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.

It started out as a creative mission to help my dog. It turned into a sidewalk standoff, a 911 call, and one of the most respectful police responses I’ve experienced to date. Let me walk you through how things unfolded outside Jan’s Jewelers in Boynton Beach.

This wasn’t just about flexing rights — this was personal.

“You Got Me on Camera?”

My first interaction of the day came from the doorway of Phat Heads Barbershop, one of three businesses inside the plaza at 515 N Federal Hwy. A woman popped her head out and asked if I had her on camera. I told her I did.

Naturally, she was curious. So I told her the truth: I was just trying to help my dog.

That caught her off guard — there was no dog in sight. So I explained that my dog, Chi Chi, had been the victim of a hit-and-run and I was out here doing something a little outside the box to raise awareness and support for her recovery. The conversation never turned hostile. In fact, she wished me luck, and I wished her luck cutting hair. A rare and refreshing moment of mutual respect.

The Jeweler Wasn’t Having It

Next door, at Jan’s Jewelers, things played out a bit differently.

The jeweler stepped out wearing one of those magnifying headband visors that jewelers use to get up close with the details. Before he could even say anything, I pointed out his gear — let’s just say it made for an interesting look.

He asked what I was doing. I flipped it: “What are you doing?” He seemed genuinely unsure how to respond. I told him I was just trying to help my dog, and from there, confusion kicked in hard.

That’s when the familiar line came out: “You can’t film a jewelry store.”

I asked why not. He didn’t answer. He just said he was going to call the police and walked back inside. Before he closed the door, I let him know that if he called, they’d just bring more cameras — but he didn’t hear the full sentence. So I finished it for myself anyway: “…you’ll just make the video more interesting.”

Through the glass, we had a brief back-and-forth. He insisted I couldn’t point a camera at a jewelry store. I pointed out I was standing on a public sidewalk. He told me I wasn’t the police. I asked if that meant it would be okay if I was. No answer — just a phone call.

I didn’t hear what he said at the time, but I later obtained the 911 call through a public records request. He told the dispatcher there was a guy outside recording, “saying something about a dog,” and that it was freaking him out.

Then the Cavalry Arrived

A few minutes later, three officers from Boynton Beach PD rolled up. Before they even reached me, a man from the barbershop stepped outside to ask what I was doing. I tried to explain, but he was more interested in telling me where I should be filming. He didn’t like that I was out front. I told him it was a public sidewalk.

The first officer approached — fist bump. No demands. No barked questions. Just a calm greeting and a walk toward the jewelry store to get the other side of the story.

Soon, the other two officers approached as well — both gave me fist bumps, and the vibe remained chill.

We talked. I explained what I was doing. They didn’t try to intimidate me, didn’t demand ID, didn’t question my right to be there. One of them asked about my dog, and I told him what had happened to Chi Chi. That led to a conversation about how I make content in public spaces as a way to generate revenue and share stories that matter.

Coffee, the Constitution, and the Army

At some point during our conversation, one of the officers noticed my hat: “I Love It Raw.” He asked if it was coffee. That opened the door for a quick plug of Raw Naked Bean, our channel sponsor. I explained that it’s the best single-origin coffee I’ve had — no blends, just pure beans sourced from individual growers around the world. I let him know he could use code GCNN for free shipping.

He laughed. The other officers chuckled too. It was that kind of moment — the kind that reminds you some officers really do take their oath seriously.

Then I noticed a ribbon on one officer’s uniform that said Army. I asked if he had served. He said he had. I thanked him for his service and told him that I was out there exercising my rights, in part, to make sure sacrifices like his weren’t wasted.

That moment stuck with me.

A Quiet Exit

Meanwhile, back inside the jewelry store, something had clearly changed. The officer who initially spoke with the jeweler reappeared. The store’s hurricane shutters started closing. I called out, asking if the officer had “squared him away.” No answer.

But the store was shuttered, and that silence said plenty.

The final officer I spoke with — the one who had asked about Chi Chi — told me directly: “You’re not doing anything wrong.” That’s what I like to hear. I thanked him and his fellow officers for honoring their oaths and respecting my rights. I told them they handled the call perfectly and that I appreciated not being hassled for ID or told to move along.

They didn’t just walk away — they walked off like they had nothing to hide and everything to be proud of.

It was, without exaggeration, a walk of honor.

Final Thoughts

Not every audit ends in conflict. Sometimes, people come out swinging (verbally), and sometimes they come out curious. This one had a bit of everything — confusion, confrontation, and finally, calm.

But at its core, it wasn’t about a jeweler or a barbershop or a sidewalk.

It was about Chi Chi.

This was my way of doing something that might make a difference. And thanks to the professionalism of the officers involved, it became a moment worth documenting — not just for me, but for anyone who cares about free speech, accountability, or one seriously resilient little dog.

