Table Of ContentA SURVIVAL GUIDE
How NOT to get KILLED by the POLICE
PART I
Table of Contents
Introduction ………………….……………………………………….…1
Dedication ….………………………………………………………….…8
The Brethren ……………………………………………………….....10
Getting Pulled Over – How To Behave When You See
Those Flashing Lights In Your Rear-View Mirror ……...12
Getting Stopped on the Street – How to Behave When
You’re Approached by the Police …………………………..…19
Another Story …………………….…………………………………...24
When the Police Knock on Your Door at Home …….…...27
Conclusion ………………………………………………………...……30
Who is M. Quentin B.L. Williams? ……….………………..…..31
Introduction
“I want you to turn around, place your hands
behind your back and get up against the cruiser. You’re
under arrest.”
Click . . . Click . . . went the sound of being
handcuffed.
On a beautiful evening during the summer of
1994 in Newport, Rhode Island, I was profiled by the
police department as the black guy who allegedly
approached a white man several hours earlier that day
and, with a 9 mm pistol in hand, pointed it at him and said
“What you gonna do now, white boy?”
But there was just one problem. Okay, maybe
more than just one problem.
I had arrived in Newport less than 30 minutes
prior to my encounter with the police that evening.
Earlier in the day, when the threatening act allegedly
occurred—at approximately 3 p.m.—I was in Bridgeport,
Connecticut, debriefing my Special-Agent-in-Charge, or
SAC, about a civil rights case we had just closed out.
That’s right; you heard me correctly, my Special Agent-
in-Charge. I was an FBI Agent at the time, working out of
the New Haven Field Office and stationed in Bridgeport.
1
We closed out the civil rights case after a year-
long investigation into the alleged execution-style killing
of a black youngster by police officers in Norwalk,
Connecticut. At the end of the investigation, we
concluded that the police did not kill this young man. The
United States Attorney, along with one of his top
prosecutors and I, investigated this case together,
crossing every “t” and dotting every “i”. This information
is all in the public record.
That Friday morning during the summer of ‘94,
the U.S. Attorney and I drove down to Norwalk and broke
the news to the family of the young man who was killed.
Due to a lack of evidence in the case, we were not going
to pursue charges against the police officers. The
evidence—both forensic and eyewitness—clearly
displayed that the fatal gunshot wound was self-inflicted.
With over fifty family and community members in the
living room of the youngster’s mother, the in-person
reaction to our news was intense; full of frustration,
outrage, anger and despair. But when the U.S. Attorney
and I were done speaking to the family, there was an
incredible amount of respect and cordiality expressed
toward us by everyone in the room, although the
heartbreak and disappointment was obviously
overwhelming to the dead boy’s loved ones. It was a
difficult experience for everyone in the room that
summer morning, to say the least.
2
I offer this background to you because after my
debriefing meeting back at the office with the SAC that
day, I left Bridgeport at about 4:30 p.m.
It was a lovely Friday afternoon, and I headed up
the coast, arriving in Newport at approximately 7 p.m.
By the time I dropped off my bags and changed into a pair
of jeans, it was about 7:30 p.m. and I jetted out to meet
some friends at a party on Main Street. The encounter
with the Newport PD occurred at roughly 7:40 p.m.,
some 30 minutes before dusk.
When I was ordered to turn around and place my
hands behind my back, I immediately complied. At that
moment, I had no idea what was happening. It even
crossed my mind that this might be a joke. Perhaps the
local PD knew I was a law enforcement officer and one of
my Bureau friends coaxed them into playing a practical
joke on me? But just in case, I didn’t take any chances.
So when the officer told me to turn around, I didn’t
question it.
“May I ask what this is about?” I said.
“Shut up and get up against the car!” said the
Police Officer. Unbeknownst to me, a police car had
pulled up behind me.
“Okay,” I said to myself.
3
But I felt compelled to tell the officer something
else.
“I’m an FBI Agent and I have a weapon on me.” My
9 mm FBI-issued pistol was strapped in a fanny pack
around my waist. As an FBI Agent, I never went anyplace
without it.
The officer removed the fanny pack, which also
held my FBI credentials, or “creds” as we called them,
and put me in the back of the cruiser—again, with the
handcuffs tightly fastened around my wrists.
