*The following is a personal account from my memory of the day. The intent of this post is to create awareness & change LAPD’s training methods. Please direct any information that may help in this effort to changelapdprocedure@gmail.com

It’s moving day. The dreaded day I realize I own way too many things. The month leading up to today has been chaotic — I just started a business and the challenges proved to test my mental, physical, and spiritual fortitude. But now that I’m moving to a new apartment, I can put all of the fear and anxiety behind me. “New life” is a gleaming blank canvas and I can’t wait to get to it. First, I have to get through the move. I spent the week organizing my things into every suitcase I own. I will conquer this move if it kills me.

The morning starts early. Some of my things still need a transition home. I wrestle my oversized comforter into a weekender duffel and roll my nicest gowns into my backpacking sack. I am ready to move into new life. The four reliable friends I had enlisted are on their way over. My game face is on.

I decided against movers for two reasons — the expense is more than this budding entrepreneur is willing to shell out, and more importantly, I am determined to practice interdependence. In my former independent life, I hesitated to reach out to friends for help because “I’m a strong woman, and I don’t need help”. But in new life, I can recognize my faults — my 5’2” frame can’t lift a fifty-pound bookshelf, among others. So, I opted to rent a U-Haul and call on my athletic friends for assistance.

It’s now 10:30am, and I Lyft over to the nearby U-Haul. The man driving me tells me a moving-day horror story, and I feel confident that I have a handle on this move. He drops me off at the U-Haul dealership, and I check-in for the 10-foot cube truck I reserved online.

I jump into the driver’s seat. The truck is wide and tall. The windows are down. I am hyper aware of my surroundings but still feel sort of mighty. This isn’t my first time driving a truck of this size, and it feels good to be back in the saddle again. I reposition my mirrors, press on the pedal, and roll forward.

My four friends and one dog meet me back at my old place. We are ready to go. I packed everything with Marie Kondo-like wisdom, so moving my stuff is not so bad. Fun, even. We lift, communicate, and carry. One of us is inside the truck playing Tetris with the furniture to make it all fit. Forty-five minutes later, the truck is loaded. We pull down the thunderous garage-like gate, buckle and lock the handle. New life awaits.

I climb into the driver’s seat of the U-Haul while my friend, Shona, pulls herself up into the passenger seat. We fuss again with the side-view mirrors. I signal and pull the truck out onto the street. Two of us small-build gals take command of this giant 10-foot cube truck. I couldn’t be more content.

A minute later, I notice a police car behind me. No problem, I was already driving the wide truck slowly and carefully — hitting a pedestrian has always been my biggest road-fear. Still, I can’t help but feel a little anxiety when I see the black and white car behind me. I tell Shona. We ignore it, instead joking about how badass we are in this truck. Four blocks later, we approach my new street. New life isn’t geographically far, but mentally, I’m moving to a different country. Despite my constant eye contact with the cop behind me, courtesy of the extra-wide U-Haul mirrors, I’m feeling giddy.

I signal right and turn onto my brand new street. I notice the cop car turns onto my new street too. Strange. I tell myself it’s no sweat because I haven’t done anything wrong. I slow to find parking in front of the new building, but the street is packed with cars — if LA traffic is bad, LA parking is atrocious. I remember my new landlord’s advice about double-parking on the wide street, so I slow to a stop.

I search for the hazard lights. The police car and the others behind it surely want to move around me. Before I find the button, I see a brief flash of red lights. Oh, are we being pulled over? No blaring siren, no prolonged flashing lights. I tell Shona, and we’re confused. I don’t think we did anything wrong. Did the officer mean to stop us? Maybe we should just get out to start moving my stuff.

I see the officer open his driver door. Okay, we’ll get some answers. If a cop has stopped us, we must have done something wrong. I’m guessing the turn-signal law for 10-foot trucks is different than my familiar one for sedans. A ticket on moving day is certainly not ideal, but I can handle it. Wait, in all this moving, did I remember to bring my wallet with my driver’s license? I quickly check my purse. Phew, it sits beneath the U-Haul receipt.

The officer still stands behind his car door. He talks into the walkie on his shoulder. He’s tall with broad shoulders. He’s got a long face and pointed nose. He’s clean-shaven, and his hair is gelled back. A small wave swoops across one side of his face. I have time to study him. He looks fresh, not weathered like the old cops I’ve seen on TV. He is the epitome of police authority. Why isn’t he coming to the window to ask for my license? We’re not sure what to do.

