Today I finally went to pick up the police report I had to make for the fraudulent charges on my VISA. I originally went there on Tuesday but I didn’t have my case # with me so that didn’t work. I would be tempted to complain except these are all new buildings and I’ve never been down there (I never saw the old one either). When I made the report she told me I could pick it up, “next to the Courthouse,” and I don’t know why I was too embarrassed to ask for a more detailed explanation … I assumed I’d figure it out when I was down there. I did have to walk around a bit. I saw the Clark County Public Services building and the Clark County Juvenile Court building and then I saw the Law Enforcement building and that looked promising so I went over there.

I entered on an upper level that had a lot of signs talking about visiting hours and what visitors needed to do which didn’t seem right but I figured someone there could tell me where to go. I found a sort-of information desk and eventually a guy in uniform, who was probably born after I graduated from high school, wearing plastic gloves, pointed me down the stairs and there I found a huge sign that said “Police Reports” so I figured I was in the right place. I was supposed to take a number, (which reminded me of going to Baskin Robbins in the Valley on the way home from Zuma beach 100 years ago when I was a small child – my favorite flavor was bubble gum) which I didn’t do because I saw the form I was supposed to fill out and there was only 1 other guy there so I grabbed one of those and used a small desk with a computer terminal that said something about sex offender check in. (“What an adventure,” I thought.)

I filled out my sheet and by this time another guy with a handle bar mustache and wearing a suit had arrived and taken a number so I had to wait until after him. Apparently he was picking up someone to be released that way because he was informed that it probably wouldn’t happen until after 6pm (It was about Noon). He took it like a man. Oh, and the man before him, also with handlebar mustache and Harley-Davidson shirt had to talk about getting his papers for his parole officer and there was some snafu and he was trying to do the right thing and it looked like it was not going well.

When it was finally my turn the lady said, “Oh good, you have your case number,” and quickly found what I needed. She was very nice and suggested I keep copies as credit card fraud things can come back to haunt you. (Hopefully worst case scenario.) I told her I was having quite the adventure and at first she thought I meant the credit card fraud but I said, “I’ve never been down here before,” and she announced very professionally: “You’re in the basement of the jail.”

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