[thingist] ARREST (short story in 3 installments)

[ursula endlicher]

damn! this sounds beyond hell...
speechless in anger,
ursula

>Wednesday, April 29, 2009, started just like any other day in New York
>City.  I needed to do an errant and had to go up to the German Consulate
>on 49th Street to have my signature verified on some legal document my
>Berlin notary had sent me.  It was a beautiful day and so I decided to
>take my old BMW K75 motorcycle for a ride up there.  My plan was to go to
>Chelsea Piers for a swim afterwards.  I had some busy weeks behind me
>putting together a show at Postmasters gallery in Chelsea and I felt like
>allowing myself an afternoon off.
>
>After I finished my business at the Consulate and returned to the bike – I
>had actually found a legal parking spot on 50th Street near 1st Ave – I
>had a fateful idea.  Maybe instead of cutting crosstown, I could ride up
>to Cycle Therapy, my garage, and have them look at the damaged blinkers.
>It was the second time this season that an idiot had knocked over the bike
>while it was parked on Rivington Street and the lenses on the signal
>lights were broken.  The lights worked fine and I had fixed the lenses
>temporarily with gaffers tape, but it didn't look good and it needed to be
>taken care off.
>
>Cycle Therapy is up in Harlem on 127th, between Third and Second Avenue.
>Amit, the guy who runs the shop, looks at the bike, goes back to his
>computer and orders the parts.  I ask him about the inspection sticker
>that was punched for May 2009.  "You have till the end of May, we'll do it
>when we have the parts.  I will call you.  Good bye."  I get on my bike,
>turn right on Second Ave to take 125th over to the West Side Highway
>looking forward to my swim, relaxing on the sun deck at Chelsea Piers and
>continue reading Derrida's "Counterfeit Money," a book on the theory of
>the gift.
>
>At 126th street a cop car behind me starts flashing his lights and
>turns on the siren and I move to the right thinking he wants to pass me.
>Looking back, I see them gesturing at me so I pull over at a gas station.
>Two cops get out and ask for my license and registration.  I ask what's
>wrong and the cop tells me that I was "running a red light" when I turned
>at 127th.  I ride my bike in NYC since 1991 and I am not in the habit of
>running red lights.  Drivers in NYC hit the gas within a millisecond the
>light turns green.  You don't want to be on a bike in an intersection when
>this happens.  The guy's probably desperate to write a ticket I think.  I
>give him my NY drivers license and my registration and am ordered to stay
>at my bike while they check.
>
>It takes forever.  Suddenly a black car speeds into the gas station lot.
>Two cops jump out and order me to put my hands up on their car and frisk
>me.  "Do you have anything sharp in your pockets" one of the cops asks me.
>  "No, just my keys" I answer as he empties my pockets. "What is this
>about" I ask, my mind racing trying to make sense of this.  "You're under
>arrest" the cop says.  "I am under what?  What for?"  "For driving with a
>suspended license" he declares.  They put hand cuffs on me, order me in
>the back seat
>of their car and we drive off to the 25th precinct on 119th Street, while
>one of the cops rides my bike.
>
>In the precinct they put my belongings in a manila envelope and order me
>to take off my belt and shoe laces.  They count my money, 104 dollars and
>a few coins.  Officer Jose Arroyo, the guy who arrested me, tells me I am
>allowed to keep up to 100 dollars.  He gives me 60 and two quarters and
>they put me in a holding cell.  I'm starting to feel a little bit alarmed
>by now and demand my cell phone to call a lawyer.  Arroyo actually comes
>back with my phone and allows me to make a call.  I call Martin Liu, an
>immigration lawyer and art collector who I recently met and who was the
>only lawyer I had on my phone. "You're what?  Arrested? Which precinct?  I
>send an associate up there right away."
>
>I'm waiting in the cell sitting on the metal bench.  Left to me is a black
>transvestite with a wig looking like a younger version of Michael Jackson.
>   "What are you here for" I ask him.  "Prostitution" he lilts managing a
>smile.  The guy on the right was charged with assault and outside the
>cell, shackled to the iron bars, is a black woman in her thirties who
>apparently had sold bootlegged CDs on the street.
>
>An hour later officer Arroyo comes back and hands me a card.  It was the
>Chelsea Piers membership card of Michael Strage, the lawyer Liu sent up.
