When I was in the fourth grade, a classmate named Jeffrey Simpson chased me after school and, when he caught up, stabbed me with a paperclip he had DIY’d into a lethal weapon. I had heard of citizen’s arrest and wanted to perform it but didn’t know how. Do I just announce, “You’re under arrest?” Did I need handcuffs? A gun, perhaps?

In practice, a citizen’s arrest is less about announcing authority (although you can say, “you’re under arrest” because that’s the fun part), and more about restraint, literally and figuratively. It usually involves telling the person they are being detained after you’ve witnessed what you think is a crime. It also means limiting their movement without excessive force, and immediately calling the police. In many states, the safest version amounts to blocking an exit, standing between someone and their escape, or simply staying put with them until law enforcement arrives. This, of course, assumes a certain physical presence. As a 4'10" female, I could realistically block a doorway only if the door were already closed. For some of us, the most effective form of citizen’s arrest is excellent observation and a very fast phone call.

Fourth grade me did not know any of this. What I did know was that Jeffrey Simpson was a repeat offender, the paperclip was sharp, and my notebook did not double as body armor. I imagined myself stepping in front of him, raising an authoritative hand, and declaring, “Jeffrey Simpson, you’re under arrest.” In my fantasy, a police car arrived instantly. Simpson was escorted away, paperclip confiscated, never to menace me again.

In reality, I ran home crying, which is not technically a citizen’s arrest but is a widely practiced civilian response.

Fast forward a few decades, and I still find myself drawn to the concept of the citizen’s arrest because, let’s face it, the urge to personally right a wrong is powerful. There is, however, a small matter of liability. If you citizen’s-arrest the wrong person—or the right person the wrong way—you may end up arrested yourself. Nothing vaporizes your moral high ground faster than explaining to a judge that you were “pretty sure” and “just trying to help.” And so, I’ve invented the silent citizen’s arrest, which occurs entirely in my head, complete with imaginary cuffs and a strongly worded internal closing argument.

Looking back, my fourth-grade confusion wasn’t really about legal procedure. It was about wanting safety, fairness, and an authority figure to show up when one was clearly needed. Citizen’s arrest sounded comforting because it suggested justice was portable—something you could carry around in your backpack next to your lunch and spelling homework. My real solution to Simpson was to find another way home, which turned out to be the long way.

Today, I know better. Justice is not portable. It is heavy, complicated, and best handled by people with training, radios, and paperwork. My role is not to detain, subdue, or dramatically announce anything. Nor is it to tackle anyone in the cereal aisle. My role is to be a good witness, a decent neighbor, and someone who knows when to step back. Still, every now and then, when I’m in the midst of another outrageous public incident, a small voice pipes up inside me and asks, “Citizen’s arrest?” Then I remember Jeffrey Simpson, the paperclip, and the long way home—and I keep walking.