Once, and it was very mundane. I was in high school, driving from my dance studio back to my house (maybe three miles), and it had been some sort of meeting, so my mom was driving behind me (busy schedules, we met at the studio). A cop pulled in between us, flashed his lights, and I pulled into a nearby parking lot (it was a commercial road). My mom followed into the lot and explained who she was. I found out later she was very angry—I didn’t see her during the actual event, since we both stayed in our cars. I was shaking, which I knew was an absurd response, but I couldn’t help it. He looked very uncomfortable about the whole situation. He looked young. I felt bad that I couldn’t stop shaking. My license plate lights had burnt out, that was all.
My dad has a story more like some of the ones you guys have shared—he was pulled over one night because his car matched a stolen car that had been used in a robbery. Four cops were yelling at him. They cuffed him and pushed him down on the curb, standing over him, shining their flashlights into his eyes. “If you just confess, things will go a whole lot easier for you,” etc., trying to get a confession out of him. “We’ve got forensics on the way. We’ll be able to match the tire treads.” To their consternation, he would only reply, “good. The sooner we get the evidence the sooner you’ll be able to clear my name.” They kept him there for thirty/forty minutes, becoming more frustrated with his lack of “cooperation” until they got some call that he wasn’t their guy. They let him go.