Escalation — And De-Escalation

The exchange didn’t spiral into arrest or detention. There were no handcuffs. No trespass warning. No removal from the building. But there was tension. Anyone who has stood in a government building holding a camera understands that tension. The moment when authority figures decide how they’re going to handle you. The moment when you decide how you’re going to handle them.

Eventually, a supervising sergeant stepped in. This part matters. The sergeant handled the situation professionally. Calmly. Directly. There was no dramatic showdown. No constitutional lecture battle. Just clarification.

And here’s the part that matters most: I apologized for my tone.

That moment is easy to overlook. It’s not flashy. It won’t generate outrage clips. But it’s real. Rights matter. So does accountability. If I cross the line socially while remaining within the law legally, I can still own that.

The law was never truly the issue inside that courthouse. The tension was. That distinction is important.

When I walked into the Broward County Courthouse, I did what I always do: I pressed record.

My purpose that day was simple — to follow up on a prior incident at Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport, where a JetBlue customer named Sean had shoved me in the chest after threatening to destroy my camera. Deputies with the Broward Sheriff’s Office were on scene and witnessed the entire thing, but they refused to take a report or identify themselves. I documented the entire encounter in my blog post: Cowards of Broward Run Again — This Time from a Crime Scene at Fort Lauderdale Airport 

I called the BSO non-emergency line, and that’s when Deputy G. Aluc showed up. He reviewed the footage, took my statement, and called a supervisor. He did what the original officers wouldn’t. And thanks to that, I was able to begin the process of pursuing criminal charges.

That’s what brought me to the courthouse.

As I stepped out of the elevator and into the hallway, my camera was already rolling. I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t disrupt any proceedings. I was peacefully documenting my visit, just like I’ve done in countless other government buildings across the state.

Within seconds of entering the public lobby for the State Attorney, I was confronted by a woman named Lina Duarte, the receptionist for the State Attorney’s Office. She immediately challenged my presence with the camera and told me I had two options: stop recording, or she would call BSO. I calmly told her to go ahead and call BSO.

Deputies Donna Wisecarver and Quynterra Wright were the first to arrive — not with lights blazing or sirens wailing, but with that unmistakable energy of “let’s see what this guy’s problem is.” They asked to speak with me in the hallway, and I made the rookie mistake of agreeing. I stepped out, camera still rolling, fully expecting a quick chat. Instead, I got a mini interrogation.

Wisecarver started probing, asking what my business was in the building. I gave her the polite version of “none of your business,” explaining I didn’t owe her an explanation and that I intended to speak for myself — to the State Attorney’s Office, not to a deputy playing gatekeeper.

But she pressed on, insisting the staff were uncomfortable. That’s when I reminded her: comfort isn’t her job — the Constitution is. And just to be extra clear, I told her I was there to document the process of filing a criminal complaint and that I was well within my rights to be in the public lobby of a public building.

Wisecarver decided to go check in with the staff. I tried to follow her back into the lobby — which, again, was open to the public — but she and Wright formed a human barricade. That’s when Castello arrived, with all the swagger of someone ready to drop a line from a rulebook. She told me I wasn’t allowed back in. I asked if I was being detained or if I was free to go. We did the verbal tango for a bit until she finally admitted: I was free to go — just not free to go in. Huh?

Wright went into the lobby to confer with staff, leaving me out in the hallway with Castello and Wisecarver posted up like bouncers outside a club. I repeated — calmly but firmly — that they had no legal right to keep me out. No crime. No trespass. No lawful order. Still, they held the line.

Next, Wisecarver pulled a disappearing act into the employee-only entrance. Wright came out of the public lobby, and Castello stayed glued to her post. I explained again that I didn’t owe anyone an explanation and that Castello was standing between me and a constitutionally protected activity.

Wright tried to play messenger, relaying what the staff supposedly said about how I could move forward with my criminal complaint. But she doesn’t work for the State Attorney’s Office, and I told her so — repeatedly. I asked her to move. She didn’t. She went back in. Castello stayed put.

So, I decided to escalate — the legal way. I told Castello I wanted to file a formal complaint and asked for her badge number and email. To her credit, she gave them to me without issue.

Deputy A. Castillo rolled up next, posted near the door like backup muscle — didn’t say a word, didn’t have to. His presence was loud enough. Meanwhile, Castello and Wright were still running interference like they were guarding the crown jewels. I’d had enough of the lobby lockdown and asked for a supervisor.

Enter Wisecarver, once again. She popped back into the hallway and asked if I’d gotten the forms — like we were in a DMV line and this was all a paperwork issue. I let her know, respectfully, that I didn’t need anything from her. My business was with the State Attorney’s Office, and I intended to handle it directly.

That apparently hurt some feelings, because next came the lecture. According to Wisecarver, I wasn’t listening to her. According to me, she didn’t have anything worth hearing. I hadn’t broken any laws, and she had no authority over me. But still, she kept pushing, insisting I stop interrupting her so she could explain — well, nothing that mattered.

Just when it looked like we’d be stuck in an endless loop of “listen to me” vs. “you’re not my boss,” Deputy Andre Crosby stepped in like he was ready to wrap the whole thing up with some unlawful ejection. “Want me to escort him out?” he offered. Cool-headed, right?

But Wisecarver threw on the brakes. “Not yet,” she told him — apparently they were still waiting on a supervisor to greenlight the violation of my rights.

I called it out for what it was. “You’re all acting like goons,” I said. Castello didn’t like that and accused me of being rude — and for the record, she claimed I insulted Wright’s eyelashes. Yes, really. Wright’s eyelashes became a subject of legal importance in a First Amendment audit. My response? “Protected speech.”

Crosby made another move, trying to get me into the elevator like I was being gently evicted. I stood my ground and said I wasn’t going unless I was under threat of arrest. But before they could escalate further — cue the unexpected voice of reason.

Assistant State Attorney Nikola Lajic.