The A31 Street
Party
On
August 31st, at 6:57pm, the marching band, wearing uniforms with
reflective orange stripes on their shirts and pant legs, marched defiantly off
of Union Square and into the adjacent street, heading north, in violation of a
city ordinance against parading without a permit. At the time, I was unaware of
their legal standing in this action, however I knew that various groups were
planning acts of civil disobedience on that day, and as I stepped into the
street to follow them, I was automatically culpable for the same offenses which
this group chose to commit. However, as a video producer and lifelong musician
myself, I was relishing this moment of expressive defiance, and I was
congratulating myself for being among the first of the protest paparazzi to
notice their intentions and capture their performance.
The
procession continued without incident to the intersection of 16th Street East,
at which point the police directed the band to turn right, away from Union
Square. This was not surprising to me, because on other occasions in the
previous days of protest, the police always made it clear to the demonstrators
that they were the ones deciding where people should congregate, even during
marches that were not legally sanctioned. On the previous day, Monday August
30th, a much larger protest group was allowed to march down Second Avenue and up
Eighth, nearly reaching Madison Square Garden, without arrests or serious
altercations. I did not presume at the time that the police would be equally
lenient in this case, however I was encouraged by what seemed to be cooperation
on their part, instead of halting the procession at that point, which they could
have legally chosen to do.
As
the band made their way down 16th Street, there was a sense of relief amongst
the crowd that the police were apparently willing to accommodate the protesters,
as they had done in the past. People were dancing alongside the band in the
street, as the drummers belted out a syncopated beat and the bright orange flags
were waved high. Photographers were everywhere, and the streets and sidewalks
were filling quickly. The sound of cheering bystanders, mixed with the zealous
strains of brass instruments and percussion, was nearly deafening at one point.
When the band reached the end of that block, however, they came to an abrupt
halt. The police had constructed a barrier and was guarding it with several
lines of officers in riot gear, inviting a showdown of sorts.
The Blockade
In
front of the police line, photographers captured the scene of about 50
demonstrators sitting on the street, with their arms locked in solidarity. This
was another act of defiance which was clearly intended to challenge the police.
At this time, I noticed that one of the officers (right image, above) scanning
the group with a video camera, presumably for the purpose of identifying
protesters when the inevitable arrests would occur. This was the first
indication to me that some of the people on the street would face the
consequences of their acts, although I was still unaware of the police's
intention to apprehend everyone on the street.
The
moments that followed were decisive in the sense that there was an intentional
separation of groups by the police, which determined, somewhat arbitrarily, who
would be arrested. The journalists immediately in front of the sitting
protesters were motioned away, and the police line at the end of the block moved
forward. Those of us behind the sitting protesters were destined for jail time,
as we would discover later on. Just as the last of the photographers were led
away, the protesters on the street jumped up and surged in retreat, apparently
satisfied that their statement had been made. The band also turned about, by
peeling their two-column formation outwards to the tune of a jazzy, Delta Blues
style jam.
At
this point, roughly six minutes after the marching band had launched from Union
Square, pandemonium was beginning to erupt. The mood of the crowd was a strange
mix of jubilation and apprehension; the band continued to play with conviction,
and many were dancing to its tightly punctuated strains, but others were
frustrated that they weren't allowed to leave the street. The band was directed
onto the southern sidewalk, and I followed them on the inside. At this point I
had to stop the camera to change tapes, so I found a bike rack that was bolted
to the sidewalk, and stepped behind it to protect myself (and my camera) in the
event of a mass surge. I was shaking, and out of breath from chasing the band.
I did not label the tape that I took out of the camera, or write protect it by
flipping the small switch on its side. I zipped it into a pouch of my backpack,
and prayed that I would some day be able to view its contents. By this time, I
was aware that I was in trouble, and I admit that I was scared.
The Trap
As
my camera began to roll again at at 7:10pm, I caught the first instance of
violent arrest within my radius of view. There were screams from people nearby,
and many tried to escape through the police barricade, to no avail. by 7:19pm,
protesters were being attacked by as many as five large officers, with clubs in
hand. The video shows instances of violent, almost brutal tactics being used to
subdue individuals who, until that moment, had been peacefully standing in the
street. Between three and four hundred people were trapped by the police at
this time, and the eruption of violence caused many of those around me to
panic. Curiously, the band continued to play from its stationary position some
twenty yards down the street, now with a languid ease that defied the
seriousness of our situation. The crowd yelled one word over and over again:
"Shame! Shame! Shame!" and I admit that I joined the chorus, despite my
journalistic code of impartiality. This is the basis of the second charge
leveled against me, that of "disorderly conduct."
From roughly 7:13pm onward, I was trapped next to that bike rack, with bicycles
caging my legs at odd angles as others climbed over them to pass by. It was an
awkward position to be in, but I felt physically safe there, as the rack itself
seemed very well fastened to the concrete. By this time, the sidewalk around me
was packed with people, and the only way I could document the action on video
was to hold the camera well over my head. After a while, this became painful in
my elbows and shoulders, so I rested from time to time, hoping that the pain
would subside before the next exciting thing would happen. I was determined to
capture as much of the action as possible, since I'd already dug myself so
deeply into this mess that there was no turning back. I accepted the fact that
my own reckless quest for Truth through Documentation had resulted in the
situation I was in, and was relieved that none of my crew had fallen into the
same trap.
At
7:17pm, I noticed that police officers were surveying the scene from balconies
of the apartments across the street. It was at this time that I realized that
we were being apprehended as part of a premeditated operation by the NYPD. How
else could they have gained access to a residence so quickly, whether it was
occupied or not? Our fate was sealed by this time. No one was allowed to pass
the police barricade, and the doors to the buildings on the street were also
blocked off, though I heard later that some people were fortunate enough to
escape that way moments before. The mood of the people around me was one of
despair, though there were some who tried to joke about our situation, in a dark
way. As far as the police were concerned, however, this was serious business.
