When you walk up to Coral Springs City Hall, it’s hard to miss the massive sun sculpture out front. Painted bright orange and yellow, it beams like Florida sunshine, welcoming everyone who steps inside. Etched on the inside of the sculpture are the words: “Everything Under the Sun.”

That’s Coral Springs’ motto, and it couldn’t have been a more fitting way to open this audit. Because when we’re talking about the First Amendment — the right to speak, record, and hold government accountable — we’re really talking about everything under the sun.

This was meant to be one big video covering Coral Springs City Hall, the police department, the local post offices, and the Northwest Regional Library. But as these things often go, the day’s events reshaped the project. The library footage had enough drama to earn its own release (and if you haven’t seen it yet, you can catch that here). The post office interactions — which include police being called and 911 audio where callers lied — will be next week’s feature.

Today’s story is all about City Hall and the Police Department — two sides of Coral Springs government that, as it turns out, set the bar high for professionalism and transparency.

Checking In at City Hall

The main entrance of Coral Springs City Hall feels more like a corporate lobby than a government office. Off to the left sits a security station manned by an Allied guard. A lot of auditors will tell you Allied Security has a reputation for mishandling First Amendment situations. But this guy? He was polite and professional from the start.

I asked where the building department was, and he told me to head to the “One Stop Shop” through the next door. He even buzzed me in.

Inside, I found myself standing in front of a kiosk that immediately asked for my phone number. That’s where my radar went up. Why should I have to hand over personal info just to access public services? I wasn’t about to feed my data into another system that could open me up to more spam calls.

Instead, I approached the desk, where I met Ashley. She asked my name and what I needed. I explained I wanted records on how many solar permits had been approved in 2025. Before long, an older staff member joined in. She asked clarifying questions — did I only want approvals, or applications too? Residential or commercial? She wasn’t defensive about the camera; she just genuinely wanted to make sure I got the right info.

When I clarified I only wanted approved residential solar permits for 2025, she assured me they could run a report. She even joked that to get the records, they’d need my driver’s license and DNA. We all laughed — it was the kind of good-natured professionalism you hope for in public service.

Ashley handled the request, double-checked the details, and confirmed I could leave my email instead of a phone number. She even made light of being on camera, asking if she looked okay. I told her the viewers were more concerned with how well she did her job than how she looked doing it.

That’s how public service should work: approachable, professional, and transparent.

Same-Day Records

Before I even left the parking lot, I pulled out my phone to check some footage — and there it was. An email from the city with my first records response.

1,305 active employees.

The very same day, I also received the full report of 2025 solar permits. If you’ve ever filed a public records request, you know how rare that is. Too often, governments drag their feet, overcomplicate the process, or try to intimidate requesters. Coral Springs, on the other hand, delivered same-day transparency. That deserves recognition.

Meeting the Deputy City Clerk

Before leaving City Hall, I circled back to the Allied guard and asked about seeing the city clerk. He asked what I needed, and I explained it was for another records request. Right at that moment, a woman called in on the video phone — clearly complaining about me recording.

The guard didn’t flinch. He told her flat-out that I had a right to film in the building. For an Allied guard to stand firm like that is worth noting. I even told him how much I appreciated the way he handled it.

A few minutes later, Deputy City Clerk Aaron came down to meet me. I asked how many employees the city had (which, unbeknownst to me, I’d already gotten the answer to). He explained that requests like that get entered into the city’s JustFOIA system, where I could track progress. I also asked about the immaculate landscaping outside — whether it was done by city employees or contracted out. He said mostly city workers, though sometimes vendors help.

Aaron was polite, professional, and efficient. Nothing more, nothing less.

Walking out of City Hall, I told the camera how smooth the entire process had been. And it really was.

Coral Springs Police Department

Next stop: the Coral Springs Police Department.

Out front, a bronze statue shows a police officer and firefighter with two children between them. Just to the right is a memorial garden for fallen officers. I cracked a quick joke about bronze prices being up but not worth stealing the statue, then made my way inside.

At the front desk, a young woman asked how she could help. I told her I wanted to file a public records request. She asked if I had a case number — I didn’t. She asked what it was related to, and that’s when I told her:

I had noticed an award in their trophy case for February 14, 2018 — the day of the Parkland school shooting.

Remembering Parkland

For context: Coral Springs is right next to Parkland, home of Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School. On Valentine’s Day 2018, 17 students and staff members were murdered in one of the deadliest school shootings in U.S. history.

As shots rang out and children bled on the floor, deputies from the Broward Sheriff’s Office — the agency tasked with protecting the school — stayed outside. They didn’t go in. That’s how BSO earned the infamous nickname: “The Cowards of Broward.”

Coral Springs officers, on the other hand, ran in. They passed those hiding deputies and entered the building ready to confront the shooter.

That’s what the award in the trophy case recognized. The inscription read:

“This award is presented to the Coral Springs Police Department in recognition of your agency personnel’s decisive actions and heroic efforts on February 14, 2018, when responding to an active shooter at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School. Your courageous and brave actions were instrumental in saving precious lives.”

I told the clerk that my request was for the names and email addresses of the officers who went in that day. She seemed a little uncertain, but she pulled out a notepad and began writing it down.

Filing the Requests

She explained that the main reports were with BSO, but that Coral Springs had supplemental records. Either way, their records department would handle the request. She asked for my email, which I dictated while she wrote it down.

Before leaving, I added one more request: the police blotter from the previous Sunday. She made a note of that too, confirmed everything would be submitted, and told me they’d get back to me.

I thanked her for her time and left the building.

Outside, I reflected on camera: no matter where you live in the U.S., you’ve heard of the Valentine’s Day massacre. And whatever you think of law enforcement, you have to respect the fact that Coral Springs PD ran into that school when others didn’t.

Reflection

This Coral Springs audit was unlike many others I’ve done.

At City Hall, I was met with professionalism, good humor, and transparency — including same-day records responses. At the police department, I filed sensitive requests tied to one of the darkest days in Florida history, and the staff still treated me respectfully.

That’s how government should work. Not with hostility. Not with barriers. But with accountability, professionalism, and openness.

What’s Next

If today’s audit felt calm, buckle up — because next week’s post office audit is where things take a turn. The police were called, 911 audio was pulled, and the callers flat-out lied by saying I was irate. That’s not my style, and the record proves it.

Make sure you’re subscribed so you don’t miss it.

In the meantime, you can also check out the Coral Springs Library audit if you missed it — where a patron tried tattling on me and ended up getting schooled on the First Amendment.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things escalated fast.

The lobby melts down

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Education is coming… or so I thought

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

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

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

Come on!

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

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

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

Then she demands my ID.

One man steps up — right in front of the cops

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

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

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

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

“Are you detaining me?”

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

She doesn’t answer.

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

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

She walks past me and says “bye.”

I tell her to go fuck herself.

Because freedom of speech still exists.

Filming the fallout

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I tell him to get lost.

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

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

But this audit — this one’s for Chi Chi

I filmed this video while holding something heavy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Access Specialty Animal Hospital – Palm Beach County

(561) 774-8855

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

Legal Disclaimer

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

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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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.

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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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