Tag Archives: jail




The Third Arrest

I had been working hard for the past six months, though not as hard as I had when we were still occupying the park.  I went to work four days a week, waiting tables in a restaurant that served sub-par Mexican-American food and excellent margaritas, of which I generally drank too many.  The rest of my time was spent planning and organizing actions and events with the activist buddies I had met during the occupation.  I did all of this with a broken foot that was almost healed, but that ached terribly every night after work.  I could tell that I was doing damage by not resting it, but I didn’t have the time.  This was New York City, after all.  No one had the time to be sick or broken here! 

The six month anniversary of Occupy Wall Street was approaching, and in anticipation of celebration at Zucotti, Ennis and I rounded up a bunch of folks to call people and invite them to the anniversary party.  In the two years since then, my attitude towards anniversaries has changed somewhat, but that is a conversation for a different time.  At this point we still believed that maybe, if we got enough people to attend, we could re-occupy the park, we could really wake people up this time, we could change the world.  And why not?  We had the motivation and the stamina, the weather was getting warmer, and people still believed.  Of course we could do it, if we really put our minds to it. The week leading up to March 17th, 2012, was a hectic one.  I was picking up extra shifts at work and doing a lot of flyering and twittering and talking to folks in general, working on getting them to come out to the party.  That was when the phone calls began.

The first time he called he identified himself as “Brian.”  He had a thick Brooklyn accent, and he sounded like an older guy, in his late forties or fifties.  I imagined him as heavy set, with grey, thinning hair, and dark brown eyes and a drinking problem.  He asked me about the event on Saturday, if I was going to be there. 

“Yeah, of course, are you?”  I said, thinking this was some guy that I had called to invite to the park.  Then Brian started getting rough.

“You bitch, you fucking bitch.  You come down to Wall Street I’m gonna fucking kill you–“

I hung up the phone, shaken.  Who the fuck was this guy?  Brian didn’t stop there.  He called me numerous times throughout the week.  I only spoke with him once more; when I answered his call I told him to leave me the fuck alone and hung up again.  Brian’s threats continued.  He left messages on my voicemail saying that if I came down to the financial district he was going to make me pay, he was going to fuck me up. 

Saturday found me bright and early working the daytime St. Patrick’s Day shift, which shouldn’t have been as busy as it was.  Why were all of these people eating shitty bland burritos and drinking bottom shelf margaritas?  Shouldn’t they be downing whiskey in some pub or tavern tucked away in an unassuming alley somewhere?  But they came in hordes, and I didn’t even have time to smoke a cigarette.  The constant business was made worse by the phone calls I received throughout the day.  Someone, not Brian but another man, this one with a fake Irish accent, was calling my work and asking for me.  The first time he called I thought it must be a mistake.  I told the counter girl, Shelly to take a message, I was busy.  She said that he didn’t want to leave a message, it was too important.  I had no idea who this could be.  No one knew where I worked, and I hadn’t given anyone my work schedule or phone number.  When I picked up the phone this man told me that he was going to fuck me up, that he was going to kill my whole family if I went down to Wall Street today.  I hung up the phone and went back to work.  When he called back again I told Shelly to hang up on him, but he continued to call throughout the day. 

After work I met up with my friend Erik, an ex-soldier of the Israeli Army, and we went out to dinner together.  He helped me to make a list of people who could be potential enemies.  Poor me, I was too naive and trusting.  I couldn’t think of a single person.

After we parted ways I stopped at the liquor store and got a pint of Jamison Irish whiskey and then got on the train to the financial district.  I turned location services off on my phone, paranoid that someone was tracking me.   When I got to the park I calmed down a little.  There were tons of people there, talking, dancing, laughing, playing games.  I drank some whiskey and chilled with my friends.  At some point someone had snuck a tent into the park, and erected it.  My friends and I went into the tent and it felt romantic and exciting.  I made out with David, for fun, and also because my sort of ex-boyfriend Horace was making out with Patty right in front of me.  Then Shilo came in to the tent and asked me if I wanted to split a bag of weed with him.  I told him no, that I didn’t really smoke weed.  He asked if he could borrow ten dollars and I said sure and gave him a twenty.  He told me he didn’t have change for the twenty, but he could give me two xanax instead.  I told him I didn’t do drugs but I was feeling happy that so many people had shown up and relaxed from the whiskey and from being around my friends, so when he told me that I could just give them to one of his friends later for ten bucks I agreed.  I never even thought that maybe he was trying to set me up as a drug dealer, and I never did see Shilo again after that night, which was weird because he had been a pretty much constant fixture around the park for the last six months.  I put the xanax into the cellophane wrapper around my cigarette pack and promptly forgot them.