—

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LEGAL NOTICE:

All footage was captured from publicly accessible areas where no reasonable expectation of privacy exists. Interactions depicted are matters of public concern protected by the First Amendment.

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.

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.

BSO Shuts Down Extortion Claim With One Phrase: “You’re in Public” — Then Cites Poster 7

You never know how a First Amendment audit will go. Some public employees pass with flying colors. Some fail spectacularly. And sometimes, like what happened at USPS Weston, the government employees cause the problem — and the public follows their lead.

Let’s rewind. A viewer named @craigjacobson158 tipped me off that the Weston, FL post office had a sign posted that read: “The use of cameras or video equipment is prohibited.” That’s a huge red flag. Every federal post office is subject to Poster 7 — the official “Rules and Regulations Governing Conduct on Postal Property,” which explicitly states that photography is permitted in publicly accessible areas for news purposes.

So I made the trip to Weston and fired up the camera. What followed was a clear example of how misinformation from government employees can ignite confusion — and how law enforcement got it right when it counted.

The Setup

I arrived at the USPS Weston facility on May 16, 2025, with one goal in mind: to test whether employees and law enforcement would honor Poster 7 and the First Amendment right to film in public.

From the start, I noticed a disturbing pattern: postal employees telling both me and other customers that filming was not allowed. Despite Poster 7 being clearly posted, multiple staff members insisted I wasn’t allowed to record.

That misinformation lit the match. Customers who overheard the false claims assumed the staff must be right — and that I must be doing something illegal. That’s when tensions escalated.

The Accusation: “You’re Extorting People!”

One customer, clearly agitated by the staff’s repeated claims that filming wasn’t allowed, decided to take matters into his own hands. He didn’t just ask questions. He accused me of extortion.

Yes — extortion.

He said I was “taking video to make people pay to be removed from it.” Never mind that I was filming in a public building, in plain sight, without targeting anyone. Never mind that I had explained clearly I was with Good Citizen News Network and working on a story. Never mind that he was the one escalating things in a public lobby.

This wasn’t a legal argument. It was a personal attack — and a misinformed one at that.

For the record, no one has ever been forced to pay to be removed from a GCNN video. There was a page on my site offering an optional removal process — an attempt to give people who regretted their on-camera behavior a second chance. That page has since been removed after seeing how trolls and critics mischaracterized it as some kind of paywall or intimidation tactic.

Let me be clear: Filming in public is not extortion. It is a right. And when law enforcement is called to respond to these situations, they have a duty to uphold that right — not bow to complaints from people who simply don’t like being filmed.

Thankfully, that’s exactly what happened.

Law Enforcement Shows Up — And Gets It Right

When Broward Sheriff’s Office deputies arrived, I braced myself for the usual round of questions and possible escalation. But from the moment they stepped out of the vehicle, I could tell this was going to be different.

Instead of approaching me with hostility or suspicion, the lead deputy walked in calmly, asked what was going on, and listened.

When the irate customer repeated his accusations — calling me an extortionist and demanding that I stop filming — the deputy didn’t entertain it for a second.

He said, and I quote: “He’s in public. He’s allowed to film.”

And then, like music to my ears, the deputy referenced Poster 7.

That’s right — BSO cited Poster 7 on scene.

They didn’t ask me to leave. They didn’t say it was a gray area. They didn’t try to broker some fake compromise to keep the peace.

They upheld the law.

They honored their oath.

And when it became clear there was no crime being committed — and no legal justification for interfering with my rights — they turned and walked away.

That’s why I call it the “Walk of Honor.”

Why This Matters

It’s easy to highlight audits that go wrong. When government employees freak out, when police abuse their power, when people get detained for simply holding a camera — those videos get views. They go viral. They expose the problem.

But when things go right, it deserves just as much attention.

This audit showed exactly how law enforcement should behave in a First Amendment encounter. The deputies didn’t just tolerate my presence — they affirmed it. They corrected misinformation. And they made it clear to everyone present that filming in public, in accordance with Poster 7, is a protected activity — not a crime.

We need more of that.

Too often, police are criticized for failing to uphold rights, or for siding with the loudest, most emotional voice in the room. But these BSO deputies did the job correctly, even when a customer was yelling, making legal threats, and trying to intimidate me.

To the Trolls and Critics

Let’s address the elephant in the room: the constant trolling I get in the comment section from people saying I’m “extorting” people just by filming in public.

It’s nonsense. It’s also slanderous.

Public photography is not harassment. It is not intimidation. And it is absolutely not extortion.

If you’re in a public place — especially a government building — you have no expectation of privacy. You don’t get to scream “extortion” just because you don’t like the optics of your own behavior.

