"The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly," is a series in which we highlight your stories — be they good, bad, or ugly — about being black in America. We all have different experiences, but you can bet there is always someone out there who can relate to your stories. Reader K.A. sent in an account of a ridiculous encounter with police, something to which many blacks can relate. Have a similar tale? Would you like to share and/or vent about a moment when you've been proud, delighted, ashamed, or discriminated against based on your race? Send it to lauren@stereohyped.com with the subject "Good Bad Ugly." And I welcome the good stories! There's so much ugly in the world.

My husband and I were driving out of a suburban shopping area at about 7 at night. We were in my car, which was a mid sized sedan. Neither of us has anything on our driving records in the last 16 years. He's white. I'm black. He's driving.

We notice when we get in the car at the store, that one of the headlights has burned out. We get on the freeway and two miles in, we get pulled over by a county sheriff. The deputy looks in the car and asks for my husband's license. We ask why he's stopped us. He says because of the tail light. He asks who's car it is. My husband, says, "It's my wife's." (He's such a smart ass. He knows this fool won't figure it out.) The deputy says "Does she know that you have it?" He has now assumed that I am a hooker and my husband has picked me up some where for nefarious purposes. He asks for the registration. I reach directly in the glove box, and pull it out, without looking. I should add at this point that I have on a full length fox fur coat and my hair is fierce. Why does that matter? Cause I prosecuted almost every hooker in town and not one of them is remotely fierce. The cops know all the hookers.

He walks back to his car to call it in. The volume on the radio in his car is on high. I can't hear all of the conversation, but I do manage to hear the dispatcher say to the deputy as he gets back out his car "I think you're in trouble." The deputy walks rather sheepishly up to our car and asks me "Are you still a county prosecutor?" I wasn't at the time, but I did say "I still work for the county." He gives back our stuff, apologizes profusely and backs away from the car.

I'm sure the dispatcher told him that my reputation as a prosecutor was that I brutalized witnesses AND cops on the stand and had gotten cops disciplined for lying on the stand. Cops have told me that they never wanted to lie to me cause it was way too dangerous. I was also on the committee to elect the county sheriff and am friends with him.

We laughed our butts off on the drive home. But the moral of the story is You can't be a black woman with a white man in a nice car at dusk, and not be a hooker. That is, until you turn out to be the prosecutor…..

–K.A.