This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2016, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

When I became a cop in 1978, I was astonished at the amount of power entrusted to me. I had a gun, a badge and the authority to stick my nose into whatever was happening in public places.

Case in point would be the first time I happened upon a car parked out in the desert in the middle of the night.

As I drove down a long dirt road toward the car, my first thought was that perhaps it had broken down and been abandoned. Then I thought maybe the occupants had gone for a hike and were lost.

The closer I got, the more disturbing my suspicions became. What if it was a stolen car? What if the person who stole it was still in it? Hell, what if he had a gun?

I even considered the possibility that it was an extraterrestrial trap set to lure an unsuspecting patrol officer into a situation whereby his bowels could be explored at length by space monsters in some off-world location.

That last thought turned out to be closest to the truth. When I pulled up to the car and lit it up, there was indeed something inside. And it had a bad case of acne on its buttocks.

The occupants turned out to be an amorous couple intoxicated just enough to believe what they were doing in the middle of dark nowhere was a good idea. I waited while they scrambled into their clothes.

The woman was embarrassed. The man was indignant. Didn't I have anything better to do than sneak up on people parked on "lover's lane?"

Nope. I didn't. What happened in public was my business. And given the number of date rapes that occurred, it was my job to make sure that everyone in a car parked out in the weeds wanted to be there.

"Yeah," the man sneered. "Just because you have a badge."

I suggested that he consider for a moment what would be happening at that moment if someone without a badge — perhaps even several drunk someones — had stopped to see what was going on, and decided to join in the fun.

He didn't appreciate this. So I asked the woman if she wanted to be there? She replied that it seemed like a good idea at the time, but now she wasn't so sure. Could she just go home?

After making sure the guy was sober enough to drive, and a brief explanation of what constituted legitimate privacy — motel room, home, toolshed, barn, the back room of the bar they had just come from — I let them go.

Him: "Get a real job."

Me: "Get some Clearasil."

Depending on your view of law enforcement in general, this incident could be viewed in a variety of ways. I was doing my job. I prevented a potential crime. I was overly nosy. Or I was proof that America was a police state back then.

It was a long time ago. Thirty-eight years to be exact. Maybe America's law enforcement standards have changed. If so, I'm betting they've changed for the better.

In August 1920, Salt Lake City Police Chief Joseph E. Burbidge ordered his officers to go out and arrest everyone who didn't have a good explanation for being in town. They hauled in several hundred vagrants, bums, and ne'er-do-wells.

Here's the police state part. Anyone who ran away from being arrested was legal target practice. The papers from that time are full of accounts of police officers chasing hysterical miscreants while shooting at them. Nobody seemed to think this was unusual.

Those who went along peacefully were hauled before the city judge, and given a "floater" — 24 hours to get out of town, or a stretch in the city jail. No appeals.

It's pretty clear that law enforcement has changed for the better over time. I'm not sure the same can be said about the public.

Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley.