Denver Man Wins $80,000 After THIS Bodycam Arrest – Deputies Instantly Regret It! | HO

A stretch of highway north of Denver has become the backdrop for a familiar American showdown: a citizen with a camera, a deputy with handcuffs, and a supervisor who arrives just in time to stop the situation from getting worse.

The bodycam clip—now widely shared—shows an encounter in Adams County, Colorado that begins with filming and ends with an apology, an immediate release at the roadside, and later, an $$80{,}000$$ settlement tied to the arrest.

Supporters of the man filming say it’s a textbook reminder that recording police in public is protected, and that refusing to hand over identification when you’re not lawfully detained is not a crime.

Supporters of the deputy say the scene was unsafe, the filming was provocative, and officers have to make fast decisions when unknown people insert themselves near a traffic stop on a busy roadway.

What’s not in dispute is that the incident was captured on camera, the “obstruction” arrest was quickly walked back, and Adams County ultimately agreed to pay to resolve the matter—without, at least publicly, a full airing in court.

The man in the video is identified by narration as Barry Zetcallic, described as a Denver police reserve officer. The arresting deputy is identified as Walter Berlin, a deputy with the Adams County Sheriff’s Office.

The footage begins after another flashpoint that viewers do not see directly: a dispute about speeding.

Zetcallic claims he saw the deputy driving fast on Highway 85, “no lights, no sirens,” and decided to document what he viewed as casual rule-breaking by someone in uniform.

But the deputy alleges the opposite. On camera, he tells Zetcallic, “I have you recorded doing 80 mph in a 65 mph zone.”

That difference—who was speeding, and who was documenting whom—matters, because it shapes how people interpret everything that follows.

If Zetcallic was simply a passerby who stopped to record a traffic stop from a lawful distance, the legal analysis tends to favor him.

If the deputy believed he had probable cause that Zetcallic had just committed a traffic offense, the deputy may argue he had grounds to demand identification and take investigative steps—especially if Zetcallic was close enough to create a safety issue.

The video shows Zetcallic pulling over near an active traffic stop and filming from his vehicle. He later explains he had turned onto 104th Avenue toward a Ford dealership when he noticed the deputy had someone pulled over.

His phone rang, he says, and at the same time he realized it was the same officer he believed had been speeding earlier.

In his telling, he thought: wouldn’t it be something if the same deputy who had been driving fast was now writing someone else a speeding ticket?

So he held up his phone and filmed.

After finishing with the other driver, the deputy approaches Zetcallic’s car. The first words are polite.

“Hi, how are you?” the deputy asks.

“Good,” Zetcallic replies.

“Everything okay?”

“Yep. Can I get your name and badge number?”

The deputy immediately wants to know why. “For what?”

Zetcallic answers that he wants to know who he would be complaining about. “For speeding,” he says.

“Speeding?” the deputy repeats, sounding incredulous.

“Yes, sir.”

Within seconds, the tone changes from customer-service calm to a contested street-level debate about authority.

Zetcallic accuses the deputy of driving 80 in a 65, “no headlights, no sirens,” describing the deputy’s manner as casual and routine. He adds a line that sets the mood for the rest of the exchange: he says he wanted to film “hypocrisy.”

The deputy, in turn, pivots to paperwork.

“License, registration, proof of insurance,” he says.

Zetcallic refuses—flatly. “No. No.”

The deputy repeats the request. Zetcallic repeats the refusal.

And then Zetcallic begins demanding a supervisor, over and over: “Get your sergeant over here.”

The deputy warns him he is now obstructing. Zetcallic disputes that, arguing obstruction must be “physical.”

“It’s not,” the deputy responds.

The legal question—what counts as obstruction in this setting—becomes the hinge of the clip.

Across the U.S., courts have recognized a general right to record police performing their duties in public, as a form of speech and press activity. But that right is not unlimited: interfering, obstructing, trespassing, or violating safety perimeters can still be unlawful.

The gray zone is where arguments erupt. Does “refusing to identify” obstruct? Does filming “too close” interfere? Is an officer allowed to order someone away from a stop for safety reasons, even if the person claims to be on a public shoulder?

The bodycam footage captures the argument in the blunt language of the roadside.

Zetcallic invokes the Constitution. “That’s the First Amendment,” he says, referring to his ability to film and speak.

