There is one particular situation that played out last summer that I have been replaying in my head since the death of George Floyd. My wife and I were on our way out to lunch and I needed to run an errand, so I stopped to go into a store while my wife waited in the car and began talking on the phone. Several minutes later, a passerby had evidently found it suspicious that there was a Black woman sitting alone in the passenger side of a black Mercedes SUV and decided to notify the police.
The White officer responding to the call approached the situation as one of pending danger, asking my wife repeatedly whether there were drugs or firearms in the car. When I emerged from the store, and he realized that I — a White 45-year-old — was her husband, his demeanor instantly changed, and he apologized for the inconvenience.