They barked orders at those who were simply asking questions. They packed us
even more tightly than before, despite the presence of the bike rack, which put
other people in more awkward positions than I was in. Spontaneously, the crowd
began to chant short messages, such as "peaceful protests, violent cops!" and,
simply, "Let us go! Let us go! Let us go! Let us go!"
The Arrests
By
9:00pm, we were all taken into custody. First, we were forced to sit down
wherever we were at the time, which for me was directly between two bicycles.
Then the police selected from this rich crop of dissenters the ones which
deserved to be arrested first. The scene reminded me of the days when the kids
at my elementary school would call dibs on each other to form dodge ball teams.
Later on, an officer without a badge asked the group I was a part of (but
clearly directing his message at me) whether anyone present had certified NYPD
press credentials. As an independent media producer for a non-profit
cable-access organization, it hadn't occurred to me to be prepared with such
proof of legitimacy. Had I taken that extra step, however, I would never have
witnessed the abominable conditions that would be faced by those on the street,
along with the hundreds of others that were being rounded up through the borough
of Manhattan that night. I turned off my camera, placed it carefully in my
backpack, and removed the photo ID from around my neck that identified me as a
member of the Independent Media Center. I prepared myself mentally for the
reality of being put in jail.
The
remainder of my account is without video documentation, for obvious reasons. It
is actually remarkable that I was able to eventually reclaim all of the material
presented here, despite a policy that required recording devices of all kinds to
be confiscated as evidence. I attribute this good fortune to the inexperience
of my arresting officer, one James Rufle, badge #26119, who had been on the
force for only 18 months before this event, and who must have been overwhelmed
by the scale and pace of this tactical operation. As I was singled out from my
position within the tangled mess of bicycle parts, I handed my backpack to this
officer and asked him to handle it carefully. (My video camera has a much
higher dollar value than the bluebook value of my car.) When he extracted it
from my backpack, he held it up for a superior officer to see. "Just throw it
in the bag," the superior said, referring to the clear plastic bags they had
been using to collect evidence. "Please don't throw it," I asked, feigning
calm. Officer Rufle complied with my request. He always treated us with
decency and respect, and I hold nothing against him, personally.
Each arresting officer was assigned between four and six prisoners to process.
We were placed in a line in the middle of the street, with our hands bound
behind our backs with plastic zip-tie restraints that in my case were adjusted a
bit too tightly. Darkness fell, and a construction lighting system was rolled
in, which cast a blinding light down the street. Officer Rufle found my drivers
license in my wallet and placed it in his shirt pocket, along with the
identification of his other prisoners, five of us in all. He trembled slightly
while doing this, but maintained an official manner, and treated us with a
certain amount of detachment. My interpretation of his behavior is that he
disagreed with the practice of indiscriminately arresting everyone on the
street, however he wanted to be seen as performing his duties well, and capable
of the special challenges presented by this operation.
I
was not charged at that time, nor was I then or ever read my Miranda rights.
For nearly the entire time of my detainment, which was 43 hours, I was not
allowed to see a lawyer. At the time, I thought I would be released that
night. We were piled into a paddy wagon and driven to the west side of town.
Our ordeal was only about to begin.
A Hero's
Welcome
I
should open this section with a statement about my predisposition to police
officers generally, apart from my limited experience with the NYPD force in
particular. I strongly believe, and have always taught my children, that the
police are on "our" side, that they are charged with the responsibility of
protecting our safety and our morals as a society, and that their sense of duty
to their communities and their country should never be questioned. Their work
affects every aspect of their daily lives, and they risk their own personal
safety to protect the citizenry and to uphold a high standard of living for
everyone. Having said that, we must all recognize that abuses of power do
occur, and the danger is that coercive methods can always be used to oppress
groups based on ethnicity, economic status, or political views.
All
abuses of power are wrong. I do not intend to imply that this example, in which
1200 people were detained for making a political statement, is worse than racial
profiling or the practice of arresting people for not having a home. I can only
speak about my own experience during those two days, which was devastating for
me because I had never been put in jail during my 43 years of life, and I would
never have imagined that the Constitution could take such a beating for the
purpose of quelling free speech. I was overwhelmed by my predicament during my
entire incarceration, not as much because of the abominable conditions I
endured, as by the horrible realization that the police could take such
liberties with my fundamental rights, and possibly get away with it.
The
most disturbing message I took away from this experience is that the phrase
"innocent until proven guilty" is unknown to the NYPD. From the time I was
shacked on 16th Street on Tuesday evening until I walked away free on Thursday
afternoon, I was treated like an animal: penned, leashed, commanded, and
ignored. My group was driven to the detention facility on the west side of the
city in a converted minivan that resembled a kennel truck, and the driver rushed
over the uneven street with the siren blaring and colored lights in full swing.
The plastic handcuffs dug into my wrists with every jolt of the suspension, made
worse by the fact that the bench seat I shared with another prisoner was not
adequately bolted to the floor of the van. My left hand began to tingle, which
reminded me of a repetitive strain injury I had suffered in the past. Still,
even with that level of discomfort to deal with, we all remained upbeat in our
attitude, because our situation seemed so ridiculous that it would all surely be
corrected in good time. In retrospect, this form of denial is what kept us
relatively sane during the course of our experience, though I'm ashamed to admit
that I was so naive at the time as to believe that it was true.