While detained in the cruiser, I just had to ask the
police officers again why I was sitting in the back of a
police car with handcuffs on me.
“I’m an FBI Agent and I would like to know what
is going on.”
You could almost hear the laughter inside their
heads. It’s as if I could read their minds . . . “Sure you’re
an FBI Agent! Whatever loser!”
And then they saw my creds.
When the officer first examined this fairly rare
form of identification, it was as though he believed they
were fake. His eyes said it all. Again, reading his mind,
I’m sure he thought “Yeah, right. These can’t be real!”
4
The officer looked at my creds from every angle—
even turning them upside down and viewing them from
that perspective. A lot of law enforcement officers don’t
know what authentic FBI creds look like, so how was he
to know if these were real or not? But the look of concern
crept over his face as the sudden onslaught of self-doubt
began to penetrate his otherwise confident disposition.
After I spent about 30 minutes in the backseat of
the cruiser, they called their lieutenant to the scene. He
examined my creds and then told me why I was arrested.
I let them know that when this alleged threatening act
occurred I was in Bridgeport with my SAC in a debriefing
session about a civil rights case involving a young black
man who was allegedly executed by police officers in
Norwalk. As you can imagine, the irony of this situation
was not lost on me while seated in the backseat of the
cruiser.
I told the lieutenant that it would be my pleasure
to call the Connecticut FBI office, ask the office to patch
us through to my SAC at his home, and have him tell the
officers where I was at 3 p.m. that day, the time when the
alleged act took place. As a matter of fact, I insisted that
we call the FBI office right then and there. I was still in
handcuffs, by the way.
A look of terror rushed across the faces of the
officers. They couldn’t believe that this scenario was
playing out in this way. After all, they were certain that
5
they got their guy. But it just goes to show you that
nothing in life is guaranteed.
After some additional debate, and a re-
examination of my creds for what seemed like the
hundredth time, they told me that they were going to
remove the handcuffs and allow me to get out of the
cruiser, but that I had to sit on the sidewalk next to the
police car while they further investigated. Of course, I
complied.
On a busy Friday evening, bustling with
thousands of tourists and weekend partygoers, there I
was sitting on the sidewalk on Main Street—the most
trafficked road in Newport—with two dozen police
officers and several police cruisers with flashing lights
surrounding me. And everyone was watching.
It was intensely embarrassing because the
assumption by folks in the heavily populated downtown
area was that I had done something terribly wrong. By
the time I was allowed to sit on the sidewalk without
handcuffs, there was a swarm of police officers and
cruisers encircling me. There was quite a commotion
and, although I was fully confident in the eventual
outcome—that is, that I would be released—this incident
shone a light on me in a most negative way. The
concerned looks by passersby said it all. I was a criminal.
Why would they think anything different?
6
As I expected, after 90 plus minutes, the police
officers handed me my fanny pack, containing my pistol
and creds, and said “I hope you understand,” then sent
me on my merry way.
Thank God I was an FBI Agent with a verifiable
alibi. If not, I’m sure I would’ve seen the inside of a jail
cell that night and, perhaps, for more than just one night.
7
Dedication
I’m writing this guidebook for many reasons.
But allow me to say this as a preface . . . I have the
greatest respect for law enforcement. Thank God for that
industry’s dedicated officers and the committed
members of their support staffs. Our society depends on
these committed men and women, and I’m proud to be a
lifetime member of their brethren. I consider them to be
members of my extended family forever.
I am also sick and tired of reading about the
senseless killing of people (e.g., Oscar Grant in the Bay
Area, Jonathan Ferrell in Charlotte, Trayvon Martin and
Israel Hernandez in Florida, and Robert Cameron Redus
in Texas) by rogue law enforcement officers or
individuals who are acting under the color of law. For
years, my wife has encouraged me to provide my
perspective on these issues—for if one young man or
woman can be saved by some of the knowledge and
experience I’ve acquired, it would have served its
purpose. She’s told me that I have a duty to write this
guidebook, and she’s right. This guidebook is her idea,
and for this I am eternally grateful.
I am also a new father to a little boy and a little
girl. They are everything to my wife and me. Our greatest
job is to protect them, and I dedicate this book to them
with the hope that they never have to experience a
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