I had decided to try to talk with some of the folks using handicap placards (you know, the little signs that hang over your rearview mirror) in metered spaces around our state government buildings in Raleigh.

I wanted to know why nearly half -- and sometimes as many as two-thirds -- of metered spaces on certain streets are filled with cars designated handicapped.

What I learned is: a) parking is a sensitive topic among state employees; b) there is a shortage of parking close to most agency headquarters; c) most of the folks who use handicap placards are totally on the up-and-up.

And, oh yeah, d) some people are weasels who misuse handicap placards. It's no major crime, but on the pathetic meter, it scores 10 out of 10.

The honest and able-bodied have to walk several blocks to get from car to office and back.

As a result, in a department such as Justice, where Americans with Disabilities Act rules are strenuously protected, handicapped folk are given "priority" parking behind the building -- when it's available. Beyond that, they're told to park (free, and all day) in metered spaces right outside the front door.

The only problem with that is the metered spaces were placed along the busy streets of the government complex, presumably to keep people from parking there all day long.

Instead, many of those spaces seem to be "reserved" for a small cadre of state employees. I know because I tracked them on and off for more than two weeks.

God forbid a member of the public should need to do business with one of our state agencies.

In the end, though, the weasels are the real blight in an imperfect system. Some aren't quite as handicapped as the DMV permit requires. Others use family members' placards.

Take, for instance, the Department of Justice employee I caught walking in about 7:30 a.m. last Thursday.

I hustled over in my high heels to ask whether she was the person indicated by the little blue handicap sign.

"Naww," she said. "It's my mom's."

Then, perhaps realizing that she'd confessed to a reporter, she told me that she'd only parked the car there that day because she needed to come and go. Well, maybe the past few days.

Her tag was one of the regulars in my tracking. But hey, who's counting?

What surprised me was that later, the same woman (hereafter known as Weasel1) came outside with one of her DOJ colleagues to give me a little dressing down on behalf of beleaguered state employees who have no place to park.

"I have a bum knee," the colleague said, "and some of us have congestive heart disease." She inclined her head toward Weasel1.

I turned to Weasel1, confused. "I thought you said. ..." I began.

"I know," she snapped. "It'll be moved." (And it was, shortly after 9 a.m., when I left to head to my own office.)

The two employees asked me my name; I gave it. I asked theirs and they refused. Then they stomped indignantly back into the building.

I noticed the one with the bum knee was moving on some fairly steep footwear herself.