The Customer’s Call

This one was almost sad. The customer’s voice was frantic. She said she was “afraid” and kept repeating that what I was doing was “so strange.” She even admitted she filmed me with her own phone. Her fear was real — but fear doesn’t make filming illegal.

I stopped by the Northwest Regional Library in Coral Springs for what I thought would be a simple audit — check out the building, take some shots of the art and public notices, and move on. What actually unfolded was a mix of history, humor, and a little bit of drama, proving once again that even a quiet suburban library can become a classroom for the First Amendment.

Remembering 9/11 in Coral Springs

Before heading inside, I took some time at the September 11, 2001 memorial that sits just outside the entrance.

This isn’t just any plaque in the ground. At its center is an authentic piece of steel recovered from the wreckage of the World Trade Center. After 9/11, thousands of pieces of steel were stored at JFK Airport, and in the years that followed, communities around the country applied to receive them for local memorials. Coral Springs was granted one of those pieces on October 18, 2002. By September 11, 2004, it was permanently placed at the library, surrounded by a modest but powerful memorial.

The plaque reminds visitors: “Let us never forget the innocent victims who died or were injured on that day.”

I read the words aloud on camera, pausing to let the weight of it sink in. Just as I finished, a squirrel darted into frame with a peanut in its mouth. I couldn’t resist joking that the squirrel was just trying to get a nut, and I was just trying to get a video. The juxtaposition felt oddly fitting — life goes on, even in the shadow of tragedy, and sometimes you need a moment of levity.

Words from Dr. King

Moving closer to the library’s front doors, I passed another monument — this one honoring Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. It was etched with some of his most enduring quotes:

• “The time is always right to do what is right.”

• “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”

• “Courage faces fear and thereby masters it.”

Reading those words before stepping inside was a reminder that civic spaces like libraries are meant to embody those ideals. They’re open to all, funded by the public, and grounded in principles of equality and access.

First Impressions Inside

It had just finished raining, and the pavement was still wet as I stepped toward the entrance. Just beside the doors was a plaque marking the building’s opening in February 2001 — just months before the world would change forever that September.

Inside, I filmed some of the artwork on display. The standout was a towering bronze-colored sculpture stretching two stories tall, inscribed with a scroll of text in English and what looked like abstract letters. Like much public art, it was open to interpretation, but it gave the lobby a sense of grandeur.

Further inside, I noticed signage in multiple languages — a reflection of Coral Springs’ diverse population, which includes large Hispanic, Brazilian, and Caribbean communities. Libraries in Broward County often serve as cultural hubs, not just book depositories, so it made sense to see information presented in different tongues.

At the front desk, I filmed a sign advertising the Instant Library Card program. The young woman working there explained that anyone can get a card — free for Broward residents, $38 annually for non-residents. It struck me as a smart way to make the library accessible even for folks outside the county, whether snowbirds, students, or frequent visitors.

Upstairs Encounters

Skipping the youth services area (I don’t film minors), I took the stairs to the second floor. At an information desk, two staff members were adjusting a bracelet. One of them smiled warmly at me and asked if I needed help. I told her she already had — her smile had lit up the room. She laughed, which gave the moment a nice human touch.

From there, I circled the perimeter where study rooms line the walls. Most people ignored me, but one young woman clearly noticed the camera. She raised her hand to block her face. Amused, I did the old “I’m squishing your head” gag with my fingers, then walked away.

That’s when things escalated.

The “Snitching” Debate

Moments later, the same woman came out of her study room and asked me to stop recording. I declined and suggested she return to studying. Instead, she marched to the information desk, phone in hand, to complain.

I even told my viewers, “I think she’s gonna go snitch.”

At the desk, there was also a man nearby. At the time, I didn’t know what role he played — he was just there while she was talking to staff. A few minutes later, I noticed him at one of the public computers, and that’s when I saw him point me out to the security guard.

Curious, I approached him to ask why. He admitted he’d done it so the guard wouldn’t have to walk around looking for me, but he added that he didn’t think I was doing anything wrong so long as I wasn’t filming kids. He even showed me an email he’d sent to the library director with photos of people sleeping in the building, explaining how staff weren’t equipped to handle mentally ill patrons. We wrapped up our conversation on that note, and I thanked him for sharing his perspective.

As I turned to head back toward the study room area, I noticed security and another staff member talking with the woman who had originally complained about me. Naturally, I wanted to capture what was being said, so I made my way over to join the conversation.