Mr. Authority and his partner probably made mistake. They accidentally flashed their lights, and I can get back to new life soon. Should we get out to make nice and move on? Shona and I decide the best thing is to remain in the car. We stay calm. My hands instinctively inch up across the steering wheel. I suppose I’ve been conditioned by the many police misconduct videos I watched in old life. Still, this must be a mistake.

Shona’s boyfriend, Roger, who drove ahead of us, is ready to unload the truck. He walks into the middle of the street. I don’t think he sees the police vehicle behind us. The officers yell for him to stand back. Roger’s confused and keeps walking forward, trying to figure out what is going on. Again, he is told to stand up on the sidewalk. Finally Mr. Authority yells to us to stay in the car. This all feels a little unnerving. Roger takes out his phone to film the interaction.

I look in the side view mirror, our only means of remaining informed. I see two other police cars have pulled up. I tell Shona matter-of-factly that this is serious. We are extremely confused. I must have done something. Did I hold eye contact too long with Mr. Authority while driving? Shona calms me down and says they have the wrong person. She assures me that this will get cleared up quickly.

I glance in the mirror. More cops cars litter my new street. Six, maybe seven, police vehicles park across the wide street blocking its entrance. It’s been less than five minutes since we stopped. I look ahead. The other side of the street is blocked, and a city bus seems to be trapped in the middle. Just like Shona and me. This seems excessive. Nobody is telling us what is going on. Why have we been stopped?

My eyes make their way back to the original police vehicle behind us. I see Mr. Authority, still positioned behind his car door using it as a sort of shield. Only now, he holds a gun. Not the pistol all cops have on their belts. This is a huge rifle that stands almost as long as his frame. This is a gun that requires a long body strap just to hold it. This is a gun that shouldn’t be meant for anyone, certainly not for Shona and me.

Other officers start getting out of their cars, equipping themselves with the same weapon. Shona and I are quiet. I feel small in this big, airy truck. I float up, partially out of my body. This isn’t real.

They yell at me to throw the keys out the window. I’ve never encountered this instruction, but I do as they say. They yell for Shona to move her hands out her window. I keep thinking, what if our old-school windows were up. What does window-cranking look like to cops with guns ready to be used?

Shona places her hands out the window. We look at each other, anxiety overpowering the confusion in our eyes. Still, we remain calm. As long as we are together, we’re okay. I hear a helicopter flying overheard. The police chopper’s air-cutting blades drown out all other sounds.

Mr. Authority manages to project over the chopper’s roar. He yells for me to open the driver-side door. I do so. I am told to get out of the truck. I don’t want to get out. Guns are primed to attack me. I still have no idea why. He commands me to put my hands on my head and face my back to them. They don’t even have the decency to let me look at them?

I open the door. This is it. Shona and I look at each other one last time. I step out of the U-Haul clumsily and lift my hands to my head. Are my hands in the correct position? I face forward, assumed guilty and unable to see what is happening behind me. Are guns pointed at me? I dare not look back.

Mr. Authority yells out more commands. I assume it’s him, I can’t see him. He shouts for me to walk to my left and front. “To the left and front.” With the chopper circling above, it’s hard for me to hear the officer. He’s yelling. I yell back. Please, I can’t hear you. He says to move to the left. I take small steps. “Now forward.” I feel like a monkey walking right into the line of fire. They direct me to the middle of the street to where they have a nice, clean shot. Maybe the chopper will shoot me down.

I expect a bullet to enter my body, probably in my shoulder. I’m not sure if I’ll die. I am sure that my body will go into shock numbing the force of the bullet. It won’t hurt. That’s what I tell myself. Don’t they have to tell me what I did before they shoot me? Don’t I at least deserve that? Fight the urge to turnaround and ask.

“Move to the left, to the left.” But everything I own is in a box to my right, and I’m side-stepping farther and farther away from new life. Maybe new life is no life. Don’t go there. I’m too young, and there is too much I want to accomplish.

I shuffle left and forward, my hands still on my head. “Get on your knees.” Get on my knees? This is the moment. I should probably say my prayers now. In old life I grappled with my spirituality, but now, maybe it will provide comfort. I chant the bedtime prayer my mom and I used to whisper together.