Then news came that the cops were moving in and trying to kick everyone out of the park.  What the fuck?  It wasn’t even 10:00 PM yet!  Hadn’t we established that this park was to be open to the public, that that was the stipulation for its existence?  I reluctantly started to head out when I heard Sammy calling my name.  He was sitting, with maybe fifty other people, on the ground in the middle of the park. 

“Hey!” he yelled, “Come sit with us!”  he stretched his hand out to me.

I hesitated.  I was walking with Riordan at the moment, and I stopped. 

“If you go with them, you’re probably going to get arrested.” said Riordan. 

“I know,” I said, and kissed Riordan on the mouth before I walked over and sat next to Sammy.

The police came in strong, pulling people away one by one.  I pulled on backpacks and shoulders, trying to keep them out of the pigs’ grips.  We were yelling something, over and over, some sort of chant that I can’t remember.  But I remember that I felt like I was the loudest person there at that moment, that my voice was soaring over everyone’s around me. 

“Get that fucking bitch!”  the woman officer’s voice was somehow louder than mine, and I knew without looking that her command was directed at me. 

Before I had time to react I felt hands all over me, and five male officers were dragging me away from the crowd and into some dark corner.  They had me on my stomach, they were pulling my dress up over my ass.  I was suddenly afraid.  One of them put his knee into my back and his hands were wrapped around my throat. 

“Don’t hurt me!”  I cried, “Don’t hurt me!”  and the last thing I felt was shame at being afraid.

I don’t remember anything between that moment and when they put me into the back of the paddy wagon.  It was blackness, and then I was yelling at the pigs, berating them, calling them names.  They put me on the bench next to my friend Jimmy. 

“Hey,” he said, trying to get me to look him in the eye, trying to calm me down, “hey, you’re bleeding.  Your neck is bleeding.”

I squirmed out of the plastic cuffs and put my hand to my neck.  They had cut my throat, there was a gash running across it.  I looked down at my legs and they were smeared with dirt and mud.  It looked like I had been dragged on one side for awhile.  My hoody had been ripped in half, the zipper was broken.  And my purse that had been slung across my shoulder was gone.  I took Jimmy’s phone out of his pocket and called the National Lawyer’s Guild to report everyone who had been arrested with me. The pigs stopped the van and came around back to yell at us.

“Whoever was using a black phone is going to be in big trouble!”  they yelled. 

We all laughed because everyone had a black phone.  I slipped my hands back into the cuffs and when the piggies walked around to check all of us they didn’t notice how loose mine were.  They went back to driving.  We sang a lot of songs, I don’t remember which ones.  Nancy’s cuffs were on too tight and they were cutting off her circulation and she was crying.  I tried to show her how I had gotten mine off but they were too tight.  I got someone’s scissors out of their backpack and tried to cut them off but I couldn’t.  We banged on the sides of the van until they stopped again and one of the officers tried to cut them off of her, but he couldn’t.  They were too tight.  I felt tears welling up in my eyes.  What the fuck!!!!

When we got to the police station I thought about running, but I figured they had my purse with my ID in it, and also they might (probably would) shoot me if I ran away. 

I put my cigarettes and lighter in the band of my underwear and when they tried to search me Nancy took a step forward. 

“Don’t touch her,” she said, “can’t you see she’s a survivor?”