Tattling, Snitching, and Third Grade

That’s when the young woman doubled down. She claimed she had a “right not to be filmed,” insisted the camera made her uncomfortable, and even tried to argue that being a woman should grant her special protection. I reminded her bluntly that I wasn’t there to provide comfort — “I didn’t bring any pillows.”

When she said I didn’t care about other human beings, I corrected her: it’s not about lacking care for people, it’s about not sacrificing constitutional rights because someone feels uncomfortable.

From there, the discussion spiraled into what I’d call playground semantics. She didn’t like me saying she was “telling” or “snitching,” and she snapped back that she was simply “informing” on me. I pointed out that it really doesn’t matter what word you choose — telling, tattling, snitching, informing — it’s all the same thing. She rolled her eyes and shot back that my language sounded like I was stuck in third grade.

I reminded her I wasn’t the one running to the teacher.

At that point, even the staff member at the desk gently reminded her that this was a public space, and she couldn’t make me leave.

Education in Real Time

The exchange went in circles: she argued about feelings, I pointed to rights. She asked about the purpose of my video, and I explained again: it’s to educate the public about their rights to record in public spaces.

She wasn’t happy about it, but by inserting herself into the situation, she had become the most interesting part of an otherwise routine audit. I gave her my business card, explaining she could use my website if she wanted to opt out later.

Wrapping Up

Heading out, I passed a Muslim woman in traditional clothing. She walked by without incident. The irony wasn’t lost on me — unlike a previous audit where someone invoked religion to try to stop me from recording, here was someone of faith who understood that public spaces are just that: public.

I cut briefly to that older clip for contrast before closing out my visit.

About the Library

The Northwest Regional Library is part of the Broward County Library system, one of the largest in the country with more than 30 branches. Opened in 2001, it quickly became a community anchor for northwest Broward County, offering not just books but free internet, cultural programs, and spaces for civic engagement.

Broward libraries are also known for their public art collections — everything from sculptures to murals commissioned through the county’s Art in Public Places program. The bronze scroll sculpture I filmed is part of that effort to integrate art into everyday spaces.

About the 9/11 Steel Program

After 9/11, the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey stored over 1,800 pieces of steel recovered from Ground Zero. In 2009, they began distributing them to communities across the U.S. that applied, usually for use in memorials. Coral Springs was among those selected. Today, these relics stand in fire stations, city halls, and libraries nationwide — silent reminders of loss, resilience, and unity.

Final Thoughts

What began as a quiet visit to a suburban library ended up showcasing the tension between personal comfort and public rights. The MLK quotes outside remind us that injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere — and that includes injustice against the First Amendment.

This audit wasn’t about picking a fight. It was about documenting how the public reacts when someone exercises their right to record. Sometimes you get warm smiles, sometimes you get pushback, and sometimes you get a squirrel with a peanut.

Either way, the lesson is the same: rights don’t vanish just because they make someone uncomfortable.

Drunk Woman Explodes on Me Over Filming in Public — Drops Bomb Threats

When you’re a journalist with a camera in your hand, you never really know what the day is going to bring. Sometimes it’s peaceful — you capture architecture, a few street shots, maybe exchange a polite word or two. Other times, the camera seems to act like a magnet for chaos. My latest trip to Deerfield Beach was a perfect example of that.

This wasn’t just another audit. It was a journey that started with the quiet stacks of the Percy White Library, moved into the salty air of the beach where I met an unforgettable character, and ended at Deerfield Beach City Hall with a reminder of why I do this work in the first place.

Buckle up. This one has it all: libraries, sand, city officials, and a drunken woman who thought yelling about bombs was a winning argument against the First Amendment.

Chapter 1: Starting at the Percy White Library

If you’ve never been to the Percy White Library, it’s tucked right into the heart of Deerfield Beach as part of the Broward County Public Library system. Named after Percy White, a long-time community leader who believed in access to knowledge for everyone, it’s the kind of building you walk into and instantly feel the weight of public purpose.

That’s where I began the day — not with drama, but with curiosity. Libraries are government buildings, and as such, they’re public spaces where the First Amendment is alive and well. I walked in, camera rolling, checking out the space and making small observations. People were reading, staff were busy helping patrons, and there was a calm atmosphere that reminded me why public institutions matter.

