My family's being harassed by a gang of teenage thugs who are occupying a nearby park.
When I sought advice from a friend who's in the security business and ex-military, he outlined three stages of action I could take, and they all seemed plausible.
But when he described the fourth level his words were chilling.
“Level Four is when you take matters into your own hands—when you realize the law can’t protect you or your family.”
I grew very somber.
Cliff clapped me on the back.
“Cheer up, Pal—it usually doesn’t come to that. Kids want a place to smoke and hang out—they don’t want attention. They’ll most likely move on to a new spot.”
“And if they don’t?”
He got unsteadily to his feet, knowing he reached his limit. “If they don’t go—then it’s all-out war—Level Four.”
I drove him home with an uneasy feeling in my gut.
Then, I went home and phoned the police.
The young police constable was sympathetic.
“We’ll warn them and take it from there,” he said.
His colleague nodded.
“They seemed pretty defiant.”
“That was with you, “ The officer smiled. “Things usually change when we check ID and threaten to charge.”
“You’re probably right,” I conceded. “These kids were well-dressed—not gang bangers, or anything like that.”
‘Right—so they’ll likely move on.”
I watched as they returned to their squad car and drove off into the night.
At midnight, the familiar sounds of laughter and clinking bottles drifted across the street from the park.
Suddenly, a squad car appeared. As the two officers with flashlights got out, the growl of dirt bikes filled the air—and in a matter of seconds, they were gone.
My heart sank. I knew we were moving to Level Three—one more to go before all-out war.
“What is all this stuff?” I asked Cliff.
We were standing on my driveway the next day while Cliff was rummaging through his van.
“These are nifty little devices I’m going to loan you. There are night vision binoculars and a parabolic listening device—that’s for you to keep tabs on these guys.”
“Cool,” I enthused.
“They’re just a means of reconnoitering the enemy—hopefully, the motion sensor lights and cameras will deter them from coming near your property.”
“I sure hope these kids get the message.”
Cliff looked at me strangely. “Yeah, well, we’ll see if they do.”
The lights kept going off and on all night—whenever they did, I’d leap out of bed and see what I could see—but there was no one.
I woke up the next day to find all four of the tires on my SUV were slashed and the body keyed—a deep scratch that ran the length of both sides.
I had to make an insurance report and call the police.
The same young constable attended—he looked sheepish.
“Sorry you have to put up with this Mr. Lawson. We’ll step up the patrols tonight.”
For two nights, we had a respite—no laughter, no dirt bikes—no acrid scent of pot drifting across the street.
The third night, all four tires were slashed again.
This time, the Insurance lady was not as understanding. “These vandalism claims are going to affect your rates, Mr. Lawson.”
“What can I do? —They’re not my fault.”
“Maybe you could consider moving.”
Two young kids and a third on the way—and all our money tied up in the new home. Moving just wasn’t an option.
Cliff was sympathetic. “I think it’s time to move to Level Four, Pal.”