A year or so passed after my release, and your boy finally hit the big 3-0. I had that good, certified DILF look going, you feel me? I kept up with my training, staying in prime shape so I could still knock a nigga’s head loose if I needed to. But let me stop with the self-glazing.
Remember how I installed cameras all around my Jeep back in the day? If you’ve been paying attention to my notes this far, you know I wasn’t just talking to hear myself speak. Every single inch of my vehicle was monitored.
Specifically on May 17th, this was the exact day where my entire life got fucked over all over again.
Before that happened, though, Jasmine and I had decided to move back to Florida. We wanted to get away from Nathan’s delusional-ass mother, who was still living in complete denial, refusing to accept that her precious son was an abusive devil. We bought a nice, decent house in the suburbs. As a stepdad to Blake and Lucan, and a father to little Juliet, I was focused on making sure my kids got into the best schools in the area.
Even better? I’d officially finished moving enough bricks on the darknet to pay off my million-dollar debt to Pedro and his family. I was done. No more moving bricks.
Finding a regular job with a voluntary manslaughter felony on my record was hard as hell, so I leaned heavily into online entrepreneurship using my coding skills. With all the AI developments going on, I always had remote contract work lined up as long as they didn’t run a background check. The money came in a little slower, but I was pulling my fair share.
So one day, while I was minding my own business doing some grocery shopping—
Whoop-Whoop!
“What the hell?” I muttered, looking in my rearview mirror. Sure enough, it was the cops.
“The fuck are they pulling me over for?”
I made sure to pull over somewhere safe instead of stopping on the side of a busy road. I parked legally on a quiet side street. I checked my side mirror. It was an old-ass cop stepping out of his cruiser.
Ohh, no...
the voice in my head groaned.
Now, it’s not like I hate cops. I don’t hate police in general. I know it sounds like I’m a dick-sucker for saying that, especially since I was actively breaking the law for a long time, but hear me out. I don’t hate the police. I just hate bad policing. There is a complete fucking difference. And you’re about to see an exact example of why I got stopped.
He walked up to my door and knocked on the glass. I rolled my window down just a crack—just enough for us to hear each other. Cops love doing that shit where they reach through an open window and unlock your doors from the inside.
“How can I help—”
“Roll down your windows,” the cop interrupted, his voice stern.
“Excuse me?”
“Roll your windows all the way down.”
“Excuse me, officer, that’s not a lawful order,” I said, keeping my hands on the wheel. “I can hear you just fine.”
“You clearly aren’t if you had to say 'excuse me',” he shot back.
Oh, he’s a smart-ass, this old nigga,
the voice in my head laughed.
“Officer, tell me why you pulled me over,” I said, holding my phone up. “I’m pleading the Fifth, because you’re doing the absolute most right now.”
“You didn’t signal your turn within the hundred-foot limit of the stop sign.”
I gave him a crazy look, glanced back at the stop sign, and then looked right back at him.
“Officer, that is complete bullshit,” I said. “You’re really going to use Florida Statute 316.155 on me? Is your wife not giving you any good pussy at home or something?”
The cop’s face went stiff. “Sir, step out of the vehicle.”
Oh, here he goes,
the voice in my head sighed.
Abusing Pennsylvania v. Mimms now just because you called him some names.
Before I even stepped out of the vehicle, I rolled up my windows and locked the doors behind me. I stood outside, looking at this old cop with pure indifference. I knew violating that turn-signal statute wasn’t an arrestable offense.
“Unlock your car,” he ordered.
“Not without a warrant,” I said, holding his stare.
I could tell by the look on his face that he knew I was right. He grumbled something under his breath and walked back to his cruiser. It took him about fifteen minutes just to write up a simple citation. He was deliberately wasting my time, but I didn’t give a single fuck. When he finally handed me the ticket, I snatched that bitch out of his hand, got back into my Jeep, and drove off.
Just to spite his ass, I decided to do the absolute most.
