My name is Rachel Martinez. Federal prosecutor. Eastern District of New York. Twelve years on the job.
I was recovering from ACL reconstruction surgery. Three weeks post-op. Still on crutches.
I pulled into the parking lot at 9 AM for my follow-up appointment. My right leg was in a brace. Movement was painful.
The handicapped spot near the entrance was open. I had my placard hanging from the mirror.
I parked. Gathered my purse and crutches.
A black BMW swerved into the spot next to mine. The other handicapped space.
Two men jumped out. Mid-twenties. Gym clothes. No visible disabilities.
No placard. No plates.
I maneuvered out of my car slowly. Positioned my crutches.
The taller one—buzzcut, tank top—was already walking toward the entrance.
“Excuse me,” I called out.
He turned. “Yeah?”
“That’s handicapped parking. Do you have a permit?”
He looked at his friend. They both laughed.
“Do I look handicapped to you?” Buzzcut flexed his biceps.
“That’s not how it works. You need a permit to park there.”
His friend—red cap, athletic shorts—pulled out his phone. Started filming.
“Lady, we’re just running in for five minutes. Relax.”
“The law doesn’t have a time limit. You’re parked illegally.”