members dress like combat soldiers. They like to set up speed traps on Delaware or Kenwood Avenues coming into town.
I appreciate our town’s police for all they do, but also feel animosity towards them. They’re too aggressive. I once got stopped while driving home and the cop tried to intimidate me. Said I crossed the double yellow line. He stuck a breathalyzer in my face. When I passed the test he said I was lucky I wasn’t over the limit because if that were the case he’d be arresting me right now. No shit, Nazi, but I’m not over the limit. There’s also a legend that if you’re Black and driving into Bethlehem from Albany your chances of getting pulled over are high. Sadly, every legend has a kernel of truth behind it.
The cops stamped their feet on the stoop and stepped in. I’d shoveled last night’s snowfall, but stubborn ice still clung to the shady area outside the door where the sun couldn’t reach to melt. The three of us sat in the breezeway, the two cops filling the loveseat and me on the bench. Harriet was at the food co-op.
The plainclothes did most of the talking. The uniform seemed to be there to quell any uprising I might instigate.
He remarked that I’d recently gotten new neighbors next door.
I said that’s true.
Did I know them?
I didn’t. After being friendly neighbors with the Fitzpatricks for more than twenty-five years, Jim passed away and Carolyn sold the house. A new couple had moved in around the holidays, but I’d hardly seen them. I met the guy once when he was outside clearing snow off his car. I introduced myself. His name is Todd, his wife is Kristin. He told me they moved from New Jersey for cost of living reasons and both worked remotely. Mid to upper thirties, I guessed. Haven’t seen or talked to him since. They didn’t seem to be around much. Their driveway went unshoveled for a week after the last snow.
Obviously they had no kids. Even though our yards are connected with no fence to mark the property lines, I haven’t seen them outside at all. The snowpack across their backyard is smooth as frosting, glinting with a glaze of ice, not a footstep other than the deer that pass through. When our kids were young, our snowy backyard was trampled. We chased each other and built snowmen and ice forts and tossed snowballs and made snow angels.
So you don’t know them well?
I’d say I don’t know them at all.
Have you seen any unusual activity around their house?
I’m not sure why you’re asking me about my neighbors.
We’re doing our due diligence, the woman said.
We’re doing a follow-up, added the guy.
That’s about as much a non-answer as one could give.
So what do you say? Anything unusual going on? Anything that you’ve noticed?
Define unusual.
Well, you know, the plainclothes said. Any activity you don’t typically see in your neighborhood.
Like people coming and going at odd hours, the woman added. People that don’t look like they live in Bethlehem. Or noises. Or flags or banners hanging that you don’t recognize.
What do people who don’t live in Bethlehem look like? I asked.
We’re not trying to be antagonistic, the guy said. We’re just asking if you’ve seen anything.
Why don’t you set up a surveillance camera and find out for yourself?
The two cops exchanged a glance. They thought I was hostile—and I was in fact feeling hostile towards them. Or maybe there already were cameras. Maybe they were watching my house too. We’re becoming more and more of a police state, with authorities recruiting citizens to spy on and rat out their neighbors. But for what? What was their agenda? Did they suspect some kind of sleeper cell?
The plainclothes stood first, followed by the uniform.
Thanks for your time, Mr. Klein. He handed me a business card and said if I see anything that I want them to know about, to give a call. Anytime, twenty-four/seven.
I was agitated after they left. I felt violated—and I wasn’t even the one they were interested in, as far as I knew. And I felt violated on behalf of my new neighbors, even though I knew nothing about them. I’m familiar with the Fourth Amendment which protects people from unreasonable searches and seizures by the government. But those cops coming here to question me about the neighbors—was this another instance of the Constitution of the United States coming under assault?
It took me a while to calm down, and when my outrage faded, curiosity took its place. Was there something going on next door? I wondered. I got my binoculars and went into the garage where a window faced my neighbor’s house and two small windows on their second floor. I focused the lens on those windows. It was daytime and their shades were open, but I couldn’t see anything inside. I scanned what I could see of the backyard: nothing but a smooth field of snow. I decided I’d look again later that night when lights might be on upstairs and I could see in.
Then I stopped myself. What the hell was I doing? Exactly what the cops wanted me to do.
I’ll let you know if I discover anything.
