Mad bomber

Did you know that I was nearly arrested on suspician of trying to assassinate a prominent city of San Francisco official? (I won't name his name.)
This was back in my young twenties when I was a very busy singer, doing gigs all over the bay area.
One dark and stormy night. . . no, actually it was a calm, star-filled night, I decided to walk home after my voice lesson. I could have taken the street-car, but I wasn't in any hurry and you know how it is when you're young and stupid about the dangers of city streets at night.
Halfway down Vicente, a guy on a motocycle passed me and slowed to get a better look. I ignored him and kept walking. He made a u-turn at the next block and came back for another ogle.
Getting nervous, I hurried down the hill and crossed the street at West Portal, straining to hear any sounds of pursuit from the motorcycle guy. None came.
With great relief I climbed the hill to Portola and waited for a break in the traffic.
Then, "rrum, rrum." Mr. Motorcycle again, a couple of short blocks away.
Still a quarter of a mile away from home, I cast about for a place to hide from my stalker.
The houses across Portola were built on a hill with garages situated at street level. The nearest one, bordered by a thick hedge, might hide a frightened woman.
I dashed across the wide avenue, cleared the sidewalk in one bound and thrust my body into the thorny green stuff.
I held my breath, listening. Mr. Morocycle approached. Slowed. Drove off fast.
Shew! I climbed out of the hedge and brushed myself off.
Then I saw the police cruiser parked on San Anselmo. An officer jumped out and ran across toward me, brandishing a flashlight and a gun.
"Hey!" he yelled at me.
I cowered in front of my hiding place. The guy had to have been seven feet tall.
"What were you doing in there? Let me see your ID." He gripped my arm and pulled me out under the streetlight.
"I. . er. . . you see, there was this guy on a motorcycle and-and. . . "
He scrutinized my driver's license.
"And he kept following me. . . so I thought I'd hide in--"
The officer put his gun back. "Where do you live?"
"With my grandmother. . . j-just down on San Pablo."
He shut off his flashlight. "All right. You get on home. I don't wanna see you anywhere near this house again."
I turned and walked on shaky legs all the way home.
In the morning I told my grandmother about the police officer on San Anselmo.
"Oh, yes," that's where (name of official) lives. Apparently he's gotten several death threats. That must be why the policeman's there."

Do you think the officer entered my name in some official "potential terrorist" government list?Is there a statute of limitations for suspects? That was over thirty years ago. Maybe I'm still be in there. I wonder.