Image by Alice Woodrome

I was in a hurry to get to the airport. While the cabby took his sweet time stowing my bag in the trunk, I climbed into the back seat myself and took a quick inventory. Yes, I had my sweater, my purse, a small tote bag with my laptop, my cell phone and a newspaper to read during the flight. I looked around, annoyed at the delay. What was taking so long?

"To the airport," I said to the dark-skinned driver as he finally opened the door to get behind the wheel. "And step on it -- I'm running behind."

I was upset. He had surely seen that I didn't have any time to spare. It would take a half hour to get there if traffic wasn't bad, just barely enough time to get through security if they weren't backed up too badly. Air travel hadn't been the same since the terrorist attack.

"Hurry up," I said under my breath, as angry at myself as I was at anyone. It was my own fault for over sleeping. I understood the need for tighter security. We all needed to be diligent and watchful. The world had changed on nine-eleven.

The driver said something to me over his shoulder in a thick accent.

"Excuse me?" I said finding his face in the rear view mirror.

"Rain," he said more clearly, gesturing with his right hand. "Make, uh -- slow. Maybe be late -- maybe."

It was barely sprinkling. "My flight is not going to wait for me... please do the best you can."

He smiled at me in the mirror and shrugged.

The driver turned his attention to the road but something about his face held my attention and I studied his features in the mirror. Then it hit me. He looked like one of the terrorist pictured in the morning paper. I had read little more than the lead paragraph about the FBI issuing a terrorist alert as I waited for the taxi, but the pictures of the swarthy terrorists had made a chilling impression.

I chided myself for my foolish suspicion. Just because the driver was of Middle Eastern descent and had angered me with his lack of concern for my schedule was no reason to think he was a terrorist. To assuage my misgivings I took the newspaper out of my tote bag to get another look at the photos.

I gasp audibly as I looked at the front page. My eyes quickly went to the mirror again and back to the photo. The man driving me to the airport was a dead ringer for al-Rabeel, the Yemeni national pictured first.

But why would a terrorist be driving a taxi when his picture was plastered on every newspaper in the city? It couldn't be. He was probably just one of countless foreigners who have the misfortune to look something like a suspected terrorist. Perhaps it was the distinctive beard and the head cloth. That alone could raise suspicions. I looked in the mirror again for a better look and inadvertently caught his eye. He frowned and stared back at me for a moment too long.

I felt terrible. Either I was making an innocent person uncomfortable or I was alerting a terrorist who would certainly have time to flee if I reported him. Should I call the police right after I got to the airport just to be safe and let them sort it out? I could call while I stood in line to check my bags, but I would surely miss my flight if they wanted me to give them any details. There would be no time to call anonymously from a public phone.

I was over-reacting; I must be. This poor taxi driver was not a terrorist and I would only complicate his life if I made a phone call. Besides I needed to make my flight if I possibly could. Catching terrorists were not my job. I decided to mind my own business.

When we got to the airport, I tried not to look him in the eye. I got out of there as fast as I could and checked my bags in record time and made my way impatiently through security. If the plane had not been delayed I would not have made it on time, but the plane was still there when I got to the gate.

They wouldn't let me board, though. I was arrested and charged as a suspected terrorist. It seems a bomb was found in the bag I had checked by a diligent and watchful dog who did not care about my schedule either.