And if you’re still convinced that I’m doing something illegal, ask yourself this: Why did the deputies walk away?

Why did they cite Poster 7?

Why did they affirm my right to record?

Because they know the law. And they’re the ones enforcing it.

A Shoutout to BSO

I want to give a genuine shoutout to the deputies from the Broward Sheriff’s Office who responded to this call.

You didn’t flinch.

You didn’t overreact.

You didn’t cave to public pressure.

You enforced the law the way it’s written — not the way some angry customer wished it were written. And in doing so, you set an example that other law enforcement agencies should follow.

BSO, you passed this audit with flying colors.

Final Thoughts

What happened at USPS Weston is the kind of outcome I wish I saw more often.

No arrests. No threats. No unlawful orders.

Just citizens exercising their rights, and law enforcement backing them up.

Was there drama? Sure. The customer’s behavior was unhinged. The accusations were wild. And the threats of a lawsuit were laughable.

But that’s what makes this audit so powerful — because even in the face of that noise, the deputies stayed focused on the law.

To everyone watching: let this be a reminder that the First Amendment is still alive — and sometimes, the good guys do show up wearing badges.

—

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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.

Confusion, confrontation, and one calm supervisor — a tale of two post offices in Deerfield Beach.

On Friday, May 9, 2025, I visited the Deerfield Beach Main Post Office, located at 212 E Hillsboro Blvd, to see how this facility would respond to public photography — especially after what went down a few miles away at the Village Post Office with Kevin and Julio.

This wasn’t just a casual stop. It was a deliberate comparison. Would the staff here respect my First Amendment rightto film in a public space? Or would they respond like their colleagues — with panic, misinformation, and a call to the cops?

The Scene Inside: Confusion and Objections

From the moment I walked in, cameras rolling, it didn’t take long to stir the room. One of the clerks looked over and asked, “What’s going on here?” The discomfort was immediate.

A customer who had just finished her transaction turned around with curiosity. She approached with a smile and asked what I was taking pictures of. When I told her I was photographing the post office, she asked, “Are you an insurance guy?” I told her no, I’m a photographer — which led to the inevitable question: Why would anyone want to film a post office?

I explained the First Amendment and Poster 7, which was posted in the lobby, authorizing photography in publicly accessible areas. But that didn’t stop the resistance.

Another clerk jumped in: “No one gave you permission to film us.”
Then came the viral line of the day: “We all want to opt out.”
They weren’t just speaking for themselves — they were claiming to speak for the customers too.

The Irony of Opting Out in a Public Space

At that point, another customer said something to the effect of needing to “sign something” for me to record her. I replied that I didn’t sign anything giving them permission to record me on their four visible security cameras — yet those were running nonstop.

That’s the fundamental misunderstanding so many people — even government employees — still have. If you’re in a public lobby, open to the public during business hours, and paid for by tax dollars, you do not have the right to “opt out” of being seen or recorded. Privacy in public doesn’t exist — at least not legally.

Nicola: Respectful, But Not in Charge

One of the clerks, Nicola, did remain professional. While other staff members were visibly irritated and objecting to being filmed, Nicola stayed pleasant and asked if she could help me. I explained I wasn’t there to mail anything — just conducting a First Amendment audit. She didn’t escalate the situation and walked away calmly once it was clear I didn’t need postal services.

But to be clear: Nicola wasn’t the supervisor. That person came out later.

A Supervisor Who Listens (Mostly)

A few minutes after Nicola stepped away, a female supervisor came out to the lobby. She asked if she could help, and I jokingly told her she could assist by filming me from another angle for B-roll. She didn’t take offense. In fact, she stayed calm, listened to what I was doing, and asked my name.

I explained I was conducting a First Amendment audit and comparing this location to the Village Post Office. She didn’t try to shut it down or interfere, which I appreciated. When I brought up Poster 7, she seemed to know what it was and acknowledged its relevance. I gave her my business card before moving on.

A Suspicious Phone Call?

Just as I was wrapping up inside, I noticed the supervisor quietly take out her phone. I clearly heard her say something about “a gentleman recording.” When I asked her about it, she denied making a call. Make of that what you will.

But notably — unlike my visit with Kevin — no police showed up. So even if she did call someone, it didn’t lead to a 911 overreaction.

A Final Word of Support

Outside, while filming some B-roll, a man approached and told me he appreciated what I was doing. “Use your rights or lose them,” he said.

That’s exactly the point.

Final Thoughts

This visit was a reminder that even when people work in federal facilities, many still don’t understand the public’s right to record. The clerks may not have liked it — but no one physically interfered, and the police stayed out of it. That’s progress.

Compare that to Kevin and Julio’s location just a few miles away, and you’ll see why continued audits are necessary. These aren’t isolated incidents — they’re teachable moments.

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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 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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