I didn’t encounter hostility there. Nobody told me to shut the camera off. No one screamed about privacy. Instead, it was a subtle but important reminder: sometimes government gets it right.

But I didn’t come to Deerfield Beach just to quietly film library shelves. The day had more in store.

Cuffed, Stuffed, Searched — and She Deleted My Video

What started with a camera-shy postal worker turned into a public meltdown, a pair of handcuffs, a search, and a mysteriously deleted video. But lucky for me — and for you — my DJI mic kept rolling.

This one escalated fast.

I rolled up to the USPS in Hutchinson Beach, ready to do what I always do — film from a public space and see if government employees remember what the First Amendment is. Spoiler alert: they didn’t.

Duck and Cover: Postal Edition

The moment I walked in, the postal worker was already in hiding. No joke — he was in the backroom and had no plans of coming out. He peeked out long enough to ask why I was filming, and I explained — respectfully — that I was a journalist gathering content for a story.

He didn’t argue. He didn’t demand I stop. But he also didn’t help the line of customers forming in the lobby.

There were never more than two people waiting, but with no clerk at the counter, tensions simmered. People wanted service, and the employee made it clear he wasn’t coming out while I was recording.

That’s what lit the fuse.

“Do You Feel Threatened, Little Man?”

The old lady in line had enough. She took it upon herself to be the voice of the post office lobby.

No phone. No badge. Just a big voice and bigger outrage.

She confronted me head-on — verbally, not physically — with full boomer energy. Loud. Red-faced. Righteous. She accused me of being a threat, an instigator, and everything short of a national security risk.

And at one point she actually barked: “Do you feel threatened, little man?”

I didn’t. But I was definitely entertained.

She pressured the clerk to call the police — though to be fair, he was already doing so.

Enter Deputy Walker

Enter Deputy Britnee Walker from the St. Lucie County Sheriff’s Office, who arrived on scene like she’d just fast-forwarded through the Constitution.

She told me to leave. I tried to explain. I referenced Poster 7 — the rulebook for filming in federal buildings that hangs in every post office lobby. She didn’t care.

She claimed I was obstructing operations, despite the fact that I was just standing there with a camera while the clerk refused to work. 

She asked for my ID. I told her I would not provide it unless she could articulate a crime. That’s the standard under Terry v. Ohio, and it’s also common sense. No crime, no ID. She didn’t like that either.

She then stood in the doorway and told me to come outside and talk to her. She repeated this a few times. I didn’t want to talk to her, and I didn’t feel I had any legal obligation to do so. I even asked her what would happen if I didn’t comply — trying to preserve my legal standing — but she wouldn’t give me a straight answer or make any clear threat of arrest.

Instead, she came back inside, grabbed me, and forced me outside, where she cuffed me and placed me in her patrol car.

Cuffs. Patrol car. Detained.

My Camera Was Still Rolling — Until It Wasn’t

As she handcuffed me on the sidewalk, my phone got knocked off the gimbal. It hit the ground — hard — but kept recording like a champ. Until Deputy Walker picked it up… and manually stopped the video. Intentional? Accidental? We’ll probably never know. But you tell me — does that sound like an innocent move? What she didn’t realize was that my DJI microphones were still recording. And they caught everything.

A Search Without a Warrant

While I sat in the back of the patrol car in handcuffs, Deputy Walker searched my bag.

Let’s get this straight:

• I was never told I was under arrest.

• I was never read my Miranda rights.

• I made it clear that I did not consent to any search.

Still, she rummaged through my belongings.

Was that a violation of my Fourth Amendment rights? That’s a question I’m still asking.

And let’s not forget: I was in cuffs for well over an hour. The full audio runs more than two hours, and the detention itself spanned a significant chunk of that time. That’s a long time to be held with no formal arrest and no clear justification.

Heat, Handcuffs, and EMS

The Florida sun turned the back seat of that patrol car into a sauna. I started feeling faint and asked for medical attention. EMS responded, and to take my vitals, they had me moved to a bench outside the post office. I was still in cuffs. Still under detention. Just now part of the public art installation. A few onlookers passed by — some curious, some confused — and I just sat there sweating, cuffed, and wondering what exactly I was being detained for.

Cooler Heads on the Bench

On that bench, I got a chance to talk with Deputies Eva Macia and James Grecco. The tone shifted. Grecco was professional and chill. He mentioned he knew about First Amendment audits and even asked about my channel. I told him what I was doing, why I was filming, and we actually had a respectful conversation — a refreshing change from the escalation that started all this.

