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.

On a sunny day in Jensen Beach, Florida, I visited the United States Post Office located at 2301 NE Savannah Road to conduct a First Amendment audit. Unlike many of the more dramatic audits that unfold in heated confrontations or unlawful detainments, this one told a quieter story — but still revealed important truths about public rights, misunderstandings about privacy, and how law enforcement should respond when someone is exercising constitutionally protected activity.

The experience at this post office was different from many I’ve had before. No screaming. No threats. No one crossed a line. But a lot was said — both in words and in actions — that made this audit just as valuable as any other.

The Setup: Filming in Public Is Still Legal

First Amendment audits are designed to test public knowledge, tolerance, and authority response to a simple concept: citizens have the right to record in public places. That includes government buildings, like post offices, as long as the activity takes place in publicly accessible areas. This is not just a principle — it’s supported by federal guidelines like Poster 7, which the U.S. Postal Service itself posts in its lobbies.

As I entered the USPS in Jensen Beach, I had my camera out and rolling. I didn’t try to be sneaky, but I also didn’t announce myself with a bullhorn. The point was simple: film calmly and see what happens. Would staff respect my rights? Would someone try to shut it down? Would law enforcement be called?

Spoiler alert: someone did call the cops.

But before we get to that, let’s talk about the subtle human moments that made this audit memorable.

A Brief But Respectful Interaction With USPS Staff

It didn’t take long for a staff member to acknowledge me. A female postal employee, while assisting a customer at the counter, looked in my direction and asked, “Can you stop recording?”

Rather than snap back or get defensive, I calmly explained that I’m a journalist working on a video about recording from public spaces. Her tone shifted almost immediately. “Have a good day,” she said.

That moment could’ve gone either way. It’s not uncommon for postal workers to react negatively — often aggressively — when they see a camera in the lobby. But in this case, she chose not to escalate. What happened next was even more interesting.

The customer she was assisting stepped in to educate her. “That’s a First Amendment audit,” he told her. The employee didn’t argue. Later, while assisting a different customer, I overheard her say something like, “People don’t have privacy anymore.” I took a moment to politely correct her: “People can still have privacy — just not in public.”

It wasn’t confrontational. It was just a moment of shared clarity, and perhaps a chance for her to think a little differently about the situation. I don’t know what she did afterward. She didn’t come back out. She didn’t call the police herself, as far as I know.

The Customer Who Called the Cops

Instead, it was a customer who chose to escalate the situation. I had just been filming quietly when I overheard a man on the phone. His tone was direct and a little agitated. He muttered something to the effect of “You’re going to find out real quick,” referencing me.

Though I can’t confirm who he was speaking to, it became clear soon enough that someone had called the Martin County Sheriff’s Office.

What happened next was the part of the audit that mattered most — not because of tension, but because of how it was handled.

Enter: Corporal Mosley and Deputy Wenrick

Corporal M. Mosley was the first to arrive. Calm but firm, he began to assess the situation. He didn’t bark orders. He didn’t assume I was doing something wrong. But he did make one thing clear: if the USPS staff wanted me to leave, he would ask me to do so, and if I refused, he would trespass me.

This is a common — and often legally questionable — tactic. Trespassing can’t be enforced unless a lawful order to leave has been given, and only by someone with the authority to do so. In many audits, officers will use the mere possibility of a staff request as grounds to pressure someone into leaving.

But here’s what mattered in this case: no USPS employee ever made that request. No one from the post office came out to tell me to leave. And Corporal Mosley didn’t press the issue beyond that. As far as I know, he didn’t speak directly with any USPS supervisor about removing me. He didn’t try to escalate it further.

Deputy N. Wenrick also arrived shortly after. His approach was professional from start to finish. He didn’t make unlawful demands. He didn’t question my intentions. He respected the boundaries of what was going on. While I wouldn’t call this a “walk of honor” in the traditional sense — because they didn’t explicitly support the audit — it’s worth noting that neither deputy violated my rights or abused their authority.

And in this day and age, that’s not something to gloss over.

Why This Audit Matters — Even Without Drama

If you’re someone who watches First Amendment audits hoping for screaming matches and unlawful arrests, this one might not be for you.

But if you believe that civil rights should be respected without a fight, and that education sometimes happens in quiet moments, then this audit says a lot.

A USPS worker learned something about audits. A customer spoke up. Deputies responded professionally. And I stood my ground, calmly and confidently, without having to escalate anything.

The truth is, not every audit needs a meltdown to make a point. Sometimes, the best wins come when nothing major happens — because that’s how it’s supposed to work.

Federal Guidelines Are Clear — But Still Misunderstood

It’s important to point out that the USPS itself allows recording in its lobbies, as long as it doesn’t interfere with operations. This is printed in Poster 7, which is typically found on the lobby wall of most post offices. The same policy was in effect here in Jensen Beach.

Yet many people — even staff — continue to believe that filming in a public post office is illegal. Or at least “rude” enough to justify police involvement.

That’s why these audits matter. They’re not about confrontation. They’re about making people think — about pushing back against false narratives and helping everyone (including law enforcement) recognize that public space belongs to the people.

Final Thoughts — A Quiet Victory for Accountability

This audit won’t go viral for its fireworks. But it deserves attention for its restraint.

The deputies who responded didn’t create conflict. The staff member who questioned me didn’t escalate. Even the customer who called the police simply made a choice — and the system worked without anyone getting arrested, detained, or intimidated.