When we arrived at the detention facility, which I would later learn was a bus
depot on one of the Hudson River piers, we were forced to wait at least an hour
while two other bus loads of prisoners were unloaded for processing. Until this
time, I had very little visibility of the scale of the arrests, simply because I
had been forced to observe the events on 16th street through a small viewfinder
on my camera as I locked my arms over my head. I could see hundreds of people
now, all bound by their wrists and carrying clear plastic bags behind them like
platypus tails, standing in long lines, being pulled by their useless arms from
chartered busses, and looking dazed, helpless, and tired. Seeing so many others
in the same predicament, I felt a twinge in my stomach, realizing that I would
have to wait my turn behind them all. Unabashedly, I began to imagine scenarios
which would allow me to be treated with accelerated due process, perhaps because
to my claim of journalistic impartiality. However, one of the prisoners in the
charge of officer Rufle was adamantly against protesters altogether. "You guys
will never change a single vote," he claimed repeatedly. "What's the
alternative?" someone asked him. "Boycotts," he answered, with all
seriousness. I decided not to get involved with that discussion.
When we were finally allowed to exit the van, the video tape that I had swapped
out of my camera back at the bike rack fell out of a hole in the clear plastic
bag that held my belongings. Despite the din of revving diesel engines in the
cavernous facility, and the plaintive chanting of prisoners within it, I heard
the tape fall to the grimy concrete floor and looked down at it in horror.
Surely the next vehicle that passed by would splinter its plastic housing and
render the tape useless. I drew the attention of my arresting officer to the
tape, and showed him the hole that had developed in the bag, which was big
enough for my camera to slip through. He picked up the tape and placed it in
one of his cargo pants pockets. I was apparently unable to feign calm at this
point, and asked him to make sure that the tape found its way back into the bag
very soon. He told me to "relax," that he would take care of it for me. That
sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach was approaching freefall.
Until this time, Officer Rufle had maintained an affable presence with us, and
even chatted about his own political views in the transport vehicle ("I'll vote
for Kerry," he admitted at one point). However, once we were inside the
detention facility, his manner was all business. He grabbed me firmly by the
arm and led me into the depths of the warehouse-like structure with a quick
stride, as police of all ranks hurried in many directions with furrowed brows.
As I was led past a row of cages to my left, cheers and applause erupted from
within. I was being hailed as a hero by scores of young women, which I admit
was a new life experience for me. I smiled at them and nodded my head,
accepting their accolades despite the fact that I had never done anything to
deserve such praise. In fact, most of those women would probably think I was a
jerk if they ever got to know me personally, but the situation we were in was
extraordinary, and by treating the other detainees as persons of great, though
mythical stature, everyone's spirits were lifted and the experience was made
that much more bearable.
Then I saw, for the first time, the place that would become my home for the next
14 hours, which many of us would later, with affection, call "Guantánamo on the
Hudson."
The Cage
It
was about half the size of a football field, at roughly 100 feet across and 150
feet deep. The perimeter was 10' high chain link fence, but not the kind of
chain link you see in school yards. Its galvanized diamond pattern was 1 inch
across instead of the usual 2 inches, giving it more the appearance of the chain
mail worn by a medieval knight. The structure was crowned with loops of
gleaming razor wire, presumably as sharp as a scalpel. The poles that held this
cage together were 4 inches in diameter, and securely bolted to the floor. I
could tell that this structure had been in place for less than a month, so
pristine was its condition in comparison to the remainder of the building. (And
I thought to myself: how does one install razor wire? I'd probably dislike that
job.)
As
clean and shiny as the cage itself was, the floor was a different matter. The
dilapidated building that held the cage had served as both a bus depot and
storage facility for toxic chemicals. As a result, the entire floor of the cage
was covered with a dark grey/brown layer of filth that clung to everything that
touched it. One can only imagine the variety of substances that formed this
patina. Overhead, signs hung from the ceiling, indicating the locations where
certain substances should be stored: degreasers, antifreeze, motor oil, and
others that I didn't recognize by name. Certainly, anything that can drip,
flake, peel or otherwise expel from a bus was on that floor, in addition to
anything sticking to their tires as they rolled over the streets of New York for
countless years. I'm not repelled by dirt or grime, as people who have visited
my work spaces will attest. However, this oily, dark substance was evil. It
was the antithesis of life itself. It fed on our despair by caking itself on our
skin and clothes, making us look like derelicts.
Within the larger cage, there were two sub-cages that held the toilet stalls.
To enter the main cage, you had to pass through one of these sub-cages, the
gates of which were both securely padlocked. For some unknown reason, all
prisoners in the cage were initially required to wear the plastic zip-tie
restraints. This was humiliating, because the police were already clearly in
control of us. In order to have the restraints cut, you had to stand in line to
use one of the toilets, for hours, behind several hundred people. Eventually,
half of the prisoners were unbound and the other half were standing in line,
whether they needed to use the facilities or not.
My
guess is that there were about 500 of us in that cage at any given time. At
first, it was an equal mix of men an women, most in their twenties or late
teens, along with a token representation of older folks like myself, some of
them veterans of the civil disobedience movements of years past. Clearly, many
of the people detained that night knew each other before this experience.
Cliques formed very quickly, not unlike what happens in a schoolyard, and the
prime real estate was staked out by the opportunists (the best locations, always
against the fence, were the furthest from the toilets and less covered with
grime). People would hug each other by resting their chins on each other's
shoulders.
To
pass the time, I walked along the faded yellow lines that had been painted on
the concrete, thinking about my situation, and about the fate of my videotapes.
I spoke occasionally with the other arrestees of officer Rufle, because the five
of us were generally processed at the same time. I finally got in line to use
the toilet. My shackles were removed, I held my breath in the porta-john, then
poured myself a paper cup full of spring water and gulped it down, as if it were
nectar. It was 1 am Wednesday morning, and there was no help in sight. My legs
were tired from pacing the cage all night. So I found a spot with as little
grime on it as possible, stretched out on the concrete floor of Pier 57, and
closed my eyes, briefly; I was immediately overcome with revulsion at the smell
of that life-sucking, evil substance on the floor. So, I took off my shoes to
use as a pillow of sorts, and that got my nose further away from the grime. I
might have slept an hour.
