Caught Filming This Shady Lake Worth Car Dealer Accused of Odometer Fraud

By Good Citizen News Network

You know that feeling when you head out for a routine First Amendment audit, expecting the usual sideways glances, maybe a Karen or two, and instead you accidentally uncover a dealership with enough online accusations to fill a Netflix docuseries? Yeah, that was my Friday.

A Calm Start at Dave’s South End Service Center

The day kicked off nice and easy at Dave’s South End Service Center on South Dixie Highway. A guy glanced up from working on a car, asked me what I was doing, and I gave him my standard response: “Making an educational video.” He didn’t flip out. He made a phone call, handed his phone to a buddy, and that was about it. A rare calm encounter. Honestly, I thought, “Well, this might be a boring one.” Spoiler alert: It wasn’t.

Quique’s Tires: The Surveillance Speaker Comedy Hour

Across the street, Quique’s Tires decided to have a little fun. They noticed me filming from the sidewalk and instead of coming out, they fired up the ol’ surveillance speaker system and started chanting through the loudspeaker: “Smile, you’re being recorded too!” Over and over. I mean, props for creativity? I smiled. I was, in fact, already being recorded. We all were. After a few minutes of that comedy routine, they quietly closed up shop. Again, no drama. Yet.

Northwood Road: A Rare Breed of Normal Adults

Since Dixie Highway wasn’t giving me much to work with, I phoned my buddy Agustin who pointed me toward Northwood Road where a street event was happening. It was like stepping into an alternate universe where people act… normal. Vendors lined the sidewalks, live music played, dogs strolled by with their owners, people dined outside—and nobody cared that I was filming.

I met Andrea from The Space Connect West Palm, a coworking space offering podcast rooms, a cafe, and, surprisingly, zero hostility toward a guy with a camera. She let me spin a prize wheel (I won a free day pass, thank you very much) and she even scanned my press pass to check out my site. That’s how you do public relations, folks.

The Mandel Public Library had a table there too. Long-time viewers will recall they previously trespassed me from the library for daring to film in public. This time, though? Friendly faces offering me free seeds from their Seed Library program. Apparently, flowers don’t mind being filmed.

And of course, I squeezed in a quick plug when a guy complimented my Raw Naked Bean hat. (Shameless reminder: If you want single-origin coffee, click here and use code GCNN for free shipping.) By that time it was getting late and I was ready to call it a day and go home to my dog Chi Chi.

Brothers Auto Shop: Jackpot

Not yet satisfied that I’d given you enough content, I went back out the following Monday. My first stop? Brothers Auto Shop at 1502 N Dixie Hwy.Now this wasn’t a planed stop, so I didn’t know what to expect. Later that night, when I looked them up, I realized I might’ve stumbled into one of Lake Worth’s most sketchy operations—based solely on their own Google reviews.

They’re rocking a proud 1.4-star rating, with multiple accusations that make you question how they still have a business license. Let’s sample the hits:

• Nicole Heath: “After purchasing a vehicle, 2 days later it broke down and they tampered with the odometer.”

• Alberto Hernandez: “Car advertised at 127k miles. Carfax shows 190k miles.”

• Briyant Tripp: “Worst place to buy a vehicle. It’ll break down the next day.”

• Levsaa: “They lie, won’t give you your title, and don’t answer calls.”

• Ronald David: “Sells junk cars and doesn’t return money. BEWARE.”

That’s not a review page—that’s a rap sheet.

So there I am on the sidewalk, filming peacefully, when two guys in an SUV back out of the lot and immediately laser-lock on me. The driver asks if I need help. I pretend not to hear him, flip it back: “Do you need help?” The back-and-forth begins.

Driver: “You’re taking video. What do you need?” Me: “I could use some water.”

He didn’t find that funny. They hover for a bit, then one threatens to call the cops. I told him, respectfully, that it would be a waste of everyone’s time. But he calls anyway.

Since the passenger was filming me too, I figured we’d have some fun: “If you both film me at the same time, we can make it a 3-way—never done that before.”

While they made their call, I kept filming the lot—noticing multiple cars parked on the street with no plates, one with a temp tag, and one lonely vehicle with an actual plate. No police ever showed while I was there. So I moved on.