The deputy gives a final ultimatum: he says he will arrest him for obstruction.

Zetcallic fires back with the kind of line that, fairly or not, often escalates encounters: “I’ll sue” the county.

The deputy orders him out of the car. Zetcallic again demands a sergeant.

The deputy warns that if he does not comply, he will be tased.

Zetcallic responds in a way that viewers have interpreted in opposite directions—some as bravado, others as reckless provocation. The exchange is heated, and profanity appears in the audio.

Then the situation becomes more serious.

A deputy says, “I have a weapon right here,” and the officers discuss securing it. Zetcallic confirms he has a permit when asked about a CCW.

The presence of a firearm changes how many officers evaluate risk, even when the gun is legally carried. Officers are trained to control hands, distance, and movement—especially near traffic, where a stumble, a sudden lunge, or a vehicle drifting onto the shoulder can turn deadly.

Zetcallic, now outside and detained, asks to be moved away from the roadway so he doesn’t get hit by passing cars.

The deputy thanks him for being compliant. Zetcallic responds, “No problem.”

The encounter, which started as a dispute over filming and badge numbers, has become a physical detention with a weapon check—one that will later be judged, by at least one supervisor on scene, as “weak.”

When the supervisor arrives, the camera captures a striking moment of internal disagreement.

The arresting deputy explains his rationale: he says Zetcallic “pulled up” on his traffic stop, was recording, and refused to provide identification when asked, while insisting on a supervisor.

The supervisor presses for specifics, asking a key question: did Zetcallic actually walk up to the traffic stop?

The deputy answers: no.

That “no” appears to shift the supervisor’s assessment immediately.

“You don’t have obstruction,” the supervisor tells him.

Then, even more bluntly, he calls it “weak.” He repeats: “Very weak.”

Those words have become gasoline online. Critics of the deputy see them as a confession that the arrest was baseless—an admission that Zetcallic was handcuffed because he irritated an officer, not because he broke the law.

Defenders of the department point to the same words as evidence the system worked: a supervisor arrived, challenged the legal basis, and corrected the course in minutes, before Zetcallic was booked or held.

Zetcallic gives his account directly to the supervisor on camera.

He says the deputy passed him earlier at high speed. He says he recorded it, intending to complain through official channels.

He says he later saw the deputy conducting a traffic stop and filmed from his car to document what he believed was hypocrisy.

He insists he was not pulled over and therefore did not have to provide his driver’s license, insurance, or registration.

The deputy’s perspective, implied in the earlier exchange, is that he had Zetcallic recorded speeding and was entitled to demand documentation. In many traffic contexts, an officer who observes a violation can stop a vehicle and request identification.

But the video, as presented, leaves ambiguity about whether Zetcallic was clearly told he was being stopped for speeding before the demand for paperwork escalated into threats of arrest.

Instead, viewers see a confrontation framed around filming and complaints.

That framing is a big reason the clip resonates. It fits into a modern pattern: “audit” culture, where some citizens record police interactions to test boundaries, and police—under constant scrutiny—sometimes react defensively.

Zetcallic tells the supervisor he asked for a supervisor “at least” several times before being pulled out and handcuffed.

He also makes a broader point that has been repeated by civil liberties advocates for years: filming a traffic stop from a lawful location is not, on its own, a crime.

“Some of these guys… forget that it’s not against the law for someone to videotape,” he says in substance.

The supervisor responds with what many viewers hear as an apology and a promise.

He tells Zetcallic it will be handled. He says it “shouldn’t have happened.” He apologizes “for the sheriff’s office.”

In that moment, the dynamic flips. The man in cuffs is being treated less like a suspect and more like a complainant whose detention may have been a mistake.

Zetcallic pushes for the cuffs to come off and says he wants the deputy’s information.

He also demands an apology from the deputy himself—something not clearly shown as happening in the clip, at least not in a way that satisfied him.

Then comes the cleanest question of the encounter, and the one every detained person wants answered.

“Am I free to go?” Zetcallic asks.

“Absolutely,” the supervisor replies.

Zetcallic’s parting words are brief and memorable: “I’ll see you in court.”

After Zetcallic drives away, the bodycam captures officers talking among themselves, including a claim that Zetcallic insulted someone and made a crude gesture as he left.

The supervisor is heard emphasizing distance and safety—especially, he says, if the person is an off-duty officer.

