But this is Mayor Rudolph Giuliani’s New York, where it doesn’t take much to draw the attention of cops. This is old news for New Yorkers. They know all about Hizzonor’s banning homeless squeegee men from approaching drivers and offering to clean their windshields. He’s cracked down on street vendors and sent police into neighborhoods to enforce petty ordinances against everything from jaywalking to tree climbing. While the crackdown has been controversial, I can’t say I haven’t benefited. Crime has fallen. I don’t worry about getting mugged. Fewer people hassle you on the subway. Small-time drug dealers no longer mob Washington Square Park.

Yuppie that I am, of course, I’ve never given much thought to what it felt like to be on the other side of the law. So when the mayor’s troopers came knocking, I thought there must be some mistake. Imagine my embarrassment upon discovering my crime. One Saturday night, back in March, I strolled out of my apartment after a barbecue, a Coors Light beer in hand. Quick as a flash, a sheepish twentysomething police officer came up and wrote me a ticket. The charge: violating New York City’s so-called open-container laws banning the public consumption of alcoholic beverages. Yeah, I probably should have paid it then and there. But instead I stuck the pink slip in my back pocket–and forgot about it. Until a month or so ago, that is, when some computer at police HQ spat out a list of Wanted Criminals. My name was on it.

At least I keep good company. Lots of my friends have had similar run-ins lately. One acquaintance tried to fight a $20 parking ticket. By the time she got to court, her car had been towed and impounded. Now she owes $400. Another friend was pulled over for running a red light on his bicycle. He was given a ticket for not having a horn or a bell. When I called to inquire about my particular case, I was told to call back later. “Speak with Officer Kosenza.” But I didn’t get a chance. Kosenza called me that night, while I was having dinner with my girlfriend. He wanted me to come to court, right then. He cajoled. (“I’ll have you out of there in 20 minutes, Adam. Listen, last night I had people thanking me.”) He threatened. (“If you get pulled over while you’re out of state, the police will see you have a warrant and throw you in jail.”) He pleaded. (“I took the trouble to call you. I thought we had a deal.”)

But I was wary, and rightly. Gladys’s middle-aged daughter had connections at the local precinct, so she checked things out. It seems New York’s Finest are in a bind. With crime falling to record lows, it’s getting harder and harder for cops to “make the numbers” that show they’re doing a better and better job cracking down on crime. Arrests and jailings were down. Hizzonor would not be pleased. What to do? The answer, it turns out, is to rifle through out-of-date tickets that haven’t been paid–anything they could turn into a “crime.” Then they lure potential culprits with sweet talk, fingerprint them and lock ’em up for as long as 48 hours. Gladys’s pigeon suggested I get a lawyer.

That meant some hand-wringing (over beers) with friends who were. We decided there was only one thing to do: turn myself in. Which is how I found myself, one balmy August evening, handcuffed at the downtown Manhattan police station, watching officers lead shackled fellow prisoners away to “the tombs,” as cells are called. Kosenza arrived. He scurried back and forth importantly, leaving me (along with a terrified Pakistani immigrant) with an older officer who regaled us with tales of his undercover days battling crack dealers in the ’80s. “Times sure have changed,” he said, shaking his head at the dregs of us statistically useful nuisances.

Eventually we were led into a courtroom. Kosenza leaned over and asked me if I had $20. A young attorney approached and asked if I had ever been arrested before. She stepped before the judge and, presto, it was done. Handcuffs off, out the door. (The journalist in me wanted to complain. Don’t I get to spend the night in the slammer? What am I going to write about?) But I went quietly home, as is my wont, promising not to do whatever I was guilty of for at least another six months. I got off easy. But I also learned a lesson: Giuliani’s clean streets come with a price–and not just for drug dealers or Times Square squeegee men. If only the mayor would neglect to pay a ticket.