Gonz Auto Collision: Bonus Round

A little further down Dixie, I stopped at Gonz Auto Collision Center. I started walking down the public sidewalk with my monopod raised above the fence to get a better view of the property behind the fence. Within seconds a worker came out, asking the usual: “Can I help you?” He then said he was trying to understand why I was filming. I flipped it back on him with, “I’m just trying to understand why you’re asking.”

We actually ended up having a pretty polite exchange. He wanted to know why I was filming, and I said I was trying to help my dog but wouldn’t elaborate further. He asked who I worked for and I told him myself which led to him mentioning how he respected entrepreneurship. He wished me luck with my dog, and walked off. Seemed like we were done.

But a few minutes later, he returned—this time driving a truck with a passenger. The passenger got out, approached me, and pulled out his phone to start recording. I have no problem with people filming me (obviously), but at one point he positioned his phone right up in my face, which I politely called out. “See how I’m keeping my distance? You can film, just be respectful and do the same.” He didn’t argue, handed the phone back to the driver, and walked off.

Not long after, two PBSO deputies showed up across the street, parked, and simply observed. No approach, no confrontation, no attempt to interfere with my filming. For once — perfect policing.

Another individual nearby waved me off and said not to film him, but kept his distance. With no further excitement, I wrapped up and moved on.

Why Public Photography Matters

This audit started out slow but ended up delivering a perfect lesson on why filming in public matters. Had I not been there with a camera, I would’ve never uncovered a dealership with multiple public accusations of odometer fraud, title problems, and mechanical failures.

Public photography isn’t just about exercising your rights—sometimes it organically exposes shady operations hiding in plain sight.

And hey—while we’re talking about protecting your investments, if you’re buying a car, a home, or starting a business in Florida, make sure you’re insured by someone who’s actually reputable. Maria the insurance agent can help you out with auto, home, and business insurance. Visit her at MariaTheAgent.com for a quote.

Final Thoughts

Some days you run into Karens. Some days you run into cops. And some days you run into dealerships with enough skeletons in the Google review closet to scare off a graveyard shift. Every interaction tells a story, and every audit teaches someone something—whether it’s about constitutional rights or shady business practices.

If you enjoy this kind of content—real First Amendment audits, shady business exposés, and people trying (and failing) to intimidate public photographers—make sure to check out my YouTube channel and subscribe for weekly audits. And if you need great coffee while watching the meltdown, check out Raw Naked Bean and use code GCNN for free shipping.

Until next time—stay free, stay engaged, and keep filming.

What started as a basic audit turned into a full-blown circus

I walked up to the the Lucerne Avenue Post Office in Lake Worth, FL expecting a normal audit — nothing fancy. Just me, a camera, and a federal building. I figured I’d be in and out. A little filming, maybe a confused clerk, and that’d be that.

Instead, I got six cops, threats of arrest, demands for ID, a crash course in public rights, and… a heartbreaking reminder that life can hit a lot harder than any government employee ever could.

Because while all this nonsense was going down in Lake Worth, our dog Chi Chi — a 3-year-old Boston Terrier who’s been part of this channel from the start — was fighting to recover from a brutal hit-and-run.

We’ll get to Chi Chi in a second. But first, let’s talk about what happened when I walked through those post office doors.

The setup: one man, one camera, and a lobby full of people who don’t know the rules

Before anything popped off, I had a quick interaction with a woman outside the building. She asked me where she could get some food. I pointed her to a bar around the corner that serves food and kept filming.

I took a few shots of the exterior, then walked into the post office. Less than a minute later, a postal worker was already alerting his coworkers that I had a camera. That’s all it takes these days — you walk in quietly, you don’t say a word, and boom: they act like it’s a stickup.

I stayed back, calmly filming. And sure enough — I found Poster 7, the same one they always pretend doesn’t exist. Right there on the wall.

A few minutes in, a female clerk calls out that this is a federal building and that filming isn’t allowed. I sarcastically thank her for the info — and just like that, every head in the lobby snaps toward me like I just yelled “bomb.”

Things escalated fast.

