Vigilante Justice

I was an accessory today to some old-fashioned vigilante justice.

Here’s the scene:  My mother is taking me home from having lunch with her and helping her with some work things, etc.  We’re driving through a residential neighborhood, mixed with houses and low end duplexes and apartments.

Flashback: Three days ago, my mother’s new husband’s ex-wife got her car stolen from her driveway when her son left the keys in the car.  Since then, the police and apparently Detective Mom have been on the case.

Detective Mom spots a car that she thinks looks like the missing car in question (we have already followed one other car that was also THE car in the short time we spent together today).  We do a U-turn in the street, the old Buick squealing its tires for dramatic effect.  We’re hot on the trail!!

Mom pulls up to the car in question, thoroughly checks it out and determines through multiple calls to step-father that it is indeed the car she’s been searching for.  Some weird and scary guys start eyeing us from the apartment balcony nearby.  I begin to panic.  She continues to talk loudly to step-father, police, etc., about the stolen car and how she’s found it.  I am imagining us getting involved in a movie-style gangsta shoot-out and me crying and peeing myself right before getting shot like a dog.

Step-father arrives with his son (same son who left keys in the car), produces a key, and steals the car back.  Police were called to let them know to go to the house of the ex-wife to write up the police report.  I am officially a vigilante.

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