AN ARRESTING EXPERIENCE
The last thing an ageing, retired English businessman wants on arriving at a foreign airport is aggravation, especially after a journey of about sixteen hours. For some years, in order to avoid a large slice of it, I relied upon the Hertz No.1 Club Gold service to avoid airport rental desks – and an excellent service it is.
On New Year’s Day in 2003, on my way to enjoy my annual snowbird’s vacation, I landed at Orlando, Florida, cleared customs, and gave my reservation number to the Hertz shuttle bus driver, who duly drove me straight to my allocated car. This was a light blue Oldsmobile Alero. Carefully loading my suitcase and golf clubs into the boot and depositing my briefcase and jacket on the passenger seat, I settled down to drive away. I switched on the ignition and saw to my surprise a display informing me that the car needed a service within the next ten days. Since my rental would last not for just a few days but for more than two months, I felt obliged to report the fact to the office.
The girl on duty there could not have been more helpful. Of course I must not take that vehicle, she exclaimed, and to compensate for the company’s negligence she would supply a larger model. She issued me with the keys to a cream Mercury Sable. I found the Sable, drove it round to where the Alero was parked and transferred all my baggage into the larger car.
As I slammed the boot lid closed, I noticed that the licence plate was a Georgia tag rather than the Florida tag I would have expected. Furthermore, it was a temporary tag, due to expire on 14th January. This, of course, meant that the car would not be licensed beyond that date. It was essential that I report the facts to the office, so back I went.
This time, the charming girl was really embarrassed. How awful it was that all this inconvenience should be caused to a No.1 Club Gold client, she said. This time she would compensate me big time! And she was as good as her word. Asking me to wait for a few minutes while she changed all the contracts again, she proudly gave me the keys to a spanking new, gleaming black 2003 Jaguar saloon. With all the problems solved, I was soon on my way to my Florida home, to a good night’s sleep and to a wonderful winter of golf, bridge and easy living.
January of that year was cooler than is usual in Florida, so I was not able to wear shorts or sit reading by the pool for some days; but with a long-sleeved shirt and a light sweater, golf was still a pleasure most of the time. One Friday morning, though, when I had been there for nearly three weeks, there was an unusually sharp wind. Common sense dictated that an afternoon’s bridge would be wiser than an unpleasant three hours on the golf course.
Dressed in slacks and a sports jacket, therefore, I set off quite early to find my way northwards, avoiding the busiest roads, to the area of the city where the Orlando Bridge Centre is situated. At one point on the journey I was forced to follow a diversion in a long stream of traffic for about a mile because of road works. Shortly before the end of the diversion, a police patrol car pulled from its station on the central reserve into the traffic lane behind me. After a brief distance a second police car also joined the stream. The traffic was moving steadily and the police cars showed no signs of urgency, so I assumed they were heading home at the end of the morning shift, or carrying out some other routine operation.
About a mile after re-joining my planned route, I suddenly became aware of sirens screaming. I glanced in my rear mirror to see coloured lights flashing on the roof of the car behind me, and headlights blazing. For some reason, the police apparently wanted me to stop. Discretion being the better part of valour, I pulled off the road at the first opportunity, into the forecourt of a deserted warehouse, as it happened, and stopped the engine. Winding down the window, I was naturally intrigued to know what was going on, but I was totally unprepared for what happened next.
A loud, authoritative voice called out, clearly and deliberately:
“GET OUT OF THE VEHICLE.”
I hesitated for a moment – there was a cold wind blowing – but then I did so. What I saw took my breath away. In a half-circle surrounding the rear of the Jaguar were no less than eight police cars. Spread around those cars in various poses were armed policemen, four or five of whom had handguns drawn, all pointing at me. In retrospect, I suppose I should have been frightened, but at the time I was not aware of fear. I was shocked, yes, and terribly curious to know what it was all about. But my most conscious thought was that I was watching – actually taking part in – a Hollywood movie scene.
“STEP AWAY FROM THE VEHICLE,” the voice called.
I remained absolutely still.