It’s important to show these examples just as much as the ones that go off the rails. Because they prove that with enough public pressure, legal awareness, and community understanding, auditors can be seen for what we are: journalists, activists, watchdogs — not threats.

And for those who’ve followed my work at Good Citizen News Network, you know the goal isn’t chaos. The goal is change. One post office, one sidewalk, one city at a time.

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Two Days, One Camera — Clematis Street

I didn’t go to Clematis Street expecting fireworks. I went for the sunlight, the art, the people, and a little curiosity about how the public and the police would respond to a camera quietly rolling on the sidewalk.

Turns out, that curiosity was worth exploring.

What started as a casual walk with a camera turned into a two-day First Amendment audit that included a dispensary calling the cops, two officers earning Walks of Honor, and some of the best unscripted street moments I’ve caught in a while.

DAY ONE: RISE, REACTIONS, AND A WALK OF HONOR

Day one was all about getting the lay of the land. Clematis has a vibe. The street is colorful and lively, lined with palm trees and small businesses that range from nail salons to smoke shops to city buildings. If you stand still for more than a minute, you’ll see a jogger, a dog walker, a city worker, and a scooter zip by all at once.

I started with wide shots and sidewalk footage. Early on, I passed by Hemp Social and an adjacent smoke shop. There was a bit of resistance to the filming, some questioning glances and mild tension, but nothing that escalated.

A few blocks later, I caught sight of the Mandel Public Library. That place holds a memory for me. I was trespassed there in a previous audit just for filming inside. I didn’t go in this time, but seeing it again reminded me why I do this.

Then came RISE Medical Marijuana Dispensary, sitting at 430 Clematis. I was on the public sidewalk, camera in hand, not blocking access or being disruptive. Still, someone inside apparently felt threatened enough to call the police.

That’s where things got interesting.

First to arrive was Officer Forgione — the same officer from my West Palm Beach Banks video outside Chase. That day, he respected my rights and did everything by the book. And on Clematis, he did it again. He rode up on his bicycle, approached calmly, and never made it about ego or control. Just like last time, he enforced the law, not feelings.

We spoke briefly off camera. He told me he saw the previous video and actually used it for training with other officers. That’s huge. That’s impact. That’s why I film.

A few minutes later, Officer Haberkorn arrived. He went inside RISE, presumably to speak with whoever called 911. No one from the dispensary came out. No one ordered me to leave. The blinds were lowered. That was it. Based on Haberkorn’s calm demeanor and the total lack of escalation, I can only assume he explained the law clearly and correctly. For that, he earned his first Walk of Honor on the channel.

The day ended with me heading back to the car, feeling like things had shifted in the right direction. Two cops. Two Walks of Honor. No rights violated.

DAY TWO: CITY BUSINESS, GARDEN VIBES, AND A DIFFERENT KIND OF ENCOUNTER

Day two had a different purpose. I returned to the area to file a public records request at 401 Clematis Street — the City Clerk’s Office. The building has the usual security: metal detectors, bag scanners, the works. But nobody stopped me. No one said a word. I walked in, made my request, and the woman at the front desk couldn’t have been more professional.

She did mention that public records requests are technically supposed to be filed at the police department, but she said she was happy to take mine and make sure it got to the right place. That’s how public service should work.

I left the clerk’s office and decided to walk the area again. No agenda, just curiosity. That’s when I noticed something familiar in the air. A scent.

I followed it to Cityzen Garden, a peaceful little green space tucked between buildings, with benches, shade, and a few folks quietly hanging out. That’s where I saw her: a woman sitting at a table, rolling a joint with a man beside her.

She looked up and saw me filming. For a split second, she seemed nervous. I told her right away: “I see you, but don’t worry — I’m not going to snitch.”

She laughed, head tilted back, and the vibe instantly changed. She said, “This is a good spot, right?” And I agreed.

We talked for a bit. She asked what I was doing, and I told her I was just out filming in public. She smiled and said I reminded her of those auditors she’s seen online. When I said, “You’re in luck,” she lit up.

She told me she had her medical marijuana card, and while that may be true, smoking in public is still illegal. I reminded her of that too, but again — I’m not here to be the weed police. We shared a real moment of understanding, something rare and oddly wholesome, right there in the middle of downtown.

THE CLOSEOUT: A LIGHT MOMENT TO END A SOLID AUDIT

On my way back to the car, I spotted a woman chatting with a parking enforcement officer. I was already out of time on the meter and thought for sure I was getting a ticket.

But the woman turned, smiled, and joked, “I kept him distracted for you.”

She didn’t know it, but she was the perfect bookend to the audit. Two days, one camera, and a string of public interactions that ran the spectrum from skeptical to supportive, tense to funny, and everything in between.

This is the kind of footage that reminds me why I pick up the camera. Not every story ends with sirens or confrontation. Sometimes the best result is no incident at all. No rights violated. No unlawful orders. Just people doing what people do, and police doing what they’re supposed to.

That’s the gold standard. That’s the goal.

And that’s why this audit matters.

BONUS CONTENT & FULL VIDEO

If you haven’t already seen it, the full video is up on the Good Citizen News Network YouTube channel. It’s called:

“Cops Called Over Filming Outside RISE — Ends in a Walk of Honor”

You’ll see every key moment from both days — plus a few that didn’t make it into this post. There’s also audio from my DJI mic, extra B-roll, and photos embedded here on the blog.

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