The lobby melts down

A guy near the second window turns around and tells me I better not be recording him or he’ll take my camera. Yeah — he threatens to steal my camera on federal property… because I might be breaking the rules?

I told him taking my camera would be a crime — because it would.

Then the clerk at the window announces they’ve already called the police. It’s like a fire alarm — suddenly, everyone’s freaking out.

A manager tries to get involved, asking if I need help. I say no. He says don’t disturb customers. I remind him they’re the ones approaching me.

A woman in line says the post office is public space. She gets it. Another guy — who says he’s a journalist — tries to grab my camera while yelling that I can’t film him. The irony is thicker than concrete.

Then the real show starts. One guy asks what I’m doing. I tell him the truth: I make educational videos about public rights. I point to Poster 7. I explain how it works. Some listen. Some argue. Some film me while insisting I can’t film them.

I remind them that they’re being filmed by USPS cameras the moment they walk in the door. They don’t seem to care about those cameras; only mine.

But slowly, a few people start to understand. One guy gives me a fist bump. Another says he supports the First Amendment. One woman wishes me luck as she walks out.

And just when it starts to settle down… the cops show up.

Education is coming… or so I thought

I’m inside filming through the window when Deputy Sheriff M. Bradford #24637 arrives. I say out loud, “Education is coming.” Because it is.

Right behind her: Deputy A. Williams # 34315. Then Deputy Bundrick #21410. And later, three more. Yeah — six total!

Bradford walks up and asks what I’m doing. I tell her she can see what I’m doing. She tells me I need permission from the postmaster to record. I tell her I don’t. She says it’s on their website. I point her to Poster 7. She tells me Poster 7 “only applies to the outside of the building.”

Come on!

I tell her she’s ignorant and that she should actually read the poster. She tells me to “step over there.” I say I’m in a public space. She insists. I hold my ground.

At the same time, I believe Deputy Sheriff A. Williams is trying to get a postal worker to trespass me. The guy tells me I need to leave if I’m not buying anything. I point to Poster 7 and explain that it literally says I can film.

Williams says I’m trespassing and that I’ll be arrested if I don’t leave. I ask if that’s a threat. She says yes. So I start walking toward the exit.

Then she demands my ID.

One man steps up — right in front of the cops

While I was outside dealing with Deputy Williams and Officer Bradford, one of the earlier customers came out — the guy in the black shirt who had been supportive inside. He walked right up to me, looked the cops dead in the eye, and shook my hand.

No hesitation. No fear. Just a simple, powerful gesture of support.

He thanked me again for what I was doing. Said the First Amendment matters. And walked off.

It might not seem like much to some people, but when you’re surrounded by cops, being threatened with arrest, and dealing with a wave of ignorance — a handshake like that hits different.

“Are you detaining me?”

Outside, she follows me and demands ID. I ask, “What crime have I committed?” She says she’s trespassing me. I say, “I left.” She presses. I ask again: “Am I being detained?”

She doesn’t answer.

Then comes Sergeant J. Navarro #4049. I ask him: “Am I being detained?” He says yes, “just for a second.” I press harder. He says he wants to talk to the officer first.

Eventually, he admits I don’t have to provide ID. I turn to Williams and say, “You hear that? Then piss off.”

She walks past me and says “bye.”

I tell her to go fuck herself.

Because freedom of speech still exists.

Filming the fallout

The officers slowly start peeling off. I film the walk of shame. I catch an open laptop in Deputy Casteleiro’s patrol car and film it. He slams it shut. I remind him it’s probably policy to do that anyway.

They gather in a private parking lot across the street talking about lunch or whatever. I get B-roll across the street for my outro.

A van labeled The Admiral Plumber pulls up to a red light. The driver sees me filming and gives me a thumbs up. At least someone gets it.

A woman. A memory. And a flash of what we’ve lost

Down the block, I run into the woman from earlier — the one who asked me for directions. She’s still stranded. An Uber driver ditched her.

While I’m talking to her, another woman walks up and asks what I’m filming. I tell her it’s educational content — I’m showing how people react when they see someone exercising their rights.

She gets it. We talk about how the weather’s great. She tells me she’s lived here 15 years. I say I’ve been here 47.