Our
pictures were taken with Polaroid cameras, and stapled to a set of forms that
would be used to identify us throughout our detention. We were herded into
smaller cages, and I was able to grab a space on one of the benches. Ah, the
sophistication of sitting above floor level! I could tell that the wheels of
justice were turning in my favor. Officer Rufle had double-bagged my
belongings, and had placed the videotape along with my other possessions. He
carefully filled out a form that described the contents of my bag: cell phone,
camera, and miscellaneous (everything else). At this stage, I believe, it was
standard procedure to separate the camera and tapes into another bag, with a
different form, labeled "evidence." I was encouraged to see that it was
possible for me to get my tapes back somehow. Everything was placed into the
backpack, which was sealed within another clear plastic bag.
When dawn broke, we were led back into the large cage again, and ordered to sit
on the floor in several lines along its length. We were fed apples, and stale,
white-bread sandwiches with either cheese or baloney within. From this time on,
the men would be separated from the women. No more zip-tie drum circles in the
cage. We were children being lined up before school was to begin. However, it
wasn't until noon on Wednesday that I was taken from that wretched place,
believing deep in my heart that I'd be released within hours.
"Perps"
Before we were led to the bus that would transport us to police headquarters on
100 Center St, known to us as "central booking," we were required to line up
within the sub-cage in groups of 24, chained together with metal handcuffs, as
close to the porta-johns as possible. The fumes from these two units were
unbearable by this time, since they had not been cleaned after hundreds of
uses. One of the prisoners complained about this, and was chided by the officer
in charge of our transfer. To me, this was the worst example of the sadistic
treatment we endured, as uncharged detainees, but not at all typical of our
interactions with the police. Some of the officers were clearly enjoying their
acts of repression, while others were almost apologetic in the performance of
their duty. It was important for us to pay attention to the moods of the
harsher cops, so as to avoid their verbal abuse (or worse, have our records
misplaced somehow). I was perfectly compliant through the whole ordeal, so as
not to attract attention to myself. I look back at this as a selfish act,
because many of the other detainees were risking longer jail times by
petitioning for our basic rights to the officers in charge.
Chained by the wrists in groups of four, two dozen of us were put into a small
bus that would bring us across town. Inside the bus, a cage had been
constructed that separated the driver and guards from the prisoners. As the bus
pulled out of Pier 57, I could see through the windshield a group of people who
were cheering and waving their arms in the bright, midday sun. I was overcome
with a sense of relief that the outside world was aware of our situation, and I
thank everyone who was there for the boost of morale we experienced by their
presence. For most of us, it had been 18 hours since we had any contact with
the outside world, and we weren't even sure if it was publicly well-known that
we were detained under such abhorrent conditions.
During the remainder of the ride, again in zip-tie restraints, we were gawked at
by pedestrians on the street. Without exception, every head turned to look at
the jailbirds in the jail bus. Our stay at Pier 57 made us look like dirty
thugs. When we arrived at central booking, we met a long line of officers
(easily twice our number in the bus), and I heard for the first time the term
the police were using to refer to us: "perps," for "perpetrators." We all
laughed at that, still denying the gravity of our situation. After all, how bad
could this new place be? Certainly no worse than Guantánamo...
Central Booking
It
has taken me a long time to put the following accounts into words. To describe
my arrest and detainment at Pier 57 was relatively easy, because while that was
an uncomfortable experience to say the least, my mental and emotional state was
still on the level of the civilized world; I still regarded myself as being of
free spirit, but caught in unfortunate circumstances that posed a significant
inconvenience to my work and life. In central booking, and to a greater extent
in the “tombs” to follow, I gradually lost my connection to that glossy world
view. In other words, I became a prisoner.
Central Booking is a police facility in downtown Manhattan where arrestees are
detained until their arraignments. The impression we got from the police was
that being moved to this facility was going to result in fingerprinting,
mug-shot-shooting, lawyer retaining, and court date arranging, and that we would
all be released before supper. In fact, I was to be held captive for another 27
hours. The facility itself was concrete, cinder blocks and bars from our point
of view; the walls were painted a glaring yellow, and the florescent lights
flooded each cell day and night. All sounds were equally loud. At one point,
seventy men occupied a cell that was designed to hold 30. The air circulation
was poor, compounded by the presence of two toilets in the corner. Our only
source of water was a fountain next to the toilets, and it was a hot day in
August, so people were thirsty even when they weren’t repulsed by the smell in
that corner. Eventually, one of the prisoners vomited in the toilet next to
that fountain. And, my final observation about the cell: the door was sheet
metal solid, with no doorknob.
The
most interesting aspect of my detainment in central booking was the fact that we
could directly view the office area used by the police to process the
arrestees. This gave me an opportunity to observe the activities, behaviors and
conversations of the police in a way that was not possible during our stay at
Pier 57; my mind was hungry for some form of distraction, and I started by
analyzing the various pins and badges that adorned police uniforms. The only
badge number I committed to memory was that of my arresting officer. However,
the distinguishing characteristic of Officer Rufle’s badge was that it was so
plain. Most of the police I encountered in central booking had badges with a
plastic extender at the top that held colorful bars indicating exceptional valor
over years of service. Many of these extenders held a bar with “WTC” in wide
letters. An officer’s rank was indicated first by the color of the shirt or
blouse (blue or white) and then by patches on the sleeve or brass bars on the
shirt collar. There were also pins on the collars of blue-shirted cops that
held abbreviations of the internal division to which they belonged. The meaning
of most of these abbreviations alluded me, though I noticed that there were a
wide variety of them and I considered the challenge of deciphering their
meanings to be adequate mental stimulation at the time.
