“But I got soaked!” the cyclist yelled. “And he didn’t stop me!” The officer turned back to Clarence. “Sir, did you know people were cutting through your lawn?” Clarence nodded. “For weeks. I tried signs. I spoke to a few. Got ignored, even yelled at. Called the city—they said funding was delayed. This was the gentlest deterrent I could think of.”
The older officer looked at the cyclist. “You’ve admitted to entering private property, ignoring signage, and doing so more than once. That’s trespassing.” The man’s jaw dropped. “You’re siding with him?”
The officer pulled out his citation pad. “I’m citing you for trespassing. You’re free to contest it in court.” The cyclist exploded in a string of protests, but the ticket was already being written. “And sir,” the officer added, turning to Clarence, “would you mind if I hung around for a bit? Might be worth discouraging anyone else from cutting through.”
Clarence nodded once. “Be my guest.” For the next hour, the officer stood by the corner of the yard. Cyclists who ignored the sign were greeted first by a blast of cold water, and then, twenty feet later, by a uniformed officer with a clipboard. The shortcut had finally become inconvenient.