The other girls stood silently around me, and the cop turned away.   I will never forget that moment of female solidarity.  They took us back to a small cell with a bench in it.  There was only one woman in the cell when we got there, a tiny Asian woman dressed in a short party dress and high heels.  She never said a word the entire time we were there.  They crowded (I think) twenty-three of us into that cell.  There wasn’t enough room for everyone to sit down.  We tried to pass the time singing and telling jokes.  Later Diana told me that I had made the jail cell a happy place to be with my jokes and stories, but I don’t remember what they were.  I laid under the bench for awhile and tried to sleep.  They had taken everyone’s shoes or laces except for mine.  I caused some kind of trouble when they took my foot wrap and they forgot about my shoes.  I called for the guard periodically to let me go to the bathroom and I would smoke cigarettes, blowing the smoke futilely into the toilet bowl.  I gave one girl my lighter when she realized what I was doing; she had smuggled smokes in as well.  At one point I told everyone I hated them, and then I went and smoked a cigarette and came back and said I was sorry.  Half the cell was trying to sleep, and the other half was talking; the sleeping half tried to shush the talking half.  I said (I think) that everyone there had been shushed enough for one night. One of the girls was having either an asthma attack or a panic attack, I don’t remember.  I think her ribs might have ended up being broken.   It was rumored that she had punched a cop in the face when he had arrested her; we don’t really know what he did in retaliation.  She wanted to go to the hospital but she didn’t want to go alone, she was too afraid of the cops.  We worked out some sort of an agreement with the guards where one of the trained medics who had been arrested would go with her (I think). 

When the boys came in to get their pictures taken I held my hand out through the bars and squeezed their hands if I knew them.  They said they could hear us singing and it made them happy.  When they took me to get fingerprinted they couldn’t make the machine work.  I was mockingly patient, because there wasn’t very much else I could be.  In the morning they put us in metal handcuffs in a chain gang style and walked us back out to the paddy wagon.  The boys made animal sounds when they heard us leaving, they crowed like roosters and howled like wolves. I was on one end of the chain gang, and I slipped my wrist out of the handcuff and held the link under my hoody sleeve.  When we got into the paddy wagon I was glad to be free of the chain gang.  The other girls were sliding all around in the back of the van whenever it took a turn.  We got to the Tombs and stood in a long line of ne’er-do-wells.  One of the girls in our gang had snuck a granola bar and a sandwich in and we all shared it.  We were very hungry. 

The cops asked if any of us wanted medical attention.  I said I did.  I went into a room and talked to a man about my injuries.  He said if I got medical attention I would just end up spending a longer time in jail, so I didn’t go.  In hindsight, I should have.  Then he took my mug shot.  I didn’t smile in this one. 

We sat against the wall, waiting in the never ending line.  One cop walking by glanced down at us and then raised his fist as he walked by, whether in jest or solidarity I don’t know.  Finally we were taken up to the jail.  It was a horrible light green color.  They searched me when I went in; I had long ago smoked my last cigarette and didn’t have my lighter anymore so I was good to go.  When I got into the cell Charley and Lisbeth were there!  They told me that they had been arrested for dancing on the sidewalk earlier in the day.  Charley said her arresting officer had grabbed her by the breasts before he put handcuffs on her.  I shook my head in disgust.  Filthy fucking pigs.  They brought us government cheese sandwiches and cartons of milk and I downed mine.  There was a payphone and I wanted to call my job to tell them why I wasn’t at work but no one had a quarter.  And that is the irony of jail.  I sat on the bench and put my hands in the pockets of my broken hoody.  But wait, what was this?  In the very deepest corner of my pocket, attached to a tiny thread…it was one of the xanaxs from Shilo!  What the fuck!  I held it up to the light and both Charley and Lisbeth recognized it instantly.

“Awww, lucky!”  said Charley, who didn’t do drugs either.

“Well guys, see ya in a few hours,” I said, and dry swallowed the pill.  I took my shoes off and made a pillow out of them and lie down on the bench.  Within minutes I was asleep.

I woke up several hours later when it was my turn to go down to another waiting room.  This was the room where people got a chance to talk to their lawyers before they went to court. 

