[ WP ] a small town sheriff attempts to arrest Barack Obama , somehow completely unaware that Obama is the President .

NOTE: With heavy apologies to John Ball. It was just the only image I had in my head when I read this prompt. 
 
 Sam sized him up. In an instant he knew this man did n't belong in Wells. He did n't fit in. His clothes were too well tailored. His overcoat - sitting alongside him on the bench as he waited for the train - was too thick and heavy for South Carolina. And his features were not like that of the southern labourers one often found in Wells. He lacked the broad nose and the thick, heavy lips of the blacks that he knew. Sam would almost say this man had some white blood in him. And he was waiting for something. Anxiously. 
 
 This murderer would n't skip town that easily. 
 
 `` On your feet, black boy...'' Sam ordered, crossing the room quickly. 
 
 The Negro reached for his coat. `` No you do n't!''. Sam knocked aside his arm and with a single swift motion spun his man around and clamped his own powerful forearm hard under the Negro's chin. In this position Sam could control him easily and still search him with his free hand. Swiftly he finished his inspection, an action the Negro was apparently too frightened to resist. When he had finished, Sam released the pressure on the man's windpipe and issued further orders. `` Stand against the wall, face to it. Hands up, fingers spread and lean against them. Do n't move until I tell you to.'' 
 
 The Negro obeyed without question, allowing Sam to search his jacket. In the breast pocket he found a wallet with far too much money in it for a black. This was his man all right. Sam ordered him into the back of his cruiser and then radioed back that he was bringing a suspect in. 
 
 -- -- 
 
 As Sam turned the corner toward a row of cells the night desk officer pointed silently to the office of Chief Gillespie. `` Careful...'' the night man added ``... the Chief's on a bit of an edge. First he's got to deal with this murder, and now apparently the President's in town.'' 
 
 Sam nodded a silent thank you to the duty officer and steered the Negro toward his superior's office, his strong left arm effectively and easily controlling the suspect. He knocked, and was invited within. Gillespie's expression was impatient, but Sam knew that it was at least partly for show. The Chief was a big man, but part of being an effective cop was knowing how to use it. With a black - especially a nice and compliant one like this Negro he had arrested - you had to let them know who was boss right away. It helped them feel comfortable in their role. 
 
'What's your name boy?'' Gillespie's question was loaded with undertone. It was harsh and unyielding. It demanded an answer, but it bore with it the promise that the answer would not be good enough. 
 
 `` My name is Obama. Barack Hussien Obama.'' The Negro, speaking for the first time, revealed a kind of cool and personable tone to his voice. It was in many ways the opposite of Gillespie's own voice, but it bore in it a hidden similarity. This Negro did not seem cowed by the Chief and his voice betrayed nothing besides a steadfast calm. 
 
 `` What were you doing in the train station?'' Gillespie seemed to respond now to the Negro's tone. His voice was less explosive, but still demanding. 
 
 The Negro answered without so much as shifting his weight. `` I was waiting for the five seventeen train to DC.'' There was silence afterwards, and Sam did not dare so much as move lest he break the spell Gillespie was weaving upon the Negro. 
 
 `` How did you get to town?'' 
 
 `` I came in on the twelve thirty five. It was three quarters of an hour late.'' 
 
 Gillespie suddenly decided to ramp up the tone again. `` Which twelve thirty five?'' he barked, trying to force the man into a corner. 
 
 The prisoner's voice did not change. `` The one from downstate. The local.'' The idea forced itself into Sam's head that this was one of those educated blacks that hung around the UN, if the newsreels were to be believed. 
 
 `` Where did you get the money for a train fare?'' Gillespie shot back. 
 
 Sam produced the man's wallet and slammed it down on the desk, hoping to curry favour with his boss as well as get this Negro to confess to his crimes. `` Where did you get all this dough?'' he added with only a small flourish. 
 
 `` I earned it.'' he replied, ever calm. 
 
 Gillespie leaned back his chair, sensing that he had his victory already. Both Sam and the Chief knew that there was no way a coloured to make that kind of money, and no way for him to keep it even if he could. The verdict was in, and the burden placed upon them by the murder would soon be lifted. 
 
 `` And what do you do that makes you that kind of money, Mr. Obama'' Gillespie said, smiling like a hungry jackal about to make a kill. 
 
 And then the Negro cracked. There, in his cool collected face Sam saw a chink in the Negro's armour. Some emotion was escaping. The Negro was.... 
 
....he was smiling. 
 
 `` I'm the President of the United States'' 
 
 

