It’s 1952, and I’m a rookie in training at the Metropolitan Police Department in Washington, D.C. I’m working with Sergeant Grossman, a field training officer. Acting on orders from the deputy chief to clear out Lafayette Park, across from the White House, we’re locking up drunks and vagrants by the dozen.

On one frequent stop at the D.C. lockup, a jailor calls out, "Hey, Sarge, remember that guy you brought in three weeks ago? He’s still here! You need to charge him or cut him loose."

Sarge is irritated. He looks over the booking sheet and finds the guy was brought in 16 days ago for "investigation of burglary." That burglary was cleared by arrest the next day. Somebody else got busted for that caper — not our guy.

"Two weeks," I ask, "what are we going to do?"

"Follow me, kid, and keep your mouth shut," says Sarge. He grabs a six-inch stack of paper from the jail office and quick-steps it back to the guy’s cell.

Holding up the paper Sarge tells the prisoner, "I got enough here to put you away for the rest of your stupid life! But I’m gonna be a nice guy and give you back to the world."

Minutes later the prisoner is in the back of our patrol car and we’re driving over the Fourteenth Street Bridge into Virginia. Once over the border, we turn the hapless guy loose. Sarge warns him about what’ll happen if he ever sees him back in D. C.

Remember, this was back in 1952. Can you imagine the legal ramifications if that happened today? The feds and lawyers would be having a field day picking over our bones.