Toward the end of the encounter, I overheard Deputy Walker debating whether or not she had legal standing to hold me for obstruction. That’s when she finally decided to let me go.

No charges. No arrest. No paperwork. Just a silent release back into the wild with a trespass warning.

Deleted… or Just Hidden?

I got back in my car and opened the Photos app to check the footage. Gone. Not glitched. Not misplaced. Just gone. I panicked for a second — then checked the “Recently Deleted” folder. There it was. Did Deputy Walker delete the video on purpose? Did she think stopping the recording would erase the evidence?

We’ll probably never know — but you can decide for yourself.

She said she had probable cause for obstruction. I respectfully disagree. I believe I was unlawfully detained. I believe my property was unlawfully searched. And I believe my rights were violated.

That said… I’m not blind to the fact that this could’ve ended much worse.

She could’ve arrested me. Booked me. Taken me to the St. Lucie County Jail — aka The Rock. And I could’ve been stuck fighting my fourth criminal trial in court.

Instead, she let me go. So Deputy Walker — if you’re reading this — thank you for showing grace. I don’t agree with your legal judgment, but I do appreciate your choice not to escalate further. And I’m going to pay that grace forward. Next time I deal with a cop trying to do their job, I’ll try to match the restraint you showed me at the end.

Hear What Happened After the Camera Cut

The video ends when the camera was stopped — but the story didn’t. Thanks to my DJI audio setup, I’ve got the entire uncut conversation. From the moment I was cuffed to the moment I was released. It’s all in the audio. And you can listen to it right here on the blog.

Listen to the full audio here

Support the Channel

If you think this kind of work matters — if you believe in the power of showing up, pressing record, and holding government accountable — consider supporting the channel.

You can Buy Me a Coffee. Even one goes a long way.

Watch the Audit

Watch the full audit here

And if you haven’t already, hit like, share it around, and subscribe to the channel.

Until next time: stay free, stay engaged, and keep those cameras rolling.

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.

The title isn’t an exaggeration. It’s a pattern. And once again, Broward Sheriff’s deputies have proven that when accountability is needed most, they disappear.

On a recent First Amendment audit at Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport (FLL), I visited all four terminals to test whether airport employees and law enforcement respected the public’s right to record in publicly accessible areas. Most people handled the camera just fine. Some were curious. A few asked questions. But when I arrived at Terminal 3, things took a disturbing turn.

At the JetBlue baggage check, a staff member named Andre objected to my filming and told me I didn’t have permission. I calmly informed him that I was engaged in constitutionally protected activity. But instead of deescalating, a customer he was helping decided to insert himself into the situation. His name was Sean.

Sean told me to stop recording. I asked, “Or what?” and he threatened me by saying my equipment would end up in five pieces. Before I had time to react, he shoved me in the chest.

That’s assault.

And it happened right there in front of JetBlue employees, passengers, and two uniformed Broward Sheriff’s deputies who were approaching as it happened.

When I informed the deputies that I had just been assaulted and wanted to press charges, they did absolutely nothing. They refused to detain the suspect. They refused to take my report. They refused to identify themselves. Instead, they let Sean walk away, unchecked and unbothered.

Let that sink in: I was physically attacked while exercising a constitutionally protected right, and the law enforcement officers on scene looked the other way.

When I attempted to document which patrol cars the deputies belonged to, one of them made a veiled threat implying that I could be arrested if I didn’t back off. So I went back inside the terminal, took a seat, backed up my footage, and called the Broward Sheriff’s Office non-emergency number.

A few minutes later, a real cop showed up.

Deputy G. Aluc arrived, heard me out, reviewed the footage, and called for a supervisor. Together, they took my statement and confirmed the names of the officers who had refused to act. Finally, someone was willing to treat an on-camera assault like the crime that it is.

To be clear, Deputy Aluc didn’t hesitate. He was respectful, attentive, and thorough. That should be the standard. But it stood in stark contrast to the behavior of the first two deputies, who seemed more interested in avoiding paperwork than upholding the law.

The phrase “Cowards of Broward” didn’t start with me. It came out of the Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School shooting, where BSO deputies stood outside while students were being gunned down inside. That history matters — not because it’s ancient history, but because the pattern of running from responsibility is alive and well.