I went back to that exact intersection, pulled the footage from my Jeep’s surrounding cameras, and took out my metal tape measure. I measured the exact distance from where my turn signal went on to the stop sign, proving on video that I’d signaled way over a hundred feet in advance. I showed up to court with the footage and the measurements I took. The judge looked at the evidence and dismissed the ticket real quick.
But every single time after that, the local cops started getting all over my ass for the slightest, pettiest inconveniences. They were pulling me over for going two miles over the speed limit, or for my license plate light being slightly dim. They were targeting me because I’d filed a formal internal affairs complaint against that old cop.
And with those stupid-ass Flock cameras installed all over Florida, it was like they were tracking my plate everywhere I drove, just waiting for me to make one tiny mistake.
Bro literally got the whole Florida police department on our ass just because we insulted that old man,
the voice in my head laughed.
“Yeah,” I thought back, turning into my neighborhood. “They’re notoriously petty as fuck, and they know that shit.”
But to be fair, I wasn’t tripping at all, and they knew for a fact I wasn’t. Any time they tried to pull some bullshit or lock me up, I’d just bail myself out and beat the charges in court. Those cops couldn’t do a damn thing to me.
Or so I thought.
Once those motherfuckers realized they couldn’t get under my skin or break me legally, they went for the lowest blow possible.
They went after my family.
They started using those damn Flock cameras to track every single move my family made. If Jasmine barely tapped the line at a stop sign? Pulled over, ticket written.
Then they had the nerve to mess with Blake. My boy was just crossing the street coming home from the neighborhood park, and some badge-wearing clown stopped him. They actually threatened a ten-year-old kid with Florida Statute 316.130 for jaywalking.
To top it all off, the officer had the audacity to lean down and tell him, “You don’t want to grow up to be like your stepdad.”
Ooh, yeah...
the voice in my head hissed, cold and sharp.
They are going to pay for this shit.
Damn right they were going to pay. And after everything I’d studied, I knew the cleanest, most legal way to make them bleed.
Becoming a First Amendment auditor.
If they wanted to use the law as a weapon against my family, fine. I was about to show these badge-wearing clowns what happens when someone actually knows the law better than they do.
I bought a fresh body-camera, hooked up my phone to a stabilizer rig, and walked right through the front doors of the police department.
I didn’t sneak around. I walked up to the records window with the camera pointed dead at the clerk.
“How can I help you, sir?” the woman behind the bulletproof glass asked, looking annoyed the second she spotted the lens.
“I’m here to file an immediate public records request under Florida Statute Chapter 119,” I said, speaking loud and clear so the microphone picked up every syllable. “I need the complete Flock camera audit logs for two specific license plates over the last six months. I want every single search query, the user IDs of the officers who ran them, and the timestamps.”
Her face tightened. “I need your driver’s license first.”
“Under Chapter 119 of the Florida Sunshine Law, a citizen is not required to provide identification, state a reason, or even give a name to request public records,” I shot back, not blinking. “So no, you’re not getting my ID. Next, I need the names and badge numbers of the two officers who stopped a ten-year-old boy on May fourteenth for an alleged pedestrian violation.”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she picked up her desk phone and whispered something.
A minute later, a sergeant and two patrol officers pushed through the side door into the lobby. They tried to do that intimidation walk, puffed up in their tactical vests, crowding my personal space.
“Turn the camera off, buddy,” the sergeant barked, stepping into my chest. “You can’t record in here.”
“Florida is an open-government state, and this is a publicly accessible lobby,” I said, holding the rig steady right in his face. “Recording public officials performing their duties in a public space is protected under the First Amendment. Are you giving me a lawful order, or are you just asking?”
He gritted his teeth, his jaw working. “I’m telling you to identify yourself right now. Failure to identify is an arrestable offense.”
“Under Florida Statute 901.151, the Stop and Frisk law, you can only demand my identification if you have reasonable, articulable suspicion that I have committed, am committing, or am about to commit a crime,” I broke it down, staring into his eyes. “What crime do you suspect me of committing, Sergeant?”