An
unfortunate consequence of being able to observe the police so closely was that
they were able to observe us as well. For this reason, I was particularly
careful not to say or do anything that would attract attention to myself in
central booking. Again, I consider this to be an act of cowardly
self-preservation, because many others were speaking, and yelling, about the
abhorrent conditions of our detainment. In my own defense, I will only say that
I was concerned that scrutiny of my threat to the police could lead to a closer
examination of my property bag, including my camera and videotapes, at the time
of my release (still, in my mind, just hours away). So, I played possum and
watched while the more vocal prisoners were subjected to delayed processing for
speaking out against the insufferable conditions we endured.
Some of the prisoners had, of course, been arrested by deliberately breaking the
law, and those individuals seemed to be better prepared for the situation we
were in. At one point, a meeting was held in the cell, facilitated by Charles
Shaw, who I would later learn was arrested as part of a “die-in,” in which a
large number of people block traffic by lying in an intersection as if dead.
Charles was an influential member of the Green Party, and was well-versed in the
methods of organizing a consensus among diverse points of view. He pointed out
that it was in our best interests to make the situation as tolerable as possible
by disposing of trash and designating “quiet areas” where as many persons as
possible could lie down to sleep. In addition, a short list of requests were
agreed upon that one person, which turned out to be Charles himself, would take
to the police according to priority. When this happened, Charles’ packet of
arrest papers were emphatically placed at the bottom of the stack.
Aside from my observation of police uniform accoutrements, the hours that passed
at central booking were primarily boring. I would occasionally strike up
conversations with a fellow cellmates, but my state of mind was starting to
falter due to the combined lack of sleep, nutritional food, fresh air, and basic
personal freedom. The reality of confinement became oppressive to me in a way
that is different from intercontinental plane flights or long-winded poetry
slams. Active members of society are accustomed to the confinements imposed by
the responsibilities of work, family life, and community involvement. For
years, I worked as a software engineer in confining workspaces affectionately
referred to as “cubicles,” performing tasks that only benefited my employers.
As a father, I would hang on every breath of my newborn children and sit for
hours in hospital waiting rooms at any time of the day and night. I once lived
in a neighborhood that was so crime ridden and drug infested that the windows of
our cramped apartment were fitted with steel bars. However, being a prisoner is
fundamentally different than those other confinements because there is another
person directly responsible for your suffering. The public mandate of the
police is to subjugate alleged criminals, and exercise complete control over
them. So, the existence of the bars and chains themselves were not as bad as
the realization that they were being used to exert power over us without any
consideration of the moral or ethical consequences. The police were merely
performing their sworn duty, which was to crush our spirits.
Over time, the grime of Pier 57 transferred from our shoes to the painted
concrete floor of our central booking cells. Oranges were distributed to those
who didn’t mind touching the fruit with their hands, and the juice often dripped
on the floor, adding a stickiness to that evil, dark substance. Still, the
floor was much cleaner than Pier 57, and I attempted to sleep on it, shoes
propped under my head, when possible. The glaring lights and painted walls were
no longer enough to keep me awake. But when hundreds of the prisoners started
imitating the calls of barnyard animals, I abandoned my attempted escape into
unconsciousness, and sat on the floor, legs crossed and eyes closed, trying to
still my mind while chaos raged around me.
“The Chief is
in the building”
The
New York City Police Department is said to be, in numbers, the 19th largest
standing army in the world. As such, the chain of command for this huge
organization is deep, stretching from the commissioner at the top to the lowly
Officer Rufle at the bottom. In between are a wide variety of captains,
lieutenants, sergeants, detectives, and commanders, but only one Chief. That
man paid us a visit at central booking late on Wednesday night.
I
know this because at one point, a white-shirted officer announced the fact in a
loud voice. About half an hour later, three men of obvious high rank entered
the booking office and took over the main desk, which was where our arrest
records were kept in disorganized piles. They talked amongst themselves, and
one kept his back to us nearly the entire time. I’m not sure if any of them
were the police chief, but they certainly could have been close assistants to
him. I interpreted their presence to indicate a tacit approval of the
conditions of our detainment. By this time, we had all been held longer than
the maximum required by law, which was 24 hours. The senior officers never
approached us or asked our opinion about the obviously cramped conditions.
At
about this time, it became clear to us that the processing delays were not
caused by overcrowding, but in fact were deliberate. Everything the police did
was laboriously slow. Whenever a group of five prisoners were chained by the
wrists to be led elsewhere, the officer in charge of reading the names would
casually flip through a handful of arrest records, cocking his head from side to
side as if complicated issues were involved. At one point, just as this officer
was about to read some more names, another officer approached the cell asking,
in a faux-conversational way, whether we thought the “meat” sandwiches contained
slices of baloney or some soy product. This officer insisted that we vote on
the issue, as if the outcome would change our feelings about the mysterious food
product. Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity of this trivial
diversion, the names were read, and for each, as had been the case since we were
originally arrested, cheers and applause erupted from the cell. We did not yet
realize that being sent elsewhere was no guarantee of speedy release.
Occasionally, “errors” were made in the reading of detainee names. One man in
particular was called to be transported by chains, and then sent back to the
cell for no known reason, where he continued to wait for several more hours. I
can’t imagine the emotional extremes one would experience by such treatment, but
I would describe it as psychological abuse, if not torture. None of the cops in
charge at central booking ever volunteered to make our stay more comfortable.
There were never any concerns raised on the other side of the bars that the
complaints from prisoners were any more than sour grapes. I hold every police
officer who passed through central booking that day and night to be complicit
and accountable for the conditions we endured, including the Chief of Police
himself. Since there was no change in our situation for hours after the Chief
arrived, I can only conclude that he was satisfied that the conditions of our
detainment were appropriate, if not downright according to plan. I do not
accept the argument that police officers are constrained by some brotherhood of
secrecy pertaining their internal policies and practices. If the treatment any
officer observed was not consistent with that officer’s personal moral
convictions, then that officer should leave the force and find work elsewhere.
