‘I’d Done Nothing Wrong, and Yet I Felt Criminal’

I rushed to LAX on a recent day, parked in the only space I could find in the Park One lot and trekked to the terminal, a few minutes early for my flight to Phoenix to visit my sister. As I wove through the mass of BMWs, Lexuses and Infinitis planted between me and my destination, my rather chunky thighs worked hard and I wiped sweat from my forehead. Inside Terminal 1, I paused to go to the restroom.

I was washing my hands and face when a woman with a deep tan and long hair dyed strawberry blond entered, looked at me and said, “Hello.” I mumbled a “hi” as I tossed my paper towel in the trash bin and walked out, thinking she must be from out of town. I may have arrived just weeks before from Tacoma, Wash., to make L.A. my home, but even I’d learned enough to know that strangers don’t just speak to you in public restrooms.

I dragged my carry-on to a security entrance and cleared it. I glanced quickly at the arrival and departure monitors 50 feet ahead, found my flight and backtracked a bit to Gate 1.

As I walked at a steady clip, I noticed a pair of feet trying to match my pace.

“Excuse me,” a man’s voice said.

I turned without stopping to see a fairly young man with sandy hair and glasses smiling at me.

“I’m from the DEA, and I’d like to ask you a few questions,” he said. “Would that be all right?”

“I’m trying to catch a flight,” I said, wiping my brow again with my sleeve.

“This won’t take long. You’re not under arrest or anything,” he said, flashing another smile and a billfold with credentials. “Has anyone unknown to you asked you to carry any luggage?”

Isn’t that the stuff they usually ask at the counter?

“No. No one.”

“Have your bags been out of your possession at any time while in the airport?”

“No,” I said.

“Where are you heading today?”

“To Phoenix,” I said, increasingly annoyed.

“How did you get here?”

“I drove.”

“Would you be able to produce a ticket confirming your travel destination?”

“I’m traveling ticketless.”

“Did you pay for the flight with cash or a credit card?”

“Look, I’m kind of in a rush here,” I said, my tolerance having peaked. I began walking toward my gate. The young man moved his body to block my stride.

“Could I see the I.D. you’re planning on using to board the flight, ma’am?”

“Look, who are you and what is this about?” I got out my driver’s license.

The man reached into his back pocket and, again, produced his credentials.

“Like I said before, you’re not under arrest. But we do make hundreds of drug arrests in this airport, and I’d just like to ask you a few more questions.”

He did say DEA. It sinks in that he’s a Drug Enforcement Administration agent and he seems to suspect me. My God! What’s going on? Is there some major drug bust going down here that I stumbled into the middle of?

I took a deep breath.

“How long are you planning on being in L.A?”

“I live here.”

“I wasn’t trying to get smart, ma’am. Just trying to figure out why you gave me a Washington state I.D. And how long will you be in Phoenix?”

“Several days.”

“Several days. You don’t know exactly how long?”

“Yeah, I do. I’ll be there until Monday. I’d really like to know what this is all about.”

“And we’ll tell you, ma’am. But first, my partner would like to check your bag. Do you have a problem with that?”

Until then, I didn’t know another person was nearby, a woman, a few feet from her partner’s side. As my eyes reached hers, I realized it was the woman who had spoken to me in the restroom. I felt trapped and betrayed, somehow set up as she bent down and unzipped my carry-on for all of L.A. to see.

My spirit sank as I noticed other travelers pause and stare. I saw them, in soft focus and what seemed now to be slow motion, as they transmitted their self-righteous indignation at the chunky, perspiring black woman in the middle of the terminal, her T-shirts, undies and queen-sized control top pantyhose being surveyed by a public official.

I’d done nothing wrong, and yet I felt criminal, violated--and increasingly paranoid.

What if someone planted drugs in my bag? That must be what happened. Why else would they be doing this? . . . God, please just don’t let them find anything.

I watched the woman open my toiletries bag and finger each item (including shaking my bottle of hair-setting lotion), then zip the bag shut and stand up. The smiling DEA man then said his stone-faced partner would like to pat me down.

I lifted my arms from my sides, to which he chuckled and said, “Oh, no. You don’t have to lift your arms. You’re not under arrest.”

Like I would know the difference between proper arrest procedure and an unofficial body search.

As she patted my back, my legs, arms and torso, I thought of my younger brother, a lawyer who lives in Santa Monica. He’d suffered the same type of incident last year as he walked from a movie to his apartment. Police had pulled guns and searched him as he stood, legs spread, against a police car. When all they uncovered was a cell phone, they explained he looked like a robbery suspect reportedly in the area.

I was outraged when I heard his story and relayed it to everyone I knew. White friends shook their heads. Black friends, especially black males, registered a sort of “Yeah, and so?” look, then proceeded to tell me similar and even more horrifying incidents that had happened to them, their brothers, fathers, uncles and cousins.

Now, here I was enduring the same. As I stood in the middle of LAX, my voice quivered in an effort to hold back tears, and I demanded an explanation for why I had been singled out for this search.

Mr. DEA lifted his hands in a calm-down motion and said, “I’m going to tell you. I saw you walking in from Inglewood.”

Inglewood? What is he talking about?

“I walked in from the Park One parking lot,” I said, my voice betraying my rising rage.

“Then you went directly into the bathroom. You were sweating like people do when they’re nervous about a drug transaction. Then when my partner said ‘hello’ to you in the bathroom, you barely acknowledged her and then left very quickly.”

So what? This is all about a white woman who didn’t like how I responded to her in the bathroom?

“I was done. Why would I . . . ?”

“Then you came up here and without even looking at the departures started walking back this way.”

“But I did look at the departures. That’s the only way. . . .”

When he interrupted me again, I drowned him out. I somehow realized I was free to leave. Smoothing my shirt and hair--as if that would bring back some semblance of dignity--I picked up my carry-on and began walking to my gate.

From behind me I heard him say, “Your name, again, is Rhonda McClain?”

“Yes,” I said defiantly.

“Well, Rhonda, you have a nice day.”

I wanted to race into the bathroom to wash away the shame. But now I knew all too well what an airport rest stop can lead to.