That detail—law enforcement recognizing law enforcement—hangs over the clip. Viewers inevitably ask whether the quick reversal would have happened if Zetcallic were not described as a “Denver cop” or reserve officer.

Some see professional courtesy that should not exist in a system that claims equal treatment.

Others see a practical reality: officers may de-escalate faster when they believe the detained person understands procedures, may carry a weapon legally, and may know complaint channels.

The narration attached to the video asserts that the obstruction charge was quickly reversed and that Zetcallic was not booked or required to post bond.

He was released at the scene.

Then, the story shifts from the roadside to the slow grind of accountability.

According to the narration, Zetcallic did not file a traditional lawsuit right away. Instead, he and his attorney sent a legal notice outlining the case for wrongful arrest.

About a year and a half later, the narration says, Adams County agreed to pay $$80{,}000$$ to settle.

Settlements are complicated. Governments often settle to limit legal costs and avoid the unpredictability of a jury, even while denying wrongdoing.

And plaintiffs often settle to get certainty without months—or years—of litigation.

A settlement number alone does not prove one side “won” the facts in a courtroom. But it does signal that county attorneys saw risk, and that the incident was serious enough to merit a payout.

The narration also says Adams County launched an internal investigation, with no disclosed discipline at the time of the video’s posting.

That lack of public clarity fuels suspicion among critics, who argue police departments too often investigate themselves behind closed doors.

Defenders argue personnel actions are often confidential, and that a supervisor’s on-scene correction plus internal review is exactly what should happen when a deputy makes a judgment call that doesn’t hold up.

On the law, civil rights attorneys would likely focus on two central issues: whether Zetcallic was lawfully detained, and whether refusing to identify constituted obstruction under Colorado law given the circumstances.

If he was merely filming from a public place and not interfering, courts in many jurisdictions have treated that activity as protected.

But if deputies had a valid basis to stop him for speeding, the analysis could change. A traffic stop typically permits an officer to request license, registration, and insurance.

The bodycam clip, as circulated, does not definitively resolve that question for viewers, because it begins mid-story, after the earlier alleged speeding and after Zetcallic has already pulled over near another stop.

That gap is where both sides plant their flags.

Zetcallic portrays the deputy’s document demand as a retaliatory move—an attempt to punish him for filming and for asking for a badge number.

The deputy portrays Zetcallic as someone who arrived on scene, recorded an active stop, refused lawful commands, and created a distraction requiring control.

The supervisor appears to side with the view that whatever annoyance existed, it did not amount to obstruction.

The most revealing moment is not the shouting, the threats, or even the handcuffs. It is the supervisor’s calm, legal assessment—delivered to his own deputy—captured in plain language.

“Weak.”

That one word, and the decision to uncuff and release, suggests the department recognized the shaky footing immediately.

But the clip also shows how fast an encounter can spiral when pride, suspicion, and cameras collide.

Zetcallic repeatedly demands a sergeant and refuses paperwork. The deputy repeatedly demands documents and threatens arrest.

Neither yields until the supervisor arrives.

On a highway shoulder, where the margin for error is thin, escalation is not an abstract concern. It’s cars whipping by, a firearm in the mix, and hands moving near doors and waistbands—exactly the conditions that training tells officers to control.

At the same time, the Constitution does not evaporate on the shoulder of a road. The public’s right to watch government power in action is one of the oldest democratic ideas, and the modern smartphone has turned that idea into a daily reality.

That is why this clip has lasted: it sits in the uncomfortable space where safety culture meets civil liberties, and where “I know my rights” collides with “step out of the vehicle.”

In the end, the encounter produced three outcomes that rarely coexist in a single viral story.

First, the arrest was reversed quickly on scene, with a supervisor acknowledging the weakness of the legal basis.

Second, the department’s representative apologized, at least generally, for what happened.

Third, the county later agreed to pay $$80{,000}$$ to resolve the claim tied to the arrest.

To some, that trio looks like accountability working—messy, imperfect, but real.

To others, it looks like a citizen had to endure handcuffs, threats, and humiliation just to be told what he already believed: that filming was not obstruction.

And for the deputies involved, it is a reminder that in the age of body cameras and instant uploads, every roadside decision can become a public exhibit—replayed, debated, and judged long after the traffic has cleared.