Elizabeth turns to me. "We can't call the Police! She'll be deported!"
I'm not sure, but then a neighbor of the driver, a part-time Minister--the young woman driver lives right around the corner, apparently--comes up, and after asking if everyone is all right, takes one look at my car and says, "You've got to call the Police. They have to report this."
I realize this is true. I could get a ticket if I didn't. Just looking at where the two vehicles ended up, there would be no doubt in anyone's mind that I was totally not at fault; I couldn't have gotten my car further over to the right, and her vehicle was directly in front of it, facing it, in my lane.
Finally, after another anxious minute, I realized: New York is not Arizona. A cop is not supposed to ask about immigration status. When I pointed this out, Elizabeth agreed to call the cops on her cell phone. The Mexican woman looked worried, and her neighbor tried to reassure her.
I copied down her name and Mexican address from her Mexican license--she didn't have an American one--the first hint of more trouble--but she had Illinois plates!
Since Rhinebeck is a small village, the village policeman was there within ten minutes and took my license, registration and insurance card, and then asked for the young woman's. She handed him the Mexican license.
The policeman looked at it and shook his head. "That's no good." When he asked for her registration and insurance, she said she'd look for them. A minute later, she came back with what looked like the title.
The cop shook his head again. "That's not going to help much." Then he copied down our license plates, and retreated to his patrol car.
(Note: You can view every article as one long page if you sign up as an Advocate Member, or higher).
1