Then she starts talking about Fort Lauderdale. The Elbow Room. The beach. Being 16 and free.

And just then, Deputy Casteleiro drives by again — this time filming me with his phone.

I tell him to get lost.

The woman laughs and asks if he’s a friend. I tell her no — just another public servant who doesn’t like the citizens asserting their rights.

We talk about how this country changed after 9/11. About how people gave up their freedoms for the illusion of safety. She nods. She gets it.

But this audit — this one’s for Chi Chi

I filmed this video while holding something heavy.

Chi Chi is our 3-year-old Boston Terrier. She’s been with us since the beginning. Some of you even know her — she was in Dog Park Karen Gets Educated, this channel’s very first audit. She was there to provide police backup when the crazy guy who hates Jews took out several mailboxes and drove into the canal.

She’s sweet. She’s fearless. She swims. She rides bikes with us. She loves everyone — big dogs, small dogs, strangers, kids.

But a few days ago, an AC tech came to fix our unit and didn’t latch the gate.

We didn’t notice. The next morning, we let the dogs out like always. The gate was open. Chi Chi got out, and was hit by a speeding Hummer.

The driver never stopped. Chi Chi ran home — screaming in pain — on a shattered leg. She had a broken humerus and massive internal bleeding. We rushed her to Access Specialty Animal Hospital.

She needed emergency surgery and a blood transfusion. The bill is $20,000.

We want to blame the driver. We want to blame the tech. But at the end of the day, we blame ourselves. We should’ve checked the gate. That’s on us. And it kills us.

I’m not asking for coffee. I’m not plugging a sponsor.

If you want to help, call the animal hospital directly and make a confidential payment toward Chi Chi’s care:

Access Specialty Animal Hospital – Palm Beach County

(561) 774-8855

If you can’t donate, sharing this helps. And if you’ve met Chi Chi — in real life — leave a comment and let people know what kind of dog she really is.

Legal Disclaimer

All individuals in this video were filmed in public, where no reasonable expectation of privacy exists. This video was filmed in publicly accessible areas, and all interactions shown are matters of public interest protected by the First Amendment.

Business Owner Confronts Me for Filming — Then Calls the Cops | Surprise Ending

I chose this spot at random. Just pulled up on Dixie Highway in Lantana, Florida, and started filming from the public sidewalk. No big plan. No script. Just exercising my First Amendment right to record in public. But within sixty seconds, I had company. Four people emerged from the auto shop, led by a man who introduced himself as Pedro.

Now, here’s the twist: Pedro isn’t his real name. I found out later he was actually Kevin, one of the shop’s owners. But for the moment, we’ll go with Pedro.

He wanted to know what I was doing. Why I was recording. I told him I couldn’t say. That I was working on something. He asked again, and again, I gave him the same answer. That’s when he told me I was on his property. I pointed to the ground and reminded him I was on a public sidewalk. Then he told me I couldn’t record. I pointed right back at his building’s security cameras and asked him if he planned to stop recording too.

Pedro wasn’t happy. But one of his brothers came out and tried to de-escalate, suggesting he walk away. I encouraged Pedro to take his brother’s advice. But instead, Pedro turned to me and asked, “Are you here to kill me?” I didn’t even get a chance to respond before he followed that up with, “I already know,” and walked off, dialing 911.

While Pedro was on the phone with dispatch, I kept talking with his brother. I explained that I make educational videos about public photography and our rights in public spaces. I mentioned the irony that calling the police on someone with a camera only ensures more cameras will show up — because officers wear body cams. He didn’t seem sold on the idea but stayed calm.

When I finished filming that angle, I moved around to the front of the shop. Pedro followed me there after wrapping up his call. I reminded him he’d offered to give me a tour. He said he would, but only if I told him what I wanted. I told him I didn’t want him wearing shoes while talking to me. To my surprise, he actually took off one of his shoes. I told him to take off the other. He didn’t.

We kept talking. I said I was just taking pictures in public. He said I should’ve come and explained myself. I told him this was a public sidewalk. He countered that he didn’t feel safe, that this was Dixie Highway and there were a lot of crazy people. He pointed to the sign and said I could just look them up on Sunbiz.