I include in this conspiracy of abuse the lowly Officer Rufle, who sat with a
dozen other arresting officers for several hours outside our cell, apparently
enduring his own form of confinement while his arrestees were “processed.”
Somehow, I didn’t feel sorry for him.
The Tombs
The
reading of names was seemingly endless. In central booking, hundreds of men
were held in 3 cells no bigger than the average living room, for spans of 12 to
15 hours. After an extended interval where no names were read, groups of five
names would be called out, often incorrectly, for those who were to be
“processed” next. This occurred at intervals of 10 to 15 minutes, and as the
names were read, the cells were perfectly silent; those who were lying down sat
up, those who were sitting stood, and those who were standing walked closer to
the bars. With each name, cheers and congratulations were offered to the lucky
prisoner, as if we were all contestants in a beauty pageant during the
announcement of semi-finalists. We felt good for the guys who were given a
break early on, because nobody deserved the abuse we were being subjected to.
Each group of five was shuffled out of sight, never to be seen in these cells
again.
When my name was called, I took my place in the chain gang line and marched
single-file under orders of the officer in charge. It was early Thursday
morning, September 2nd, perhaps between 1 and 2 am. Twenty-four
hours earlier I’d been pacing the floor of Pier 57, accumulating the nerve to
lie down on the floor. Now, finally, I was being led to a place that might
result in my quick departure from custody. In fact, I was fingerprinted almost
immediately, which is to say within about half an hour. This experience was
exhilarating on many levels. Beyond the fact that fingerprinting was a real
step towards being released, the most enjoyable aspect was that women and men
were taken to the same location to have this done. The women were just as dirty
and haggard-looking as the men. We were lined up in groups of five, facing each
other in a cellblock corridor, as if participating in a junior high dance
class. We flirted aimlessly, within the context of being handcuffed and
chained. The apparatus used to register our prints was computerized, and the
procedure was conducted within a jail cell, presumably because we had to be
un-cuffed while it was done. No ink was involved, fortunately. We were even
given a moist paper towel to clean our hands! But that evil grime could still
be seen between the ridges of the prints on my fingers and palms.
“The Tombs” is a phrase used to describe the labyrinthine set of jail blocks and
detention facilities at 100 Center Street. Some of the cell blocks are
underground, but all sense of time and space is lost there. Day and night,
above and below ground, it was all the same: concrete, bars, chains, toilets,
glaring lights, and now cockroaches. After our prints were taken, we were
transported by elevator to the 13th floor, where we were to be
detained by the Department of Corrections. We were greeted by an officer with
reflective sunglasses, who introduced himself to us as our “babysitter.” He
explained that the NYPD needed to borrow the services of the Corrections
Department while they got caught up with the hundreds of other cases. He asked
for questions, and several occurred at the same time, all pertaining to how long
we’d be held there. Our babysitter claimed to know nothing, and asked if there
were any further questions. We were taken to our new cells.
Across the corridor from our cell was a high window that was slightly angled
open. From time to time, cheers and applause could be heard. Someone said that
there was a vigil being held outside of the courthouse, and that when detainees
were released, the crowd would make that noise. It was comforting to know that
so many people cared enough to spend the night outside the building, and with
every cheer, we sensed, our position in line was moving along. When we entered
this cell, a man was alone there, as if he were waiting for us. He explained
that he had been “processed” much earlier but kept back for some unknown
reason. He was a very intelligent man, and articulate as well. He offered an
analysis of our situation, which led to the conclusion that we were being held
as political prisoners. Until that time, I regarded my situation as an unjust
arrest, but this man’s arguments rang true for me. I was starting to think like
an activist.
I
slept on the floor of that cell for about an hour, knowing full well that
cockroaches were scurrying in the shadows. The cheers from the street washed
over me like ocean waves. And, our babysitter didn’t even notice that he forgot
to lock the cell door.
Bitch of the
State
There was a loud noise, and the cell door was opened. We were being moved
again. Everyone, that is, except for the man who made me think like an activist
for the first time. He shrugged off this oversight and continued his meditative
pose in the corner, by the bars. I struggled to get my shoes on, and was unable
to tie one of them. I’m sure I had imprints of these makeshift pillows on my
face as we left the cell, chained again at the wrists. We were lead back into
the elevator, and then to a room that seemed to be designed for prisoner
interviews. The room was about 30 feet deep and 15 feet wide, and there were
two narrow corridors on either side, defined by steel mesh, with stools that
were fastened to the floor. It felt like being in a cargo hold of a ship.
Fifty people were held in this room, chained in groups of five. The women were
put into the corridors along the sides, and the men were put in the more
spacious center region. Somebody said, “I wonder what they’re going to do to us
now?” The morbid reply: “They’re going to gas us.” Nobody laughed.
It
must have been between four and five in the morning, and many people wanted to
sleep. Because we were chained together, this meant that everyone had to lie on
the floor together. This was awkward because the chains were not long enough to
allow our arms to rest in the most comfortable position for everyone. Looking
down the elongated room, I could see elbows and knees jutting into the air at
unnatural angles. I thought to myself that this is what it must have been like
to be transported on a 19th century slave ship, minus the glaring
florescent lights. I didn’t even bother to close my eyes. This situation was
by far the most uncomfortable we had yet experienced, and I had no reason to
expect that our treatment would become more humane anytime soon. Furthermore,
the officers in charge appeared to be unconcerned that our treatment was any
less than what we deserved, and I wanted to observe them more, to determine how
sadistic they could potentially be. One of them was installing a software
product onto a laptop computer, with some difficulty. Another simply looked
bored. The conditions we were enduring were of no concern to them, because they
seemed to view their responsibility as being limited to preventing our escape.
