The Cop
Lt. Pat Maxwell, oxford police dept.

f you’ve ever cruised through the historic waterfront village of Oxford, Md., there’s a good chance you’ve seen police officer Lt. Pat Maxwell. And make no mistake about it—he’s definitely seen you.

This is one diligent lawman, dedicated to making sure that his hometown stays crime-free by making your business his business. “We know where every car belongs in town, even at the part-time residences,” says Maxwell, who’s been a police officer for twenty-six years. “As the late-police chief Wally Jones once said, ‘We have three officers and 850 deputies.’ This town is all eyes and ears when it comes to monitoring crime.”

When not patrolling through the residential areas, you’ll likely find him hunkered down in his squad car not far from where the speed limit plummets from 40 to 25 miles per hour. In fact, Maxwell and his coworkers’ take-no-prisoners approach to traffic enforcement has become so legendary that it’s just as common to overhear folks bemoaning the speed traps as it is their near-empty crab traps.

“The majority of the violators tend to be from out of state or the western shore,” explains Maxwell, who estimates that of the town’s 1,500 annual traffic violations, 70 percent are speeding infractions. “One guy came sailing in here doing 80 in a 25. He was less than cordial. I gave him a $500 fine and a ticket for reckless driving. He told me, ‘I’m going to have your job!’ Another woman I pulled over continued to talk on her cell phone after I made numerous requests that she hang up. I took the phone and told the person on the other line that she’d have to call them back…”

But not all speeders are confrontational. “We also have very nice people who apologize for speeding and then thank us for doing our job,” says Maxwell. “I always say that we’re fair, but we’re firm. So let ’em talk.”—K.B.

The Lobbyist
Mike Canning, Annapolis

Until the Maryland Public Ethics Law was passed in 1979, placing restrictions on types and values of gifts lobbyists could give legislators, the state had a reputation for the two getting a little too cozy. According to Mike Canning, who’s been in the business since 1984, “the problem is that, from time to time, like in any profession, somebody violates the law, gets in trouble and it’s given great coverage by the media. I don’t think that the incident rate is high, it’s just that the visibility from the media makes it a greater public interest story.” Canning is the co-founder of Annapolis-based Manis, Canning & Associates, which represents more than forty clients, from the Motion Picture Association of America to the Baltimore Ravens. “But it does a considerable bit of damage to the whole institution, to the whole legislative process. You build personal relationships built on trust and integrity and when someone violates that, it has a very negative effect.”

But what about that pushy demeanor that lobbyists are often portrayed as having? “I think that description is a little out of character for most of us,” says Canning. “You can’t get in people’s faces and get them angry if you’re going to be in this business. You’re in this because you respect people and the process. And it’s a rare case where you see that kind of interchange taking place.”

So does he think that the business has evolved for the better? “My experience is that it’s a mature and gentlemanly activity where people are advocating on behalf of a business interest,” says Canning. “If the issue is that people think we’re all-powerful and controlling government, that’s flat wrong. If the perception is that we’re all crooked, we’re not. That’s just not the reality of Annapolis. We spend an enormous amount of time checking and double-checking to make sure things are permissible rather than take a chance.”—K.B. 

The Parking Enforcement Officer
Veronica Parker, Annapolis

Annapolis is famous for being a parking-challenged town. You can cruise from the harbor to St. John’s College for hours, all the while wondering if anyone would notice if you slipped into a sticker-required residential spot—just for a sec. Veronica Parker would.

Parker, an Annapolis city parking enforcement officer, has been walking the beat for eighteen years. She cruises up and down Residential District 1, which includes Prince George, King George, and Randall streets, monitoring parking time limits. It’s the busiest residential area in the city with its fair share of repeat offenders—and she knows who you are. In the early mornings, she watches people park where they shouldn’t, as they keep one eye on their car while running into the CVS. “If they run up to me before I’ve printed their ticket, I’ll say, ‘I’ll stop this time, but not next time.’ I’m not going to play games!”