There was a lesbian girl who had been arrested for having a joint on her when she got pulled over.  There were two friends dressed in evening clothes who had been arrested for fighting two other girls.  They had all been waiting to go to court for a long time.  One of them had become friends with one of the guards, and the guard brought an entire box of government cheese sandwiches and cartons of milk into the room.  We ate until we felt sick.  Then there was a commotion outside.  Someone was playing a trumpet!  My friends had found out that I was in the room!  They were waving and playing music and yelling hello to me from outside.  One of the girls asked me who they were.

“They’re from Occupy Wall Street,” I said, “they’re doing jail support.”

“Man!”  she said, “How do I get to be a part of that?”

And it really was a great feeling, to know that people cared whether you were ok or not, and were willing to hang out outside the jail until you got out.  I don’t think that was true for most of the women in there. 

I was surprised again when a lawyer came to see me and said he wanted to represent me.  I agreed.  I asked him whether I should do the retina scan, which they try to do to everyone who is arrested, regardless of their charges.  It’s another way of fingerprinting the public, only this way they can use facial recognition technology to track (target??) you via the extensive surveillance system in place in the city.  The lawyer told me that they would keep me for possibly another twenty-four hours longer if I refused. They took me out to the court room and I did the retina scan. I immediately regretted it.   I saw some of my friends sitting in the courtroom, Charley had already gotten out! and they waved at me and that made me smile and feel a little braver.  I stood in front of the judge who read me the charges against me (this was the first time I had heard them) and I was released on my own recognisance, meaning that I had given enough evidence (a NYC based job and address) to suggest that I was trustworthy enough to show up for my next court date. My charges were Obstructing Government Administration, and Resisting Arrest.

When I got outside there were a lot of people waiting on the steps doing jail support and they clapped and cheered.  I felt like a celebrity.  People offered me cigarettes and I gladly smoked them.  People offered me food but I was still feeling sick from all of the government cheese sandwiches so I only accepted an apple.  Someone took pictures of the wounds on my neck and legs and a medic came over and treated them and re-wrapped my foot.  Then my friends Artemis and Caroline bought me a taxi to drive to the precinct where my purse (containing my house keys, ID, paycheck, all of my money, and iphone) supposedly was.  They didn’t have my belongings.   They told me that I should have gotten them back before I was taken to the Tombs.  They gave me a printed list of all of the people who had been arrested that night and their addresses.  I realized that I probably wasn’t supposed to have this information but I took it. 

Artemis got me another cab to my job, and gave me some spending money.  Artemis is a great man.  I told my boss that I had spent the past thirty hours in jail and he took one look at me and believed me.  Then Artemis and Caroline and I went to the bar to get a drink.  I told the bartender my story and she let me drink for free.  Caroline let me stay at her house since I couldn’t get into my place.  She is a wonderful woman.  The next day I went to another precinct to get my belongings.  Jimmy was there!  The cop behind the desk told me he didn’t have my stuff.  As I was walking away he asked me if I had learned my lesson.  I stopped and considered responding to him, but I didn’t turn around.  Jimmy put his arm around my shoulders and we walked back out into the sunlight.

I never did get my stuff back.  I went to seven different precincts, but it was gone.  It had just magically disappeared.  I was told that my arresting officer was responsible for the safekeeping of my possessions, but surprisingly no one could figure out who my arresting officer was, they kept passing the buck off between each other.  I wanted to press charges against the NYPD for making an illegal arrest and for battery, but nine months later they were still pushing my court date back, and this time my lawyer didn’t show up.  I didn’t want to be stuck in New York anymore, I wanted to get the fuck out.  I finally accepted their offer of an ACD (meaning that I agreed with their charges but if I didn’t “get in trouble” for six months they would be dropped from my record) and left the state the next day. 

So, you might ask the same question that dickface officer asked me–did I learn my lesson?  The answer is yes.  I learned that the closer to the truth you get the more of a threat you become.  I learned that fighting against a police state is impossible if you don’t have a broad base of support.  But mostly I learned that in general people naturally want to look out for each other, that our survival as a species depends on recognizing and respecting our interconnectivity and mutual dependence.  And for that I am thankful.


