Sometimes it’s the detours that remind us Who forms man’s footsteps and watches over His nation

Mistaken Identity

Name: Barry Klein*

Destination: Mexico City

I

was traveling from New York to Mexico City for a business trip. I missed my early-morning flight, but was able to get onto the next flight. There was a catch, though — two of them — stopovers in Dallas and San Antonio, Texas. With no alternative, I got on the flight.

I landed in San Antonio later that evening with time to spare until my connecting flight to Mexico. After strolling through the airport and picking up a snack, I figured I’d head for the gate. But I wasn’t sure where it was, so I asked a police officer for directions.

He stared at me suspiciously. “Do you have identification?”

Confused, I handed him my passport. He stared at the passport, looked back at me and then at the passport again.

“Go stand against the wall!” he commanded.  His voice was shaking. “Put your hands up!”

He slapped handcuffs onto my wrists and suddenly I was surrounded by 12 police officers.

Another officer took pictures of me and everyone in the airport began running away in fright. One frazzled young mother grabbed her children and scurried away as though I were the world’s most wanted criminal.

“What is going on?” I finally asked.

“You’re coming with us,” one of the officers replied. I was led through the terminal accompanied by 13 police officers, as I wracked my brain, trying to imagine what crime I could have possibly committed. This was a terrible mistake, but I was too frightened to open my mouth.

T

hey led me into a security office where a detective sat behind a large desk. He was wearing a large cowboy hat and his cowboy boots were perched casually on the desk. He stared at me for a long moment. “A man has been murdered in Dallas, Texas, and you fit the description of the murderer.”

Turns out, I happened to be within the same height and weight range as the murderer. I was also wearing a similar gray suit, blue shirt, and dark brown loafers. I shared the same color hair, and had a similar short beard. I had just arrived from Dallas, and as far as the police were concerned, they’d clinched the case.

They interrogated me for the next hour, asking me pointed questions in rapid succession. They went through every stitch of my suitcase, asking me questions about various items. The fact that I was obviously Jewish made matters worse.

When they began taking mugshots, I started to fear for my life. The penalty for murder in Texas is very serious; death to be exact. It was the most frightening hour of my life.

The detective checked the ticket from my previous flight, and then contacted the airline. He wanted to know exactly what time my flight took off from Dallas. The airline confirmed that the plane took off at 5:19 p.m. (We actually took off several minutes early, which was an enormous blessing.)

The murder had occurred at 5:28 p.m.

Suddenly, the tone in the room changed and everyone relaxed. “You were already on the plane at the time of the murder,” the detective said, standing up to remove my handcuffs.

Just like that, I went from being a common criminal to a VIP. I’d missed my connection, and they promised  to get me on the next flight.

When I finally settled onto the plane to Mexico City, I took a deep breath, and sent a prayer of thanks Upward. If my flight from Dallas had taken off even several minutes later, my day would have ended very differently.