So later, I did. And it turned out the name and phone number on the sign didn’t match the business info on Sunbiz. A later conversation with one of the other owners revealed the reason: the city wants them to get a permit before they can update the sign. So it wasn’t deception—just bureaucracy.

Back in the moment, Pedro threw out the classic false equivalency: “How would you like it if I came to your house and recorded?” I asked him if he lived there. He said no. I reminded him again: this isn’t your house. This is public.

He told me again that he didn’t feel safe. I pointed to his security cameras. He claimed they didn’t record the street, just the shop. On a later return visit, I got to see the camera monitor. Not only do his cameras record the street, they capture the sidewalk and even a portion of the road.

That’s when Officer T. Simmons from the Lantana Police Department showed up. Before he even got out of the car, I told Pedro he wasn’t going to get my ID and I wasn’t going to be stopped.

When Simmons approached, he asked if I was filming for YouTube or Instagram. I respectfully told him I didn’t want to answer any questions. He didn’t press. That alone earned my respect.

Simmons turned to Pedro and asked what was going on. Pedro repeated his story—that I just showed up with a camera and he didn’t know who I was. He also claimed he didn’t feel safe and said he was worried I might come back later and shoot him. Not with a camera this time—with a gun.

Simmons asked if I had gone inside the business. Pedro said no. That was all Simmons needed. He explained that I was on public property and that I had every right to film. He even pointed out that he was wearing a body cam and recording. Pedro tried to say that was different, because he knew Simmons was a police officer.

Simmons responded perfectly: knowing who someone is doesn’t change what the law says.

He brought up Google Maps. He brought up real estate agents taking pictures of homes. He calmly explained that it’s all legal. He acknowledged Pedro’s discomfort but reminded him that discomfort doesn’t override the Constitution.

“Weird isn’t illegal,” Simmons said. And he was right.

Pedro eventually apologized. Simmons told him again that there was nothing illegal about what I was doing, and unless I entered the property, there was no action to take. That’s when his backup officer arrived.

Pedro turned back to me, still repeating that he didn’t know who I was. He said if I had just come inside and introduced myself, he would have shown me the shop. I told him law enforcement isn’t here to make people comfortable—they’re here to enforce the law. Simmons pulled Pedro aside for a private chat. I later obtained the body cam footage of that conversation through a public records request.

While they talked, I kept filming. I got shots of the patrol vehicles and circled around the property. Simmons came back and told Pedro again that his best option was to ignore me and make the video boring.

After the officers left, I returned to the side of the building and saw Pedro talking to what looked like his parts distributor. I asked if he wanted to give me that tour now. He told me to come back tomorrow. And bring lunch.

We continued to chat. He was still holding on to the idea that I should have explained myself. He reiterated again that he didn’t know who I was and that I could be dangerous. I reminded him: I have a camera and a microphone. Not a weapon.

I went home, looked up the business on Sunbiz, and tried calling the number listed on the sign. The line was busy. So I showed up in person the next day.

Pedro kept his word. He gave me a brief tour of some of the projects he was working on. Then we went to lunch. His treat. We ate at a local Guatemalan restaurant called El Pueblo Chapin. It was excellent. The food was flavorful, the staff was welcoming, and the conversation was surprisingly relaxed.

This isn’t how most audits end. And that’s the point.

Reflections on the Encounter

Not every audit is about confrontation. Sometimes it’s about clarity.

Pedro didn’t understand the law. That much was clear. His fear, while not legally grounded, was real to him. And that fear led him to make a 911 call over a man with a camera on a public sidewalk.

Officer Simmons, on the other hand, understood both the law and how to handle that fear. He didn’t panic. He didn’t escalate. He educated. And he did it all while staying professional and calm.

That’s the ideal outcome.

We live in a time when people’s first instinct is to assume the worst. A camera must mean exposure. A stranger must mean danger. But that mindset is exactly why First Amendment audits matter. They challenge that instinct. They force a conversation about rights and reactions.

Pedro went from asking if I was there to kill him to treating me to lunch.

Not because I caved.

Not because I stopped filming.

But because I stood my ground respectfully and let the law speak for itself.

Why This Audit Matters

This audit matters because it shows how things can go right. A business owner learned something. A police officer modeled what proper conduct looks like. And viewers get a real-life example of what exercising your rights calmly and confidently can achieve.

For every story that ends in aggression, there are others that end in understanding. But you don’t hear those stories as often. That’s why I document them.

This wasn’t just a video. It was a case study in public education. And accountability. And the power of showing up with a camera and holding a space long enough for people to reveal who they are.

Some reveal hostility. Others reveal reason. And some, like Pedro, reveal both.

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Legal Disclaimer: This video and blog post document a First Amendment-protected activity filmed entirely from publicly accessible areas. All individuals appearing were recorded lawfully in public where no reasonable expectation of privacy exists.

The First Visit

When I pulled up to the Village Post Office at 100 S. Military Trail in Deerfield Beach, I expected a quiet First Amendment audit. Instead, I got two 911 calls, police backup, censored footage, and a federal employee who claimed he didn’t know what a public records request was.

It didn’t take long to spark chaos. As soon as I started filming from the publicly accessible lobby, two postal employees—Kevin and Antoinette—told me I couldn’t record. Kevin, along with the customer he was helping, immediately picked up the phone and called the police. That’s two separate calls to law enforcement over a constitutionally protected activity.

Before the officers arrived, a supervisor, Julio De Paula emerged from the back. He didn’t identify himself by name, but he made his position crystal clear: I was to leave. I refused. He demanded I stop filming. I didn’t.

Officer Smith from the Broward Sheriff’s Office was first to arrive. I immediately informed him that I was a journalist engaged in constitutionally protected activity and warned that any violation of my rights would result in accountability. He didn’t affirm my rights, so I asked for a supervisor. Officer Ruiz arrived shortly after, but no actual supervisor followed. Both officers disappeared behind a locked employees-only door to have a private meeting with postal office staff.

When they returned, they left the scene without taking any enforcement action against me. But the real story unfolded afterward.

Following the encounter, I attempted to submit a public records request to Kevin. He refused to accept it and claimed he didn’t know what a public records request was. I let him know I’d be back—with a warrant—and that court would be in session.

I submitted a public records request to the Broward Sheriff’s Office asking for the body cam footage of Officers Smith and Ruiz. They tried to charge me $60, citing an “extensive use” labor clause under Florida Statute 119.07(4). To avoid the fee, I narrowed my request to just the final 15 minutes of footage. What they released was muted during key moments and embedded with copyrighted music that never existed in the original environment—likely added to prevent me from uploading it to YouTube.

The footage also blacked out the officers’ discussion with post office staff behind the locked door. The audio? Silenced. The context? Erased. Transparency? Gone.

This raises major concerns—not just about how government employees react to public filming, but how public records are being manipulated or withheld altogether. When the content most relevant to accountability is precisely what gets muted, redacted, or buried under copyright traps, the public’s right to know is not just obstructed—it’s outright sabotaged.

And the excuses don’t stop at cost. Public agencies frequently misuse Florida’s “special service charge” rule to overinflate the price of access, hoping citizens will just give up. But here’s the thing: I won’t. And neither should you.

For the record, public records belong to the public. You shouldn’t have to pay $60 just to find out what your government employees said behind a closed door about you—especially when they called law enforcement over a camera and tried to remove you from a public building.

The bigger picture here is that accountability only works if we stay persistent. Government bodies—from local post offices to county sheriff’s departments—count on people being too intimidated or too exhausted to push back. They count on red tape to wear you down. They count on your silence.

But they’re not counting on me.

This experience is just one chapter in a larger fight for transparency and First Amendment rights. Every time a government agency hides footage, overcharges for access, or flat-out refuses to take a public records request, it’s an attack on the very principle of open government. That’s why I document, that’s why I publish, and that’s why I go back—warrant in hand, camera rolling.

The Village Post Office is federally operated, but it exists within a community that deserves transparency. If public servants don’t even know what a public records request is—or pretend not to—that’s a failure of training and a violation of trust. It’s not just inconvenient. It’s unacceptable.