>Arroyo hands me my phone back and I can talk with the lawyer.  "Hey, we go
>to the same club."  "Yes, I saw your card in your wallet and I gave the
>officer mine to let you know I am here."  Strage tells me that he has my
>belongings, but there was probably not much else he could do other than
>meet me later at Central Booking on Centre Street.   He says it could take
>up to 24 hours in the worst case, but that he will try to speed it up.  He
>asks me if I want him to represent me and I say "Hell, yeah sure, get me
>out of here."
>
>Idling my time away in the cell I think what could have caused the
>suspension of my license.  I had paid my insurance a couple of months
>earlier.  The DMV in Albany had always sent me new registration stickers
>after I paid the 14 dollars for it online.  I also checked the DMV web
>site regularly and paid my parking tickets.  I wanted to  make sure I had
>no balance on it, because sometimes when I am traveling abroad I let my
>friend Paololuca have the bike.  He used to collect a lot of parking
>tickets over time, almost a thousand dollars worth, but he paid for all of
>them.  Then I remembered another incident three years earlier in Harlem.
>A cop stopped me on 125th and issued two tickets for wearing RayBan
>aviator sunglasses and a helmet on which the DOT sticker had peeled off,
>although any idiot could have seen that it was a legal motorcycle helmet.
>I had also immediately offered to wear my goggles which I kept in the bike
>for cloudy days or longer rides, but there was absolutely no room for
>negotiation.  I was so furious back then, that I wanted to contest the
>charges. I received a date for a hearing, but couldn't go because I had to
>be in Berlin at the time. So I wrote back to the DMV and said I wouldn't
>be able to make it and paid the summonses instead.  Could it be that
>something got mixed up in the bureaucracy then?  The DMV is not exactly
>known for accurate record keeping.
>
>After a while Arroyo shows up again.  I look at him and realize he's not
>totally comfortable with the situation.  Strage must have spoken with him.
>  But it's too late to change anything now, I'm in the system and the
>process has to run its course.  He hands me back my license and tells me
>that normally he is required to tear it up.  He also hands me 3 summonses
>and a receipt for the impounded bike.  He tries to be friendly and we
>manage to strike up a short conversation.  I ask him if he could tell me
>what possibly caused the suspension of my license.  He tells me that the
>DMV records were "a bit mixed up" and he doesn't know what the exact
>offense was, but that the DMV records show my license suspended for two
>unpaid moving violations in March and May 2007.  I told him that I am not
>aware of any outstanding tickets, that in fact last time I paid a parking
>ticket
>on the DMV website it showed zero outstanding balance.  He tells me
>something about the DMV web site only showing "parking tickets" and not
>"moving violations."  He continues to tell me, almost apologetically, that
>the officers are told by their superiors to target motorcycles between
>April and October.
>
>So that's how the system works, these guys are told to produce a number of
>tickets no matter what, otherwise they don't get ahead in the system.  I
>don't know if this order is specific to the 25th precinct or whether this
>profiling goes on city wide.  I never had a problem downtown where I've
>been living and riding my bike for many years.  But this was the second
>time now that I had a run in with the "law" in Harlem within a few years.
>It certainly explained the annoying helmet and sunglasses charge on 125th
>Street in 2006 and the current accusation of running a red light on 127th.
>  He leaves me and I look at the summonses.  One is for a "defective turn
>signal front right," one for a "defective turn signal right rear" and one
>is "unlicensed operator."  Strangely enough, no ticket for "running the
>red light," which started this whole thing in the first place.
>
>I while away my time in the filthy cell doing knee bends and stretch
>exercises.  At one point they get me out of the cell and a Hispanic cop in
>shorts takes my finger prints and photographs me on a grey wall with a
>height scale painted on it.  Around 5 pm the other three inmates are
>picked up for transfer.  I have to wait longer.  Around 6 pm, a female and
>a male cop take me to an old white and blue Ford with the words NYPD,
>Courtesy, Professionalism, Respect written on it.  I'm in hand cuffs again
>and they take me by the arm and shove me on a bare metal back seat.  The
>cuffs hurt, but at least we are finally on the way downtown to Centre
>Street.  At least that's what I thought.  But no, they turn north and take
>me to the "hub" at the 28th precinct.  There I am stripped again and put
>in a single cell with a toilet.  There is puke residue in the corner, the
>toilet is a mess, the stench of urine all over the place.  I feel
>nauseous.