I secretly wished that they were unable to sleep some night, haunted by the
memory of our grime-covered limbs splayed in all directions on that concrete
floor.
Because we were not in a regular holding cell, there were no water or toilet
facilities. The only circulation of air was provided by a large standing fan,
which was on the other side of the steel mesh, and as such essentially useless
to us. Many people complained about these conditions, and the response was
always an assurance that we would soon be moved to more a more comfortable
locale. It was obvious that they were lying to us, and eventually I could not
control my distain for the guards any longer. In my first act of defiance after
30 hours of captivity, I shot back: “Well that should be pretty easy, because
we’re very uncomfortable right now.” As I spoke these words, my voice,
the activist voice which I was trying out for the very first time, became louder
and more articulated. There was resentment and indignation in that voice. It
was a culminating expression of despair, brought on by the powerlessness of my
situation. In jail a prisoner has no control. In jail a prisoner is completely
at the mercy of the jailor. In jail a prisoner has no right to the basic
amenities of fresh air, water, or food. Simply stated, in jail a prisoner is a
bitch of the state. And at that moment, I became a self-respecting person
again, and didn’t care what the consequences would be for speaking my mind.
“You better just shut up or you you’ll be here until Christmas!” was the angry
reply. I don’t think the officer who responded knew which of us spoke these
defiant words. The activist in me was stifled by that wimpy self-preservation
mechanism I had followed until then, remembering that I still wanted to reclaim
my videotapes after this ordeal. We were moved after about half an hour.
The Chair
We
were led to a long hallway, most likely underground, and told to sit along the
wall, still in chains. I took this opportunity to tie my shoe. I could tell
that we were waiting for the next stage of the booking process, which was to be
the taking of our mug shots. I was glad to be out of the cargo hold room but
still impatient to be released, and had long since abandoned the notion that
progress was being made. I started to piece together the elements of this mass
captivity of political protestors and came to the conclusion that the delays we
experienced were intentional, and not due to the number of arrestees. For
example, the entire time we sat in that hallway, perhaps twenty minutes, no
pictures were taken. Given that it takes less than a minute to have this done,
half of the people in the hallway could have been processed in the time that we
waited there. Clearly, there were other obstacles down the line that were
preventing our efficient processing through the system.
When my group of five was finally led to the mug-shot room, which was down a
half a flight of stairs, I detected the distinct smell that is left after a
cigarette has been smoked. This surprised me, because smoking in public
buildings was prohibited in New York. Then it occurred to me that such a rule
was unenforceable in a police station, since it would be the police that would
cite any infraction of this rule. By extension, I suddenly realized that the
police could get away with anything within the tombs, and that small bit of
insight, which came from the activist voice, actually caused the further
stifling of that voice.
The
presence of an air purifier inside a small cul-de-sac next to the mug shot room,
complete with a 12” air duct leading up the half-flight of stairs, confirmed
that the desk officer there was allowed to smoke. The unit was brand new, and
was designed for a room that was 5 times the size of the small corner it
served. Two officers chatted over the roar of its fan. I was called to have my
picture taken. I looked directly into the camera and smiled. Not a “look, mom,
I’m in jail!” smile, but a knowing smile, as if I were looking directly at the
prosecutor assigned to my case. It was my newly discovered “activist” smile.
Or, it could have been gas.
Where to next? It didn’t seem to matter. We were cuffed again and sent down a
full set of stairs, into the depths of the tombs, to face ever more humiliating
and degrading treatment by the police. That was when we encountered The Chair.
The
Chair was a squarely shaped appliance, resembling a place to sit but obviously
not made for comfort. It was attached to a platform which had electrical
controls and a power cord snaking from its back. On one of the vertical beams
that formed the back of this chair was a disc-shaped platform about the size of
your hand. We stared at this electrical device for some time, in yet another
narrow hallway, as the guard slipped latex gloves onto his hands. One of the
prisoners in our gang finally had the nerve to ask: “What’s the Chair for?” To
which the officer replied, “Cavity searches.” Of course, I thought to myself,
the ultimate degradation. Our stay in jail would not be complete without a body
cavity search. “What’s that plate for?” somebody asked. “It scans your jaw,”
was the reply. Then: “Are you going to use it on us?” The officer seemed bored
by the conversation. “No,” he said. The hallway was silent. How they were
planning to conduct body cavity searches was anyone’s guess. I felt like a
concentration camp victim, being led to the delousing station. Were they going
to shave my head? How bad was this actually going to be?
We
were un-cuffed and led one by one to a station where another officer with latex
gloves was looking at my arrest record. “When was your last TB test?” he asked
me. Several years ago, I answered. “It was negative, right?” he asked. Duh,
the activist voice said. I had the impulse to cough in his face before
answering. “Yes, sir.” “Any medications?” “No, sir.” “Allergic reactions?”
“Penicillin.” It took him a while to annotate that. “Right, you’re done.”
Behind me were a dozen or more cells, each with a dozen or more men, who I first
interpreted as being hardened criminals. Then I realized that they all looked
just like me. It was the same group of men who were arrested two days earlier,
during a heady protest led by a brass band. We were different people back then,
free citizens exercising our constitutional rights on the streets of New York.
That world seemed unreal to us now.
A Hunger Strike
after Lunch
I
joined yet another cell block. Incredibly, this one had a pay phone. There
were passionate discussions about who should be called, because there was
limited pocket change among us. One of the prisoners called a local radio
station to give an interview. I doubt that it was aired, however, because of
the obscenities being yelled at the guards by the prisoners. Chaos had reached
an all-time high. The prisoners chanted, yelled, sang, clapped in unison, and
slapped the concrete walls with their hands. I joined this chorus of dissent on
many occasions. It was decided, after lunch, that we should register our
dissatisfaction by refusing to eat. Sandwiches were thrown on the floor in
front of the cells. Sandwiches were thrown at the janitor, who was trying to
clean up the mess. We were like caged animals, clawing at the circus performers
who believed they could control us. The chants were sometimes a variation of
“This is what democracy looks like!” with the words, “anarchy,” “fascism,” and
“sodomy” being replaced as the object of the phrase. For many hours, until
Thursday afternoon, there were loud protests like these almost continuously.