The Second Arrest

They say that hindsight is 20/20…or is that Mad Dog?  Either way I wasn’t doing much looking back ten years ago, and not too much looking forward either.  In a way, you could say that that drug and alcohol fueled time was the most zen period of my life; a time when I was living in and for the moment, if barely.  Today I thought to regale you with a tale from my youth, the tale of my second arrest. 

Being twenty is difficult for many young adults, primarily those without the proper fake IDs.  Although I was one of the burdened few who had only my wits and charm to rely on, being twenty was not a challenge to my quest for near constant inebriation.  I had become friends with the bartenders at one of the local downtown bars, and they would wave me in before the bouncer could try to check my ID.  I would perch on a bar stool and drink free White Russians to my liver’s content; the only price was flirting with forty-year-old John and his leering friends.  Whenever a band I liked came to town they usually played at an over twenty-one club on the square where I had another in, this time at the door.  Once again I would drink on someone else’s tab, in this case another older man who had fallen under the spell of my well-developed friend Marie.  And then, most of my friends were older and were always down to run to the liquor store for their underage chum.

So I had no problems getting alcohol: my problems started with the things I wanted once I was already drunk.  The night of my second arrest what I wanted was Taco Bell.  My friend Jeanie and I tried to coerce her boyfriend to take us out for chalupas but to no avail.  Finally I snagged his car keys off the wall and we snuck out of the house and stole his car.  I made it to Taco Bell just fine, but as we were about to pull out of the parking lot, Jeanie told me that she wanted to drive. It was, after all, her boyfriend’s car, so I handed her the keys.  Two minutes after pulling out of Taco Bell we got pulled over.  I stuffed the rest of the chalupa down my throat and lit a cigarette and Jeanie put two pennies in her mouth, some worthless folk remedy that supposedly foiled breathalyzers.  I think we both knew that we were going to jail.  When the officer (campus police!  we were getting arrested by amateurs!  unbelievable!) asked Jeanie to step out of the car, our fate was sealed. I lit another cigarette and watched as she did the monkey test. The white letters spelling out “FUCK THE POLICE” on the back of her hoody might as well have said “ARREST ME NOW.”  While the officer put Jeanie in handcuffs, his partner came around to my window to offer me a breathalyzer. 

“You been drinking tonight ma’am?”

“Nope.”  I was never one to shy away from lying to the authorities.

After politely refusing the breathalyzer, they put me in the back of the bacon mobile anyway (filthy pigs!).  They took us first to the campus police department, then to the main police station downtown.  They asked me numerous times to take the breathalyzer and each time I politely declined.  I think I thought I had rights or something.  I finally relented when they threatened to keep me in jail for the entire weekend.  I blew a…something like a 2.6 or something, I’m not sure.  They threw me in the drunk tank along with Jeanie and a woman who claimed to be the Number One Most Wanted Woman in the county.  The Number One Most Wanted Woman in the county kept screaming at the guards to give her her meds or she was going to sue the shit out of them.  She also spent a lot of time on the toilet, which was basically in the middle of the room, no stall or anything.  The Number One Most Wanted Woman in the county is whom I first learned the term “courtesy flush” from, which I think only applies to jail. 

I played out almost twelve hours in the drunk tank; Jeanie got out before I did even though her charges were more serious than mine.  We spent most of our time singing Patsy Cline and Johnny Cash songs.  At one point the guard came over and banged on the door.

“Hey!  Shut up in there!” he yelled.

“What are you gonna do, arrest us?”

We were belligerent, we couldn’t believe that the cops had the audacity to throw us in jail for being drunk.  At that point in time we didn’t see anything wrong with drunk driving.  As long as we got to where we were going and didn’t fuck up our vehicle too badly it was totally fine.  When they took my mug shot photo I smiled.  The guard responsible for taking the picture shook his head. 

“I’ve never seen anyone smile for one a these before,” he said, and he showed me the picture. 

He was a nice guy, for a pig.  My pigtails were a mess, and the white collared t-shirt I was wearing was stained with beer.  The smile on my face made me look insane.  I loved it. 

When I got out of jail I made it my mission to be as rude to the police as possible.  Nevermind that I had been driving five minutes before we got pulled over, my charge was underage drinking and that was bullshit!  In just six short months I would be twenty-one and that charge would not even be applicable!  As it was I was put on some sort of probation through my school which was somehow, despite it’s ragingly alcoholic greek- and athletics-centric majority, considered a “dry campus”. This meant that in order to remain enrolled in classes I had to go to four (4) AA meetings, two (2) counseling sessions, meet with some sort of guy whose life had been ruined by alcohol, attend a $150 alcohol class, and pay a $300 fine for the charges.  At my job at a sandwich shop whenever I saw the boys in blue come in I insisted on taking a break and refused to make any of the food for the popo. 

“If I have to make it I’ll spit in it,” I told my manager when he asked me what my beef with the cops was. 

The AA meetings were excruciatingly sad.  When everyone went around the room and said “Hi, my name is ______, and I’m an alcoholic,” I cringed.  How could these people define themselves solely by their addiction?  When it was my turn to introduce myself I rejected the adjective, although I felt my cheeks burning as everyone in the room waited for the second part.  The people at the AA meetings had heartbreaking stories, and I couldn’t believe some of them.  One woman talked about how after she had gotten pregnant she and her husband had stopped drinking, but one day she came home from work and he was drunk and he pushed her down the basement stairs and she lost the baby.  I hoped that I would never have any sad stories like that. 

The alcohol class was held at the courthouse on a Saturday morning, and I was pleased to see one of my childhood friends in attendance.  At least I wouldn’t have to endure what was likely intended to be a long and tedious lecture alone.  I was wrong though.  There was some lecturing of course, a couple of cops came in and told us some stories about drunk people they had arrested.  They told a story about one lady who was driving just fine but they pulled her over for a broken taillight or something and she blew something ludicrous that most people would legally be dead if they blew.  They said that she was walking and talking normally, the only reason they tested her was because she smelled like alcohol.  The class was supposed to last eight hours, but in the middle of the day the main guy in charge started talking about why he taught the class.  He said he taught the class because his daughter had been killed by a drunk driver.  He said that today was the anniversary of her death.  Then he stopped talking.  His eyes were bright with tears.

“You all can go on home now.  Class is dismissed early.”  he said.

I wondered if he said that at every class.  I hoped that he did. 

The counseling was possibly the worst of all.  I went to counseling through my school, which meant that I met with graduate students who weren’t quite counselors yet.  They assigned me to a male who was from Australia.  His accent threw me off, and I found myself agreeing to things I didn’t want to agree to.  He asked if he could audio record the session and I said yes.  What a horrible idea!  How can you expect people to open up to you when you’re recording them?!  Luckily the charm of his accent had been broken by this heinous request, and when he asked me if I would be okay with video recording the session I vehemently refused.  He asked me what my issues were and I told him I had trouble sleeping, that I was in love with a man with abusive tendencies, that I drank too much and did too many drugs.  He told me that if I continued on this path I would “skate through life, date a string of abusive men and be a waitress by the time you’re thirty.” I was shocked and disgusted that he would put this bad juju on my life!  At the end of the session he told me that if I came back to see him again he would prescribe me sleeping pills.  I couldn’t believe it.  This man didn’t know what he was doing at all!  He didn’t respect my privacy, it didn’t seem to even phase him that he had offered to write a prescription for someone who had just admitted to having substance abuse problems, and he had diagnosed my fate!  He couldn’t do that!  No one could!  Needless to say, I did not go back. 

His words stuck with me over the years, though.  I would find myself in a less than desirable relationship and think back to the curse he had cast (because of course it couldn’t be my fault!).  Anytime I found myself about to take a short cut or avoiding difficult things I would think back to his words and apply myself with diligence and renewed fervor, if only to prove him wrong.  Now I am thirty and I have yet to work for money since my birthday almost two months ago.  The easy thing to do would be to get a waitressing job: the money is good and I know I can do it.  But that fucking wannabe counselor!  Maybe his intention all along was to try to get me to prove him wrong, but I just can’t seem to go back to that job…

What started out as a memory of my second arrest has, of course, wound its way up to today…the affects of the past on the future cannot be denied. 

Anyway, I hope ya’ll enjoyed this snapshot of my ridiculous past!