But it’s not always such a civil exchange of words, explains Parker, who people say has a trademark “look” that she wields. “People say I look mean, so I don’t get the drama-drama,” she muses. “They’ll say things like, ‘I’ll see you in court,’ but they don’t go off crazy. One coworker had a guy kick a trash can over in front of her, and another was almost run over by an angry driver. I just get cussed at daily.”

But it’s still a stressful job. “It’s hard to compose yourself sometimes,” she says. “When people come at you, I just remind them that I’m just doing my job. A lot of time, people have something to say even when I’m not writing a ticket for their car. Dealing with the people who make the rude comments, especially when people come out of
the bars at night on my late shift, it’s crazy.”

So has she ever gotten a parking ticket? “No,” she responds without a blink. “When I come downtown, I park where I’m supposed to.”—E.B.W.

The Developer
Jack Burbage,Berlin, Md.

Next to dwindling blue crab populations and Bay Bridge traffic, Eastern Shore folks love to debate the topic of development. And it’s developers like Jack Burbage who get the brunt of their angst.

Burbage, co-owner of Berlin-based Blue Water Development, which he runs with his sons, John and Todd, has been in the business for twenty-three years. His list of projects has included hundreds of developments, from shopping centers in West Ocean City to $400,000 condos in Chincoteague, which hasn’t always made him the most popular guy. “Whenever we have opposition to a project,” he explains, “we call the community together and work it out. We listen to their concerns and try to find solutions before we move forward with a building permit. It seems to work a lot better than taking the approach of ‘us against them.’”

So does he think that developers get a bad rap? “I think it depends on the developer,” says Burbage. “We try to do things right. But some try to put a quart in the pint jar and are chastised for it. And I think rightfully so. We just did a development in Ocean City called Ocean Reef, and we could have gotten 104 lots in there but we only did 87 because we made it a more “green” development. Sure, we could have sold it for more money if we had crammed more lots in, but, in the end, we had a better development.”

Burbage believes that oftentimes the real villains in the industry are the amateurs who jump in just to get a slice of the financial pie. “Too many people, like realtors and doctors, try to be developers, but they don’t know what they’re doing. They all came into the market in this last economic push and built small projects because they saw the money being made. And now they have no wherewithal to withstand the slowdown. They’ve created a lot of problems—and now they’re taking a bath in it.”—K.B.

The Repo Man
Dwayne Jennings*, Eastern shore

Dwayne Jennings never saw it coming. He was down on one knee, hooking up his tow truck to a car in Southeast Washington, D.C., when he felt the blow to the back of his head. Seeing stars, he looked up at a woman, about eight months pregnant, hovering over him with a two-by-four. “I got up and grabbed her and held her arms, but she bit the hell out of my thumbs,” says Jennings. “The police eventually came, but if she had swung just a little bit harder, I would have been done.”

You think your job is tough? Try repossessing other people’s cars for a living. In his thirty-eight years working as a professional repo man, Jennings has been shot at, cussed out, and taken a few punches, but he says he couldn’t see himself doing anything else. “It’s the excitement. There is nothing typical about each job; every situation is different.”

These days, Jennings runs a repossession business on the Eastern Shore and mostly lets his seven employees do the “field work.” He’s been driving a tow truck since the age of fifteen (for “an old drinker” who used to chase accidents) and repossessing cars in the Washington metro area for banks and credit lenders since age seventeen. He says the key to surviving in his business is to use simple common sense and to defuse any potentially dangerous situation before it gets out of hand. “You have to know when to back out and when to go forward,” he says. “I’ll talk to the person, treat him as a decent human being. I’ve found that you get a whole lot more with the honey than with the bees.”

Still, Jennings says most repo men are misunderstood. “People think that we’re no good, rotten slimy S.O.B.’s and that nobody has any control over us. They don’t realize that we’re licensed professionals. And we’re just doing a job like everybody else.”—J.S.

*Not his real name.