After a while of this, I fell asleep, utterly exhausted, to be woken minutes
later by an obese, white-shirted cop who entered the cell to count the
prisoners. I’m pretty sure I yelped or gasped loudly at the sight of his
sudden, enormous, presence. It’s the feeling you might get if you realize an
intruder has entered your home.
Later, I had a long conversation with an older man from Washington state. We
ranted to each other about the horrendous breach of civil liberties being
inflicted upon us. My activist voice was roaring at full throttle. Every nerve
of my body seared with indignation. Having slept only a few hours in the
preceding two days, without ever drinking coffee or eating properly, I was
running on pure adrenaline. I was nearly delirious, and beginning to feel
claustrophobic. More than ever, I believed that I would be free within hours.
There was a rumor that a judge had imposed strict fines based on the number of
detainees still being held. The police started moving us through the system
again. I was chained to another group of four and we were led up to ground
level, where we would finally see a lawyer. My appointment was at 2:30pm, but
it wasn’t until 3 o’clock before I saw him. Forty-two and a half hours after
being trapped on 16th Street, I spoke to a lawyer.
He
was dark black man, about my age, wearing a pin-stripe suit and a serious
expression to match. My guess is that he was being held responsible for scores
of cases, and had been up all night. He advised me that I could choose one of
four options: plead guilty, plead not guilty, postpone the plea until another
occasion (the so-called “Desk Appearance Ticket” or DAT) or accept an
arrangement that doesn’t involve any type of plea, called an Adjournment on
Consideration of Dismissal, or ACD. An ACD was not an admission of guilt, I was
told, but an agreement that my arrest record would be sealed, provided that I’m
not arrested again for another 6 months. I pointed out to my lawyer that I
could be arrested for anything, and not be convicted; he assured me that the
worst that would happen was that my case would be reopened and I would have to
choose from the three other options again. I opted for the ACD.
Again, I was thinking of my videotapes. If there’s no plea, there’s no trial,
and therefore they wouldn’t be able to confiscate the tapes as evidence.
However, I also admit that I didn’t want to go to trial. I just wanted to go
home. I didn’t live in New York, and I thought it was possible I could remain
clean for at least 6 months. I considered it a real possibility that I could
have been convicted of either “disorderly conduct” or “parading without a
permit,” and I didn’t like the idea of having the topic brought up in a future
job interview. Half an hour later, I was standing in front of the Judge. I had
tucked my shirt into my pants for the occasion.
“Requesting ACD, your Honor,” said my lawyer. “Accepted,” said the judge. She
looked up from the papers in her hand, which must have included the mug shot
featuring my new activist smile. My smile was merely pleasant now. “Thank
you,” I said.
“You are free to go,” said the guard standing next to me.
As Seen on TV
I
turned, and walked slowly towards the door. It had a doorknob, it was unlocked,
and it swung open widely. I walked through that door, and entered a
wood-paneled corridor, with well-dressed people carrying briefcases, bustling
from one appointment to another. I walked towards a bright light, and was
outside. Across the street, hundreds of people were gathered, holding signs and
chanting. I approached them and somebody asked me if I had just been released.
I smiled widely, almost a laugh, and said yes. It must have been obvious,
looking at me. I gave a TV interview, and someone offered me a piece of fruit.
I drank spring water, for the first time since Pier 57. I congratulated
everyone who was dirty. Then I set off to find my belongings.
Several blocks from the courthouse there was a trailer that contained our
personal property. All we had to do was present our receipt to the officer at
the window, and our property would be returned. Since so many detainees had
been released in so short a time, there was a long line at the property trailer,
which snaked like a line at an amusement park ride. We were all in good spirits
for the first hour of this, but the crowd eventually became impatient. In
addition, the police had taken positions around the line, in large numbers, as
if they expected us to charge on the trailer. Each person who arrived at the
window had to wait 10 minutes to have their belongings re-examined. In the mean
time, none of us had any way to contact those who were concerned about us,
because the police had our cell phones. Someone’s friend had a phone though,
and it was passed among the crowd.
A
TV crew arrived, and the line started moving faster. An hour or so later, I
handed my receipt to the officer at the window, along with my driver’s license.
I was told to walk around to the other side of the trailer. Now I had no
receipt, or identification, or any of my personal property which included an
expensive piece of video equipment and the tapes I shot during the parade. I
waited anxiously with 20 other people on that sidewalk, all of whom were in
exactly the same situation. My name was called. I stepped forward, just as I
had learned to do in jail: promptly, but not with any hint of aggression. I
stepped inside the trailer and stood in front of the property officer, arms by
my side.
Between us was a table that had one item on it, which was my backpack sealed
within the plastic bag that officer Rufle had prepared for me a day and a half
earlier. The property officer opened a utility knife and cut the bag open. My
backpack spilled from the bag like a newborn child.
“That’s it,” I said. The officer glared at me. He obviously wanted to look
through the backpack but didn’t have the time to do so. “Sign here,” he said,
and I did. I thanked him, slung the pack over my shoulder, and left the
trailer. I didn’t dare check the contents until I was far away from that
scene. I eventually discovered that my camera and tapes were intact.
Epilog
I
stopped at a coffee shop and ordered an iced coffee and an espresso brownie. I
must have looked to the servers like someone who had slept in the gutter. I
asked to use the restroom. It was clean, and the door had a lock, on the
inside. I washed my hands, and splashed warm, soapy water on my face. It felt
good to be free.
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