My next visit to this location won’t just be another audit—it’ll be a legal follow-up. I’ll be serving a formal “warrant for public records,” an accountability tool I use to reinforce that these requests are backed by law, not opinion. The people have a right to inspect their government—especially when that government is the one calling the police on peaceful journalists.

I’ll also be following up with BSO, and I’ll challenge any unlawful redactions or editing meant to obstruct public access. If they want to play games with transparency, I’ll expose that too.

Until then, I encourage everyone reading this to get involved. Learn how to file public records requests. Record your interactions. Ask questions. Challenge overcharges. And when you get stonewalled—don’t retreat.

Stand your ground. Hold court. Make it public.

If you want to see what happens when I return, sign up for my newsletter and get notified the moment the next chapter drops. The fight for accountability continues, one audit at a time.

When I set out for Delray Beach this week, I was planning a typical First Amendment audit — a straight shot down Atlantic Avenue, from the heart of the city to the beach and back. My goal? Check out public spaces, film freely, and see who respects the right to record in public.

But Delray had other plans.

The city had closed down Atlantic Avenue for an art festival, transforming the street into a bustling outdoor gallery. Artists were set up in tents in the middle of the road, surrounded by tourists, locals, and now… a guy with a camera.

I figured if the city was turning public property into a gallery, it was the perfect time to capture some culture — and maybe test whether free expression was still a two-way street.

“No Video” Signs Don’t Cancel the First Amendment

As I made my way through the crowd, I filmed peacefully — no drama, no confrontation — until I passed one vendor who clearly didn’t like the lens pointing her way.

She called out to me, pointing to a sign that said “No Photos / No Videos” taped to the front of her tent.

I didn’t stop filming. That’s when she decided to escalate — calling me a clown and saying, “Stupid can’t be fixed.”

Let’s be clear: if you bring your art into the public square — especially on a public street, with city permission and taxpayer-funded security — you don’t get to cherry-pick which parts of the Constitution apply. You can’t shut down public photography just because you’re uncomfortable with exposure.

I reminded her of that: “It’s stupid to display your art in public and expect people not to film it.”

No Badge? No Problem. The First Amendment Still Applies.

This interaction wasn’t with law enforcement or a city official — it was with a private citizen who thought a laminated sign could override the Constitution. And honestly, this kind of attitude is just as dangerous.

It’s the soft censorship. The idea that speech is okay… unless someone doesn’t like it.

And that’s exactly why I keep the camera rolling — because even in quiet moments like this, the battle over public rights is still happening.

This Week’s Video Has No Cops — Just Irony

If you’re a long-time GCNN viewer and you’re here for the shouting matches, ego trips, and accountability checks, this week’s video might feel different. There are no handcuffs. No police. No one asking for ID.

But what you will see is an open-air art festival funded by public resources… and one artist who tried to control what the public sees and records.

If you’re only here for the fireworks, skip to the end screen. I’ve got links to GCNN classics with all the confrontational energy you’re craving.

But if you care about the quiet moments where the First Amendment still matters, keep watching.

Special Thanks to MariaTheAgent.com

This episode is proudly sponsored by MariaTheAgent.com — Florida’s trusted source for auto, home, business, and renters insurance. Maria’s been helping people across the state for over 18 years, and she handles every client personally.

If you need insurance and you want to work with someone who actually picks up the phone, head to MariaTheAgent.com and get covered by someone who has your back — just like she supports this channel.

The Right to Record Doesn’t Disappear at a Festival

Events like this are a great reminder that freedom doesn’t pause for art festivals. The First Amendment doesn’t turn off because someone hung a painting in a tent. If anything, it becomes more important — because the moment someone tries to regulate what you can and can’t document in public, the stakes get real.

It’s not about being provocative. It’s about being present. And it’s about making sure our rights aren’t trampled by someone else’s fear of being seen.

Next Week: Back to Business

I’ll be back next Sunday at 11 AM with a brand-new GCNN episode — and yes, it’ll bring more of the confrontations and accountability you’ve come to expect.

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When Liberty Troll tried to make a public records request at the Greenacres WIC Center, the response he got was both dismissive and legally questionable: “We don’t do that here.” That’s not how it works in Florida.