“GET AWAY FROM THE VEHICLE!” the voice roared.
I stepped away, turning to face the speaker.
“FACE THE OTHER WAY AND RAISE YOUR HANDS ABOVE YOUR HEAD” the voice called in the same authoritative tone.
This time I obeyed at once.
“NOW WALK SLOWLY BACKWARDS.”
I began to step carefully backwards, my hands stretched above my head. The wind was very cold but I was not really aware of it. In front of me, as I continued to step backwards, I saw an armed policeman approach the Jaguar in a crab-like walk, gun arm fully outstretched. He threw open first the four doors and then the boot lid, leaving them all wide open. Meantime, from behind, my right arm was grasped, pulled down my back and a handcuff snapped onto it. Then my left hand. I felt the gentle but firm jab of what could only be a handgun in the centre of my back at the same time as the owner of the voice appeared in front of me.
“Now, just step into this car,” he said calmly, indicating the front police car.
“Would you please tell me what this is all about?” I asked.
“Just get into the car, sir,” he replied gently.
“I want to know what this is about,” I said firmly. “You can’t arrest me and threaten me with guns without telling me why.”
He hesitated for a second, but did not deny that I was being arrested. “This car is reported as stolen,” he said.
“That’s stuff and nonsense,” I said impatiently, “the car is a Hertz rental. This is quite ridiculous, I have a rental agreement.” My protestations were of no immediate avail.
“It is Hertz who have reported it stolen,” the courteous officer replied. Now get into the car and we’ll sort it out.”
With gentle prodding from behind and a helping hand from the side, I was pressed into the rear of the police car. Once inside, I quickly realised that I was, in effect, in gaol. There were no internal rear door controls and my legs were cramped up against a sheet steel partition that became, above the seats, a metal grille. This served to completely cut off the compartment from the front of the car. The guns were now replaced in their holsters and everyone seemed to relax. But then they would, wouldn’t they? I had been rendered harmless.
After some conversation with other policemen, one of the officers sat down in the front of the car, asked for my driving licence and began to take my particulars. When I explained that I did not have the rental agreement with me but would be happy to go back to my house with them to fetch it, he said that would be up to Hertz, whose chief security officer was on the way to join us.
About fifteen minutes later, I was joined in the rear compartment by a second officer, who removed the handcuffs from my wrists. It became apparent to me that the police officers were beginning to suspect an error may have been made, although they were careful not to deviate from their procedure. They explained several times that they were only doing their job and that they could not take chances. I, for my part, pointed out that I was not accustomed to being surrounded by masses of uniforms, nor to having guns aimed at my body.
The atmosphere became gradually more relaxed, and eventually a third person squeezed into the rear of the car. The Hertz official had arrived on the scene. My story must have coincided with information he already possessed, because quite soon after this it was agreed that I was free to leave, subject to my promise to take the rental agreement to the Hertz office in Orlando, where they could correct any errors.
This whole morning episode had lasted for about an hour and a half, by the end of which time at least six police officers had insisted on shaking my hand and apologising for the inconvenience and discomfort caused to me (their words for a false arrest). The officer-in-charge further explained that since 9/11, fifteen months earlier, they were constantly on the alert for the possibility of terrorist attacks.
* * *
I duly made the trip to the Hertz office, having first stopped off at my house for a bite of lunch. Not unnaturally, I was welcomed rather like royalty at the Hertz management office building, where the general manager, the administration manager and the security manager all greeted me in the boardroom with the utmost courtesy and consideration.
They carefully explained that the error had occurred when the duty desk clerk – the charming girl – had filed the documents after I left the office. She had inadvertently ripped up the wrong contract. They all hoped I would accept their most sincere regrets and apologies, and that I would accept the rental of the Jaguar with their compliments for the duration of my stay. In addition, before my return to Orlando the following year, I was to contact them directly and they would see that I received a similar benefit for future years, hopefully without the police intervention.
All in all, you must agree, it was quite an arresting experience for a rather naïve, sixty-seven year old, British snowbird.
