It was sometime in February that I (may have) turned criminal. Not for speeding, or drugs, or public intoxication or any of those offenses that one might expect from a terribly normal-seeming, soft-spoken, even-tempered woman in her mid-20s. No, this was something that sounded more frightening and outlandish, at least on paper: A threat to national security. I carried a concealed weapon through a federal checkpoint. And got caught.
I am in the security line of some airport in some city in the continental United States. (Pardon spots of vagueness, but I'm still awaiting possible criminal charges and don't want to further inflame the issue.) Like an ignorant cow going to slaughter, I'm relieved with every step forward, never considering what might be waiting at the front of the line. By the time I heft my carry-on items onto the X-ray conveyer belt and watch them disappear under the flaps, into the machine that's supposed to keep us free from terrorists, I have about 15 minutes until take-off.
The belt stops. Its overseer calls for a supervisor. Still staring at the TV-screen, the belt operator is smiling in disbelief. He gently nudges his coworkers, telling them they've "got to see this." I look at the man in front of me. "Is that you, or me?" I ask, assuming the former.
"It's not me," he says.
Time freezes as we await the supervisor. A pasty, balding man plods over, looks at the screen. His eyes widen, though he says nothing. He grabs a black bag and looks at the man in front of me. "Sir, is this your bag?" he asks.
"It's mine," I announce.
He looks at me, confused. "Come with me," he says. He leads me to a table and orders me not to touch him or my bag and not to make any sudden movements. I nod, staring at my bag, wishing for X-ray vision so I can prepare myself.
He starts with my purse. Picks up my wallet, which is white and has pictures of little cartoonish people that move when the wallet does. "It could be this," he says. "But it looked like a pair of brass knuckles."
"Oh," I laugh. "Those!"
He's not laughing.
Now, what am I doing with heavy, tarnished, metal, fist-fitting knuckles in my purse? I'd like to say I was on an undercover mission to test airport security. Or that I'm secretly some kind of femme warrior, less like Charlie's Angels and more like Josie and the Pussycats. Sadly, it's nothing so interesting.
I've never believed stories of "innocent" passengers who "forgot" they had a "loaded gun" in their fanny pack. Now I do. Because I forgot I had brass knuckles in my purse. My excuse? I am just dumb.
They came from a friend. It was a gift, a joke, from a boy who bought them at a flea-market-type place, for, I'm guessing, relatively cheap. This friend knew that, at one time, I'd expressed an interest in, and may or may not have acquired, a blowgun and (dull) Ninja star—items that are available at local swap meets. He thought the brass would be a nice gesture.
He was right—I was thrilled. I put them in my purse and took them out occasionally when conversation needed a boost. They roosted next to my plastic Jesus and Mary action figures. Items that some may consider weapons of a different ilk.
Had I put them in my checked baggage, you wouldn't be amusing yourself reading about my stupidity right now. Then again, if I'd remembered them at all, I would have left them behind. But they stayed in my purse, and I attempted to carry brass knuckles into a "sterile" area (Transportation Security Administration language, not mine) of an airport. I didn't know I was doing it, or that any airport could actually be considered sterile, for that matter.
And now I'm staring at an unlaughing pasty man whose raised eyebrows are demanding an explanation. I begin rambling. "Yeah, I got those from a friend, as a joke, and I totally forgot to take them out. I'm really sorry."
Slowly, he uncovers the contraband, and holds it by one ring, dangling it away from his body like a dead rat. He asks for my driver's license and boarding pass. "I'll be right back," he says, and walks over to a phone, about 100 feet away.
I now have 11 minutes until my flight. Though the cold feeling in my stomach tells me that's the least of my concerns, I'm not done trying. "Sir, I'm really sorry," I say when he returns, still dangling the weapon. "I completely forgot they were in my bag. You can have them—but I only have 11 minutes to make my flight."
"Eleven minutes?" he says, in a far nicer manner than I would expect from a man holding my weapon. "You're not going to make that."
"But you can have them," I say to the federal agent, glancing at the brass knuckles. "I don't want them." I force a smile, which must have appeared as more of a quivering rectangle, as though that will solve this whole mess. As though I'm giving him something.
He doesn't appreciate the gesture. "These are illegal," he says. "This takes a while."
The seriousness sinks in with simultaneous amazement. Illegal? Four brass circles and a bar? He walks back to the phone, brass knuckles still dangling. Other screeners glance at the weapon. Then look at me. Then back at the weapon. I think he's stalling—and I'm right. The cop we'd apparently been waiting for strides up with an I'll-get-to-the-bottom-of-this look on his face. He walks straight up to the doughboy, not making eye contact with me. They chat. When he asks what I'm doing with a pair of brass knuckles, I repeat the friend-joke-sorry story that's suddenly sounding incredibly lame.
"Those could land you in state prison," the officer says, quietly.
"Brass knuckles?" I ask, incredulously, bordering on panic. "But …"
"They're a weapon, ma'am," the cop explains. He looks me up and down. Clears his throat. "Tell you what. You seem like a nice person, you'll be on your way shortly."
He whispers something to the supervisor. The supervisor looks at me, nods. The cops ask me for my address and social security number and then suggest that I run to make my plane. I don't question them—and I don't run. Too numb. They could (should?) have taken me into custody. Had I been male and/or of another race, I don't doubt they would have.
With a mixed sentiment of luck, guilt and exhaustion, I discover that I've missed my flight. I get the last seat on the next departure and, boarding pass in hand, am relieved to have something tangible to hold on to. It's more paperwork than I've gotten from the TSA and the cops, but somehow I doubt that the ordeal is over.