Under the state’s broad Sunshine Law — specifically Chapter 119 of the Florida Statutes — any person has the right to inspect or request public records from any public agency. Requests can be made in writing, by email, and yes — even verbally.

So when I saw Liberty Troll’s recently published video, even though he filmed it over a year ago, I knew I had to follow up.

I’d filmed at the very same location around the same time and didn’t run into any issues. No pushback, no drama — just a straightforward First Amendment audit. The difference in how Liberty was treated made me wonder: was it just a bad day for that staffer, or is this location hostile to transparency?

I reached out to Liberty Troll directly and got the full story.

FaceTiming with Liberty Troll: What Really Happened

Before heading back to the WIC Center, I connected with Liberty Troll on a FaceTime call from my office. His original video played muted on one of my monitors while I reviewed our GCNN website on the other.

During the call, Liberty confirmed everything. He simply asked if he could make a public records request — a question, not even a demand — and the woman at the front desk told him, “We don’t do that here.”

To his credit, Liberty didn’t back down. He asked to speak with a supervisor. Eventually, a supervisor did come out and agreed to take his request verbally. But here’s the kicker: more than a year later, he still hadn’t received any response. No records, no follow-up — nothing.

It’s one thing to have a misunderstanding. It’s another to knowingly ignore the public’s right to access government information.

So I printed out a still image of the employee from his video, prepped my warrant for public records, and hit the road.

Return to Greenacres WIC Center

As I arrived, I wasn’t there to start a full re-audit. This time, I had a very specific mission:

Identify the employee who told Liberty Troll “we don’t do that here” and confirm whether the office now respects Florida’s public records law.

Upon entering the building, I was greeted by a very friendly receptionist who asked how she could help. I showed her the printed image from Liberty’s audit and asked if the woman in the photo still worked there.

Without hesitation, the receptionist confirmed she did.

I then asked, “Can you tell me her name?” She replied:

“That’s Ashly Jean Baptiste.”

I thanked her and then pulled out my warrant for public records and asked if I should leave it with her or someone else. She called another staff member over to help.

Meet Linda Nolte: A Breath of Fresh Air

A few minutes later, I was greeted by Linda Nolte, who immediately stood out as knowledgeable, courteous, and professional. She confirmed that this location does accept public records requests, including verbal ones.

She took my warrant without hesitation and clarified the information I was requesting. There was no confusion, no resistance — just transparency and a great attitude.

I left the building feeling optimistic, but on my way out, I realized one thing: I hadn’t gotten a stamped copy of the request to confirm receipt.

So I turned around and walked back inside.

Once again, the receptionist greeted me without issue and brought Linda back out. Linda smiled and said she’d be happy to give me a stamped copy. A few minutes later, I walked out with the confirmation in hand — something Liberty Troll never got, despite asking over a year ago.

Why This Matters: Accountability Through Follow-Up

This isn’t about singling out Ashly Jean Baptiste or trying to stir up controversy for clicks. It’s about accountability — not just for one public employee, but for the entire system.

Liberty Troll’s public records request was ignored. That’s a violation of Florida law, and frankly, a violation of public trust.

When we as independent journalists, auditors, and watchdogs hold government offices accountable, we’re not doing it for fun — we’re doing it because we care about transparency.

The fact that my experience was the complete opposite of Liberty’s — polite, professional, compliant — tells us something important:

Cameras and community pressure work.

It may have taken a year, but when someone came back with documentation and persistence, this office handled things exactly the way they should have in the first place.

Know Your Rights: Florida Public Records Law

Here’s what every Florida resident — and public employee — should know:

• Chapter 119.01, F.S. guarantees access to public records.

• Requests do not need to be in writing.

• Agencies are required to respond promptly and in good faith.

• Failure to comply can result in legal action and fines.

If someone tells you “we don’t do that here,” ask for a supervisor. Bring documentation. And follow up.

Final Thoughts

This follow-up wasn’t about confrontation — it was about clarity. Liberty Troll asked a valid question, and his request was ignored. I showed up with a warrant and got answers.

Public records don’t belong to the government. They belong to us.

Watch the Video

YouTube Video: Public Records Request: @Liberty_Troll Told ‘We Don’t Do That Here.’ I Showed Up With a Warrant

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