>
>Around 8:30 they open the cell doors and line up ten of us.  They
>take a long metal chain with shackles and cuff our left hands to it.
>One guy comes in late, a Dominican crackhead, still totally high, busted
>for "a snatch."  He seems to know some of the cops already.  "Hey you, are
>you Chinese?" he goes to one of the cops.  They always identify the cops
>by their ethnicity.  "You know Bruce Lee used to come up to Harlem to
>party and eat pussy!  He and Khalid Abdul Muhammad, they would go out
>together and Muhammad was a Muslim and was not allowed to eat pussy, but
>they did anyway..."  The Chinese cop didn't care much.  But another big
>fat black cop in an oversized white t-shirt gave him a high five.
>Together they had known some famous karate guy in Harlem and they both
>visibly enjoyed their
>reunion. I realized they were two sides of the same coin, they grew up in
>the same neighborhoods, went to the same schools and are still playing
>robbers and cops together.  In the end we are twelve guys, I am the only
>Whitey in the gang.  I am between the crackhead and a black drug dealer
>with a missing front tooth and a baseball cap.  We are led to a truck to
>take us to the Tombs.  The crackhead is rapping "I am a lyrical wizard, I
>make sunshine out of a blizzard..."
>
>In the truck we are squeezed together and the crackhead won't stop
>talking.  Actually, at one point he said to be freebasing only on cocaine.
>  "You can do anything you want when you smoke cocaine.  Anything!"  "Fuck
>all night?" one asks.  "Fuck all night, man!"  Then the drug dealer to my
>right talks about declining business.  The economic crisis affects his
>business too.  I bet a good portion of his wares ended up spicing up Wall
>Street investment bankers parties.  "We used to make shitloads of money,
>man.  But now?  Shiiit."  He doesn't like me and calls me a cracker.  The
>crackhead comes to my rescue, "He's not a cracker, man. He's German.  Red
>necks are crackers, not Germans."  The black Muslim across the aisle in a
>white oversized sports jacket and skull cap smiles at me and says "Germans
>are good people, they like black people."  The drug dealer, who claimed to
>be a member of the Bloods, didn't like this.  "He's a cracker, I tell you,
>look at his neck, it's red."  At this point I'm fed up with this shit.  I
>had problems following their slang, the only crackers I know come as party
>food and so I told him "If I am a cracker then you must be a pretzel."
>Some laughed, but it didn't go over well with the Bloods dude.  "Next time
>I see you in the hood, I blow your head off!" he shouts at me.  From now
>on I keep my mouth shut.
>
>The truck door opens and we are in the court yard of the Tombs.  It's
>night now, the cranky metal entrance shutter door rolls down behind us.
>The gang is led downstairs and made to wait in a long corridor.  As we
>wait I notice two white cops who are watching us.  They must be detectives
>of sorts and were checking us out or simply training their cognitive
>skills.  They are young, in their early thirties.  One is an Irish guy
>with short reddish hair wearing a t-shirt, the other a good looking Tom
>Cruise type with a jacket and wearing his badge on a chain over his chest.
>  At one point, after a staring contest, the Irish cop asks me "Five
>Eleven?"  I ask "What?"  "License suspended?"  I nodded and told him I had
>no idea why.  He said "Just take it as an experience."  I've heard this
>line before from my lawyer when we talked on the phone at the precinct
>"Just stay calm, don't be sarcastic, the cops don't like it, and just take
>it as an experience."  I told the Irish cop that I've had other plans for
>the evening.  He shrugged.  They were intelligent and of course figured
>out that I must be German or European.  I felt like injecting a bit of
>drama into the scene and said "You know, you guys run around the world
>preaching about democracy and human rights and then you treat people like
>this for no reason?" and held up my shackled hand to him.  The Cruise guy
>twitched and they both said nothing anymore.
>
>Some guy comes, unshackles me and leads me into a small room with two
>female cops.  One is doing some clerical work while watching a talk show
>on a huge old TV set, the other sits behind a desk with a computer monitor
>and talks on the phone with friends or family.  She doesn't look at me,
>just motions with her free hand to a digital camera in the back.  I look
>at the camera and she hits a key on her keyboard.  Then she motions to the
>side wall where they've mounted a picture of an Irish setter puppy.  I
>look at the dog and she takes my profile.