Even in the moment, I knew this would be something I would one day laugh about. Having studied up on the potential consequences, that day has yet to arrive.
So I rationalize. And, not being one to admit defeat and accept total culpability, I turn to semantics. This is what I come up with: A weapon is instrument of attack or defense in combat. Something that will be used to harm someone. Brass knuckles may be most commonly used for fighting, but that doesn't mean they have to be. An object, be it a perceived weapon or a meatloaf, is only as harmful as its holder's intentions. Take cutlery. Knives can be used to cut, stab and carve people, but the (very sharp and efficient) knives I have only cut fruit, vegetables and tofu. Not even chicken. I wouldn't consider them a weapon unless I picked one up in self-defense. Hopefully, it won't ever come to that.
Brass knuckles are no different, at least to me, which is probably why it never crossed my mind that brass knuckles are illegal. I never intended to use them for illegal purposes. They didn't even fit my hand all that well, not to mention my passive-to-passive-aggressive personality. I stew, I don't strike.
So, since the incident, I've been considering other ways that brass knuckles could be used. Go to the Fantastic Indoor Swap Meet and ask to hold a pair of brass knuckles, and the nice vendor, wearing a tie and suspenders, will calmly correct you. "You want to see this belt buckle?" Wink wink. The other possibilities are endless. They'd make a fine candleholder, or a wall decoration. How about a magnet receptacle? I'm not saying brass knuckles should be allowed in carry-on bags. I'm just arguing that, outside of a federal checkpoint, I should be free to carry my candleholder when and where I want. But we're talking about inside that federal checkpoint, of course, where, if someone wants to take down a plane with a blunt object, there are certainly less obvious options than brass knuckles to sneak through security. Maybe I should just be grateful that they detected this weapon, and, presumably, saved you and me from myself.
Of course, a simple statement like "the law is the law" easily defeats my rationalization. And with the fear among flyers that still flows like recycled airline oxygen, we all know buzzwords like vigilance, terrorism, and evildoers make it hard to think clearly.
But we're also dealing with regulations that were passed quickly in response to 9/11. Perhaps abandoning such items should be enough (obviously, I'm biased). Or maybe I should be thankful that I was caught then, and not a short spell later, when the TSA increased fines for bringing weapons onto planes. What used to be a max of $1,100 can now cost up to $10,000.
"When two and a half years after 9/11 we still have loaded guns showing up, or a box cutter or significant-size knife, I think you'll agree that the actors need to be held accountable for their actions," says TSA Spokesman Nico Melendez.
Without prompting, and no back story, he tells me that with specifically illegal items, law officers who are stationed at the airport intervene and deal with the matter appropriately. That often means taking the perpetrator into custody.
"There are throwing stars and brass knuckles we recover at security checkpoints, and those are illegal items," he says. That means the TSA turns them over to law-enforcement officers who deal with them as necessary. That means criminal and civil charges could be on their way.
My heartbeat quickens. I look out my window to see if there's a mail truck outside. No one. I'm safe—for now.
Last Tuesday marked the first anniversary of the creation of the Department of Homeland Security. President Bush gave a speech. "Many of you were here from day one. Others have come aboard in the days since. Yet, from the president to the secretary to the newest employee, all of us here are tasked with a single, vital mission: to secure the American homeland and to protect the American people. There is no duty more important."
On this day, the slip arrives. It's buried in a normal mix of mail: bills, a magazine, ShopWise coupons, something from the ACLU and a notice telling me to pick up a certified letter.
It's something I'd been expecting (sort of) and dreading (truly). But there was still mystery enshrouding it. It's not necessarily a court summons from the feds, I tell myself, trying to talk my way out of a paranoia that, weeks ago, I'd earned. It could be something about a time-share. Right? Right? Studying the piece of paper, I discover in the return address spot an indication of what I'd dreaded. "US DHS." United States Department of Homeland Security. I trudge to the post office to learn my fate. Crying babies, scowling attendants, and rain mark the occasion. Time drags. And after the 10 people in front of me are served, it's my turn. I hand the smiling, leprechaun-looking man my slip, and he retrieves my package.
"Looks like they ran over it a few times," he chuckles, noting the roughed-up envelope with what looks like an ink tire tread on it.
"Ominous, isn't it?" I banter, disengaged.
"The Transportation Security Administration," he announces, as though everyone in the post office needs to know. "Is that how they handle things over there?" He tells me to have a nice day.
In my car, I rip open the envelope and read my offense: "On the date of violation indicated above, you were a ticketed passenger on XXX (airline) flight XXX and presented yourself and your accessible property for inspection before entering a sterile area at the location identified above. During the screening of you and your accessible property, brass knuckles were discovered in your bag."
Brass knuckles. Illegal, though these are just the civil charges. The TSA wants me to pay $300. But it's given me a few options: Pay it. Prove that I can't afford to pay it. Arrange an informal interview with a TSA attorney over the phone. Arrange an informal interview with a TSA attorney in person. Arrange for a hearing. Appeal.
In the Xeroxed list of regulations and options, they've conveniently cut it off at the "Appeal" part, but it seems the best option. According to the document, we can come to a compromise. I can have the charge wiped from my record and suggest an amount that I think is acceptable. It's like asking a kid to name her punishment.
What's it worth to me? That's likely going to be decided between me and my attorney. I made a mistake, and now have to face the consequences. Though, considering I had no intent to use the brass knuckles in any harmful way, ever, I think it's fair to knock the fine down a bit, and wipe the slate clean (once again, biased). I'll consider the cost of the lost knuckles (about $9.95) a down payment.