I felt guilty and offered up my excuse: "I didn't see you." The defense rests.

"Jus' 'cause you a cop, don't mean you can go an' plow poor folks down."

"You were jaywalking. You're supposed to cross in the crosswalks. Section P-dash-one-oh-six of the motor vehicle code. Look it up." The last thing I needed was a frivolous lawsuit from this guy.

"You just an A-train hard-ass out here gorillin' and Godzillin'.

But you ain't helpin' nobody. Hit my black ass and now I'm the damn problem?"

He tried to stand up, but he was half lit and fell to his right, instinctively putting his bad wrist down to break his fall. He shrieked when his hand touched the ground, falling awkwardly onto his shoulder. Again, I tried to help him, but he knocked me back with the sleeve of his good arm, then whined and moaned for about two more minutes.

"I'll take you to the hospital."

"They ain't gonna do nothin'. One look at me and I get the nigga chute."

"I'll pay for it. We'll get your wrist set. It looks broken."

"Damn right, it's broken." And now a crafty look crept up onto his face, filling his dark eyes like bilge water. "Think you can just plow folks down, then back over twice to finish the job. But this here kinda brutality got big economic consequences."

"I didn't back over you twice. And you were breaking the law. You can't cross in the middle of the block, buddy."

"Who cares what you say? You jus' talkin' shit an' swallowin' spit."

Quality discourse. Next, we had an extensive discussion over what to do with his Safeway cart.

"I leave it out here it gets jack-rolled by them Quality-of-Life criminals from the Nickel," he whined.

"I'm not putting all that junk in the back of my clean car," I defended.