>
>Next we are led into yet another corridor and frisked by a gang of rough
>and muscular black cops.  They line us up against the wall and again we
>empty our pockets and put everything on the floor.  The crackhead
>continues to talk back at them.  They don't like it and after the second
>"Shut up!" the broke ass mutha fucka does the sensible thing and shuts up.
>  Then there's a roll call and we have to state our dates of birth.
>Finally we can pick up our stuff and they give us back our shoe laces and
>belts and escort us to the cages.
>
>A big room with about six or seven cages.  About twenty people in a cage,
>some sleeping on the benches and on the floor.  Garish institutional green
>cinder block stone walls.  Fluorescent light flickering.  Filthy floors,
>food crumbs everywhere, one open toilet and two pay phones.  I was
>wondering before why Arroyo gave me 60 dollars and two quarters.
>Thoughtful guy, I would be able to make a phone call now.  At the entrance
>there was a box with sandwiches and small containers of milk.  I took my
>ration and after I sniffed on the undefinable brown spread on the stale
>bread I decided to throw it in the trash.
>
>11 pm.  My name is called and I am escorted upstairs into a holding cell
>with three small booths where people can talk with their lawyers.  Most
>had court appointed legal aid.  One young hip hop guy was running around
>frenetically asking for quarters to make a phone call.  After he got some,
>he yelled in the phone "They got verything, my gold chains, my 5,000
>dollar watch.  Everything!"   Finally my lawyer shows up.   We talk
>through the screen.  "There are two options," he tells me, "either we
>plead guilty and I probably can get you out with a $75 fine or we plead
>not guilty and we have to go back to court in a couple of months."  It's a
>tough decision.  I felt so fucking violated that I really itched to fight
>back.  But then you think, is it really worth it?  Do you want to spend
>your time and energy to go against this bureaucratic juggernaut, like some
>Don Quichote fighting the windmill in the seal of New York City.  I
>couldn't decide.  "Think about it," my lawyer said, "see you in the court
>room."
>
>Ten minutes later, I am called into the court room.  As I go in I overhear
>a police woman telling another waiting delinquent "Oh don't worry so much,
>it's judge Klein tonight, he is a good one."  I take it as a good omen.
>
>It's around midnight.  All sorts of people sitting around the court room,
>cops, lawyers, bailiffs, clerks.  I walk up to the bench where Michael
>already waits for me.  High up, behind some sort of lectern, presides
>judge Klein, a stern looking man around sixty, grey hair, thick glasses.
>A stenographer typing on a keyboard below to his left.  The case is read
>and he asks how we want to plead.  I am still undecided and talk quickly
>to Michael who encourages me to take the pragmatic route.  "Do you really
>want to be stuck here all summer waiting for a court appearance and it's
>not even sure we can get a better deal and it will cost you more money?
>And if you don't show up they issue a warrant..."  I agree, let's get it
>over with.  The judge proceeds to ask if I admit my offense.  I twitch and
>turn to the side in frustration and anger.  I know of no offense I
>committed.  Immediately there is a chorus from the cops and clerks in the
>court room.  "Face the judge! Face the judge!"  I straighten myself and
>tell the judge "I would have to lie to you if I would admit an  offense
>now."  Judge Klein looks at me and responds "You can plead not guilty, do
>you understand?"  At this point my lawyer jumps in "You see your honor my
>client is deeply aggrieved..."  "You can also plead nolo contendere" the
>judge cuts him short.  Michael takes 15 seconds to explain the legalese to
>me.  It's basically a plea where the defendant neither admits nor disputes
>a charge, kind of a plea bargain.  You still have the guilty charge stuck
>on you, but you don't have to admit any guilt.  I think about it for a
>second
>and agree.  "The fine will be 75 dollars and 80 dollars in court fees.  Do
>you wish to pay now with credit card or do you want to pay later?"  I
>agree to pay with credit card.
>
>My hand is trembling when I sign the credit card receipt in the clerks
>office.  "Running a good business here" I say, not exactly approvingly.
>The clerk glares at me.  "Could have kept you here all night" he snaps
>back.  Michael gets me out of the room quickly.  "You shouldn't have said
>this, the clerks can be very useful.  Without him you would be still down
>there."
>
>We're out of the Tombs by 12:30 am Thursday morning.
>
>
>To be continued...
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
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-- 
..........................
ursula endlicher
...........................................................................................
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