The chopper is loud. I want to escape this situation and run down the street, but I can’t. The cop yells out. I can’t hear him. If I don’t do as he says because I can’t hear him, he’ll surely shoot. Don’t they use megaphones when someone can’t hear? He repeats a little louder now. “Get down on your stomach and spread your legs apart.” My shaking body obliges. I keep my head up, chin floating an inch from the ground. Another command. What? I have trouble hearing. “Face left with your head down.” I lay my right cheek on the street. It’s warm. They haven’t shot me yet, but I lie sprawled across the street as if I’ve been hit.

My eyes scan up, and I see a short-haired woman in the second floor apartment looking out her window at this scene. We lock eyes. Can she sense my fear even though I’m trying to be composed? She turns away from the window and moves back into her apartment. Please lady, don’t go. I can’t die alone. I shut my eyes.

More muted orders. I open my eyes. The lady is back, now holding up her cell phone. As she films the encounter, she looks at her phone and no longer at my eyes. I am grateful that this will not go unnoticed, yet all I can I think is I am going to die alone on camera.

I hear more inaudible directions. With my ear against the ground, the world sounds muffled. I repeat over and over that I can’t hear him. He yells commands over my pleas. I hear the cock of a gun. What can I do?

I finally shut up and realize he is talking to Shona. I can’t make out what they tell her to do, but she recounts it to me afterward. They have her follow the same procedure — hands on her head, back facing them. She is told to walk backwards toward the deck of the U-Haul. Guns are trained on her. She is told to open the truck’s garage-gate. She slowly lifts the gate, afraid its thunder might spook a cop. Inside the truck is my old life hoping for a new life. Then she is told to walk to her left and forward so that she’s situated next to me. We’re now both in the line of fire. She gets on her knees, then her stomach. I’m glad she’s next to me again.

We lie in the middle of the street for several minutes. The chopper is still circling overhead. We ask each other if we’re okay. She puts on a brave face. I bet she thinks like me — they can’t shoot us until they tell us what we’ve done.

Finally we hear pounding on the pavement, strong footsteps. Maybe they are going to tase us instead. Shona asks what’s going on. I feel a knee push down hard into my back. Another forces my head down. They grab my right hand, twist my arm behind me, and wrap a cuff around my hand. I lift my left and they do the same. I wriggle my body to try to get up. They yank me the rest of the way. I turn to see three large guns pointed in my face.

Shona and I are separated again. An officer pulls my arm leading me to one of the many police cars down the road. I’m tossed against the SUV. “Spread your legs.” I want to say, I’m not spreading anything until you tell me what is going on. But I bite my tongue. They were ready to shoot me a minute ago.

A female officer stands behind me. It’s difficult to see anyone’s faces. She asks if I have anything that might poke her. I say no. “Please, why are you doing this?” She pats me down. Finally she says she thinks the U-Haul has been reported as stolen. She thinks? Who is in charge here? I look for Shona. I can’t find her in the sea of blue uniforms.

The vehicle isn’t stolen, I rented it for my move into new life. At least a dozen officers linger on the scene, and I don’t know who to talk to. Do I have rights? I see Mr. Authority by the truck. I shout to him that the U-Haul rental receipt is in my purse on the front seat. He fishes it out.

I am taken to the sidewalk and faced toward the bushes, cuffs still engaged. An officer takes down my information to run it through the system. Why? Am I being arrested? I haven’t done anything wrong. “She’s clean.” A couple officers near me put their hands in their pockets. They soften, even joke with me. They were just armed to shoot, and now I’m supposed to joke with them? I want to know what is going on. This feels cruel and unjustified.

I tell them what just happened was terrifying and seems unnecessary. No one has any answers or comforting words. I ask the officers if they get scared. They get quiet and reveal that sometimes they do. I wonder if I looked “scarier” or if I fit the profile of their bias, would I have gotten a bullet in my back? I’m brown, maybe I did fit the profile.

Some officers in the unit are on the phone with U-Haul. Others call their LAPD supervisors. Their once assured demeanors now appear frazzled and panicked. They scatter about, looking worried. Maybe now that they’ve seen the receipt, I’ve proven myself innocent.

A sergeant finally comes over intending to explain the situation, but she only echoes what has been said before. “Our system indicates the vehicle is reported stolen.” The sergeant tells me what just took place is the LAPD’s “standard procedure” for a felony charge of a stolen vehicle. I am still in cuffs, am I a felon?

Just as I am getting some answers, she leaves. I am left with the jokesters. They tease that I should demand free U-Haul services for a year. I’m not sure who’s at fault here. Another officer escorts Shona to the bushes by me. She’s been crying. The sergeant approaches again, slowly this time as if she’s harboring a secret. I guess she is now our point person. Her tone is gentle, but she talks in circles. She admits that, in fact, U-Haul reported the vehicle as recovered a few weeks back.