And that’s the point here. This isn’t about one bad interaction, or one officer having a bad day. This is about a repeated failure of leadership, culture, and duty. When police officers pick and choose who deserves protection based on personal bias or public perception, they’re no longer peace officers — they’re political tools.

If I hadn’t had a camera rolling, this story might sound unbelievable. But the footage doesn’t lie. It shows who did the right thing, who failed to act, and who stepped up when it counted.

This audit isn’t just about filming in public. It’s about shining a light on public servants who take their oath seriously — and calling out those who don’t.

FLL is a busy, high-traffic airport. There are TSA officers, airline staff, and local deputies stationed throughout. In an environment where security is the priority, it should concern everyone that someone can be assaulted in plain sight and deputies won’t lift a finger.

Whether it’s indifference, laziness, or fear of accountability, it all leads to the same result: a failure to protect the public. And if it happens to one person, it can happen to anyone.

Deputy Aluc was the exception. He did his job. But the two deputies who ignored my report were the norm. That’s the real problem.

It’s not about me. It’s about the precedent. If police can watch an assault happen and choose to do nothing because they don’t like who the victim is, then none of us are safe.

The irony here is that these audits are meant to test the system, but the failures are never staged. They’re real. They happen in front of the lens, and they reflect how easily civil liberties can be dismissed by those sworn to protect them.

As always, you can watch the full video right here on Good Citizen News Network. If you support this kind of work and want to help keep public servants honest, consider buying me an iced coffee at buymeacoffee.com/gcnn.

Check out the links in the description for the full audit video, bonus content, and updates on any public records requests related to this incident. 

Stay vigilant. Stay free.

Visit 1: The Meltdown Begins

When I arrived at the Deerfield Beach Main Post Office, I expected a routine First Amendment audit. Instead, I got three separate 911 calls, a federal employee blocking the camera, and multiple people—including a customer—attempting to weaponize law enforcement against a constitutionally protected activity.

As soon as I began filming in the publicly accessible lobby, postal employees Kevin and Antoinette declared I couldn’t record. Kevin—along with the customer he was serving—called the police. A few minutes later, an elderly couple, Kevin incited, made the third call to 911.

I submitted a public records request to the Broward Sheriff’s Office for the body-worn camera footage and 911 audio. BSO hit me with a $60 cost estimate, so I narrowed the scope to just the 911 audio and the final 15 minutes of the responding deputy’s body cam. What I received was completely redacted, and the footage was laced with copyrighted music—rendering it entirely unusable.

This was censorship by design, not coincidence.

Visit 2: Charges Filed—Sort Of

I returned—this time carrying a warrant for public records and staging a satirical courtroom bit, where I charged Kevin with Failure to Comply with a Lawful Public Record Request.

To his credit, Kevin accepted the warrant and told me he would pass it to his supervisor. More importantly, he admitted he’d received training and thanked me for the education. He even shook my hand, confirming that he now understood the public’s right to record.

At that moment, it felt like the mission was accomplished: transparency achieved, awareness raised, and a public employee brought into alignment with the First Amendment.

But that feeling didn’t last long.

Visit 3: The Censorship Plot Twist

Just as I was finishing the edit for Visit 2, YouTube hit me with a notification:

A privacy complaint had been filed.

Someone—likely Kevin or someone within the post office—was trying to erase the original footage from Visit 1.

So I returned again. This time, Kevin avoided interaction but blasted loud music throughout the lobby, preventing me from capturing any usable footage inside. Outside, I interviewed a customer who said a postal worker had once threatened to call the police simply because he spoke too loudly.

I also ran into Tom, the customer who had called 911 during Visit 1. We had a cordial conversation. Tom told me he had served as a police officer for 30 years. He said he understood what I was doing, but still couldn’t quite grasp the point. That says everything about the culture of government and law enforcement’s relationship with accountability.

They Tried to Silence the Footage—So I Doubled Down

Rather than cave to censorship, I released the uncensored, footage directly on my website—free to download, copy, and share.

When they try to shut down one camera, we respond with ten more.

When one video gets struck, we repost it everywhere.

Final Thoughts

The Deerfield Beach Post Office tried to silence accountability. They filed a complaint, blocked access to records, and flooded footage with copyrighted music.

But what they don’t understand is this:

Censorship always backfires.

The more they resist transparency, the more exposure they get. That’s the First Amendment in action—and this is why we audit.

Watch It. Share It. Support the Mission.

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Stay peaceful. Stay bold.

—Jack, Good Citizen News Network

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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