The officer pulled out his citation pad. “I’m citing you for trespassing. You’re free to contest it in court.” The cyclist exploded in a string of protests, but the ticket was already being written. “And sir,” the officer added, turning to Clarence, “would you mind if I hung around for a bit? Might be worth discouraging anyone else from cutting through.”
Clarence nodded once. “Be my guest.” For the next hour, the officer stood by the corner of the yard. Cyclists who ignored the sign were greeted first by a blast of cold water, and then, twenty feet later, by a uniformed officer with a clipboard. The shortcut had finally become inconvenient.