He didn’t have an answer. His face went bright red while his two goons looked at each other, realizing they’d walked right into a legal buzzsaw.
“You’re disrupting the lobby,” he growled, reaching for his handcuffs. “I can take you in for disorderly conduct and obstruction right now.”
I let out a slow, cold laugh.
Go ahead. Cuff me.
These motherfuckers didn’t realize who they were dealing with. They thought I was some broke kid they could scare with a weekend in county. They had no idea I had hundreds of thousands of dollars stacked from darknet bricks. If they locked my black ass up on some bogus charge, I’d have my lawyer post my bond in under thirty minutes.
Then I’d file an internal affairs complaint, sue their department under Section 1983 for civil rights violations, and make their city insurance payout bleed. I had the money to fight every single petty charge they threw at me, and I had the cameras to prove every dirty move they made.
“Put the cuffs on me, then,” I whispered, holding my wrists up to his chest. “Take me to jail, Sergeant. Please. My attorney is going to buy a brand-new boat with your department's budget.”
The sergeant stared at my wrists, his hands hovering over his belt. He didn’t move. He knew damn well that if he clicked those cuffs on camera without probable cause, he was cooked.
“What’s with that look, officer?” I asked, keeping the camera leveled right at his eyes. “You realize you fucked up the second you ran into someone who actually knows his rights? You and I both know goddamn well it’s against the law for you to order me to turn off my camera. I came in here for public records under Chapter 119, and you’re harassing me without reasonable suspicion. Back up out of my face before you catch a Section 1983 lawsuit that strips your qualified immunity.”
The sergeant sneered, trying to scramble for some kind of leverage. “You know it’s against the law to utter obscenities in a public building, right?”
“And your ignorant ass knows goddamn well there’s a legal difference between profanity and obscenity,” I shot back, laughing in his face. “
Miller v. California
, 1973. The Supreme Court established the SLAPS test—material is only legally obscene if it lacks Serious Literary, Artistic, Political, or Scientific value. Saying 'fuck the police' is protected political speech. On top of that,
Cohen v. California
in 1971 established that the First Amendment protects vulgar language in public. 'One man's vulgarity is another's lyric.' Did you miss that day at the academy, or did you just fail the reading comprehension test?”
The two patrol cops behind him went completely red in the face.
“Don’t get mad now,” I said, looking all three of them up and down. “Y’all came marching out here trying to act gangsta with those little tin badges pinned to your shirts. You know goddamn well you wouldn’t talk this reckless on the street without a gun on your hip and qualified immunity protecting your bank accounts. Real Gs recognize real Gs. And right now, all of you are looking real unfamiliar.”
The sergeant looked like he was about to blow a blood vessel, but before he could do something reckless, an older lieutenant stepped out of the back hallway and held up a hand.
“Stand down,” the lieutenant ordered, cutting his eyes at the sergeant. “Give him the request forms.”
The patrol cops backed off, grumbling under their breath like sour children. I heard one of them mutter that I was some “sovereign citizen” and an “agitator.”
Yeah, okay. Call me whatever you want. I’m not a sovereign citizen; I’m an American citizen who actually read the damn manual.
They handed me the forms. I filled them out without giving a name or an ID, turned on my heel, and walked out the front doors with my footage locked in.
When I got back to the crib, I didn’t just sit on the video. I pulled up my editing software, chopped the footage together with the exact statute citations on the screen, and uploaded it to YouTube.
The internet ate it up.
Within two months, the channel took off, blowing past a hundred thousand subscribers. People loved watching an educated Black dude in a thobe legally dismantle small-town cops using their own rulebook. Between my remote programming contracts and YouTube ad revenue, the checks were rolling in clean.
I was making money, defending my family, and putting the department's dirty laundry on blast for millions of people to see.
A complete win-win for me.