We’re confused. So, it’s not stolen? Why did we get stopped then? Finally they remove the cuffs. Shona and I hug. Are we free? Why did this happen? We press for answers.

The sergeant shows us a photo she took of the patrol car’s screen. She says it indicates the vehicle is reported stolen. Numbers and codes fill the frame, and I’m not sure what I’m looking at. My mind is unable to focus. Where’s Mr. Authority, maybe he can explain to us exactly why he pulled us over?

The sergeant attempts to explain the issue. She is personable so that we don’t get angry. She speaks in convoluted language, careful not to implicate the LAPD or her team. I glean the gist. She states that in October, the old California computer system integrated with a new system. Now when an officer runs out-of-state plates on their new system, a “CV” code next to the plate numbers appears. The code denotes that a stolen vehicle has now been recovered. Recovered, no longer declared stolen. In so many words, the sergeant confesses — the unit has not yet been trained on recognizing this code because it’s a new system. But I just signed a new lease starting February 1st. This “new” system has been in place for four months now.

Three officers stand behind the sergeant. One of them kicks at the ground. Cop cars begin to leave the scene. The chopper flies away. I still feel powerless. The sergeant keeps talking at us, so that we don’t have a moment to process. She claims that this incident has never happened before today. She mildly states that she has compassion for us. I tune her out.

So, this is all because the LAPD didn’t go through a training on how to use their own technology? Or did Mr. Authority just overlook that code, too eager to catch a criminal? This seems to have been caused by a police department error, but no one says that outright. The sergeant invites us to do a ride along with her to understand her perspective. What about what we just went through?

Are we done here? It’s now 2:30pm, and my furniture isn’t going to move itself. A couple officers tepidly offer to help move my things, then renege claiming it’s a liability. “But we can guard your stuff as you move so no one takes it.” I don’t want that, I don’t trust them anymore. I feel terrorized by them.

The sergeant attempts to appease us, explaining that they will escort us back to U-Haul so that this mishap doesn’t occur again with another LAPD unit. Is there no department-wide radio channel to ensure this doesn’t happen again with the same vehicle?

Shona and I finally reunite with our friends. I embrace the dog for comfort. New life has lost its luster. We unload the truck as two new cops sit in their vehicles behind the U-Haul, eyeing us. We’re supposed to be free, but we’re still being watched. Is this the best use of their time? I find out later that Mr. Authority and his partner are back at the station filling out paperwork.

My friends and I move swiftly. We try to forget about what just happened. They are excited about my new space. All of my stuff quickly finds its way into the new home. The street is quiet again and only two police cars remain. I collect myself and politely communicate with the sergeant. I still think U-Haul may be at fault. The sergeant says that she’ll follow us in her car. I give her the address of the U-Haul, and she walks back to tell the other officers. This feels disorganized. Shona gets back in the front seat. She’s not going to leave me alone. I drive. This time I limit my eye contact with the officer in the car behind us. Thankfully, it isn’t Mr. Authority.

We get to U-Haul, and I rip into the U-Haul representative. He understands the gravity of what occurred and exits to talk to the sergeant. I see Mr. Authority and his partner are back, flanked on either side of the sergeant. Roger documents their badge information. Mr. Authority stands silent, shoulders wide. His hands grasp the front of his belt. He shows no emotion. He notices me stare at him and looks my way. I want to see his humanity and I want him to see mine, but I immediately avert my eyes. He has successfully intimidated me.

I start to float back into my body. Shona and I are boiling. We demand answers. The sergeant seems exhausted and tells us that she’s spent a long time with us already. She acts like she’s doing us a favor and states that there is nothing more she can say to calm us down.

Though the sergeant’s answers are thin, she offers her email address. It’s clear that we’re not getting anything more from them. The cops still need to finish business with U-Haul. Shona, Roger, and I walk back to Roger’s car, defeated. The sun is low in the sky. We sit in silence for a few seconds, unsure of how to proceed with our lives, still wondering what just happened.

Who is responsible for this offense? Why has no one been trained in this four-month-old technology? Why were we assumed guilty? Why is this LAPD’s standard procedure? How did the system, intent on protecting the community, become so flawed?

What am I supposed to do with this stress I just experienced? Will these knots in my stomach settle? Will I ever trust the police?

So many questions follow me into new life. Maybe I will email the sergeant.