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Out Here in Search Warrant Country

Marc Munroe Dion on

As a resident of the urban Northeast, I'm in a very, very good position to write about search warrants, restraining orders and how to get on disability by faking a mental disorder called "agoraphobia."

To begin with, law enforcement has to ask a judge for a search warrant order, and they have to show the judge that they have good reason to believe you have a meth lab in your kitchen. It's not like ordering Chinese food.

As a street reporter for 40 years, I can tell you that most search warrants result in the officers finding something -- if not a meth lab, then at least some heroin, $17,000 in cash and a pistol with a quarter-pound of electricians tape on the handle.

Where I live, telling a friend that your cousin Stevie's apartment just got searched brings two questions.

The first question is, "Drugs?" The answer is, "Yes." The second question is, "They find anything?" The answer is, "Yes."

After that, the two of you light cigarettes and maybe talk sports for a while.

 

No one in the history of my little city has ever complained that a search warrant was served "unannounced." The other criminals would laugh at you.

Former President Donald Trump complained that the Federal Bureau of Investigation showed up at his gaudy Florida mansion unannounced. This is the sure sign of a man who is used to having servants, or at least a doorman.

"Excuse me, Mr. Trump," the servant says. "The FBI is here."

"Show them in, Julio," Trump says.

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