I was hoping to tell of the many interesting things that happened at Berkeley City
Jail, and the interesting people I was incarcerated with (teachers in the SF jail system, founders of environmental groups at UCSF), but instead I will only report on my injury when Officer Hayes (Badge 459)
was showing off to Officer Brown (Badge 7)--who didn't know how to remove them--how easy it was to snip off the disposable handcuffs and cut a gash in my wrist about 1/2-inch long and deep enough to cause
what I believe will be a scar for life. "Tis not so wide as a church door, nor as deep as a well, but 'twill serve," as the dying Mercutio sputters in Romeo and Juliet. I was not assisted in anyway
when the blood started oozing, but had to ask for disinfectant and a bandage. Officer Hayes went completely silent and pretended to be deeply engrossed in his paper work and that nothing was happening I had
to ask for water to flush the wound and keep the swelling down. "Get up and get it over there" was Officer Brown's reply. "You don't need a disinfectant." But I need to fast-forward to
the next afternoon's 2 o'clock arraignment, having spent the day in jail.
Within 15 minutes of the arraignment, the other four arrested in my micro group were released. First three, then one, then... I
was not. No explanation. One hour later I started to call out. The judges chambers were outside the door--10 feet away. I needed an answer so started to sing out, "Officer. Please tell me why I'm here.
Officer. I don't know why I'm in jail. Would an officer please come talk to me?"
I could only keep it up for a few minutes. Twenty minutes later an officer answered my question with, "You have a
70 warrant for your arrest in Santa Clara County. There's something unusual about it, but we've decided to transport you to Santa Rita County Jail, by way of downtown Oakland's North County jail, and Santa
Clara County will pick you up from there. If they do not come in five days, you will be released."
I haven't had a ticket in Santa Clara County for more than 10 years.
Another hour or so later I
was transported by van to North County Jail and placed in holding with "criminals," including 25 years-to-lifers who were being transported to "The Q," San Quentin prison. I was
frightened at first, but quickly found that my fellow incarcerates were quite human, quite helpful, and interested in what was going on with the radio station.
A cellmate who had been transported with me
was released by the court to a Mental Health facility. Once at North County he pleaded with the guards that they had made a mistake and he was not supposed to be in jail, but at Mental Health, "Here's
the paperwork from the judge to show it." The officer he tried to show it to snapped at him to be quiet. His gentle response, "But there's been a mistake."
The officer was wound up tight as
a coil and screamed, at him, "I DON'T WANT TO SEE THAT S**T. NOW SHUT UP BEFORE I THROW YOU ALL THE WAY TO THE VERY BACK AND YOU NEVER COME OUT!"
This to a mentally ill patient. I was surprised
the guard's fellow workers didn't "take him out of there," or otherwise remove him from a situation where he was obviously not in control of himself and could further snap. He was armed.
Jesus,
I hope that man was found out. North County was horribly scary. I was the most scared all day in the hour I spent there. Perhaps he was in the right place, but this man with papers proving his mental
fragility was unnecessarily and callously mistreated and demeaned for no reason whatsoever. "We're doing everything we can to get you to the place the court has ordered, buddy," would have served
to calm the patient and those around him. Instead the cycle of abuse had begun.
I was placed on a bus which sat with all the windows closed and no air conditioning in a small enclosed garage for about 20
minutes. Thirty-five on the bus. Three were white, three were Latino, everyone else, black. I was no longer listening to stories on Free Speech Radio KPFA about racial profiling, but living them.
I also
realized that no one in the outside world knew I was there. I was certain most thought I had been released. This was confirmed when I returned home and heard a message from a friend. "Heard you were
released. Not sure why your bike is still tied to a tree in front of KPFA, but hope all is well. Call me." I couldn't. I didn't know his number and 411 is not reachable within the jail system.
The
bus was stifling and all the people on board were being treated with utmost inhumanity. It was a lively and interesting crowd of men. I was surprised to learn how much I liked them. After seeing criminals
portrayed in films I was certain they were all going to eat me alive. It wasn't long before the yellow stripes--Fed offenders enroute to "the Q,"--the yellow no stripes, and blues heard the rumor
that someone onboard had been arrested in front of "that radio station," and wanted to know all about it.
When we reached Santa Rita we sat in direct sun with all the windows closed and the bus
turned off for another 20-25 minutes. A man with asthma could not breathe. We were all shouting to open the doors for all of us, but mostly for this guy. He collapsed on the ground in a faint as the door
opened. He continued having a great deal of trouble breathing for the next two hours. We called the officers for immediate attention, but it was three hours before he got it. The holding cells are quite cold
- 30-degree difference from the heat of the bus. The man went into shock: Shaking, sweating, gasping.
Everyone counseled me that I would be "cited-off" and released soon. They all knew my fear
for my two cats locked up in the house with no food since the afternoon before.
The guys told me to tell every officer I saw politely and firmly that I was there for a $70 warrant I knew nothing about and
could they expedite the paper work for that, or at least help me find the phone number in the book so I could call my neighbor who has the key to our house to feed the animals. Most responses were,
"What were you arrested for?"
"Protesting the radio station lockout at KPFA."
"Oh, yah, I heard about that. Hey, you have to do what you have to do. You'll be out of here in
another hour."
Five hours later I had been sent through a series of mazes heading deeper and deeper into the Santa Rita compound, room to room, getting smaller each time while the crowd got larger.
Not only had I given up hope around 9:30 p.m. when I was sent with the crowd to the suiting-up room to get uniforms and bedding for the night, but my crowd of supporters had lost hope for my being the
first to get sprung as well. "Looks like you'll be here for the night."
"Looks like it."
I did make a final plea to the officer who put us in the suiting up room, but when he said,
"Well, why don't you step inside and we'll discuss it," then locked the door behind me, he on the other side), we all knew this was a matter for the morning. "Don't worry. If they don't come
for you in five days, they HAVE to let you go."
Ten minutes later a guard threw open the door and shouted, "Where's that guy?"
Everyone pointed or nodded at me. I was "the guy."
I had lent someone my vest and another person (and I emphasize PERSON, here) a small jacket to use as a pillow. I had been arrested while camping. I was dressed for warmth. He had been deeply injured in car
chase in Orinda two weeks before, this 19-year-old being one of two survivors where the driver lost his life. The police rammed their car, causing the driver to lose control. He was the nicest darn kid. I
watched the nurse pick at two different groups of 40 stitches that had scabbed over since they were sewn. She had to practically operate on the guy, but was not equipped with the proper tools, lighting, or
medications (he received no local for an obviously painful and traumatic--lots of damage to the skin -- procedure. I watched her literally hack at him--and this was doubly hard cuz he had become my friend
and "homey" since the Berkeley jail. I gave him the sack "dinner" I had been holding onto. As I left the chant I had shared arose: "Who's Station? OUR Station!" The folks took
care of me.
On the way out a passing guard looked quizzically at us, as if to say, "what are you doing with this guy?" My escort spoke, "Yah, this is the guy with the lost
paperwork..."
I had to check out with the warrants department. They said there was a $69 warrant that they were going to waive, but I should take care of it right away, like tomorrow. "What's
the docket number?"
"There isn't one."
"What's it all about?"
"Wait a minute." Shuffle, shuffle. "I don't know. It doesn't say."
"What do I do?"
"Call the Santa Clara County Sheriff's Department tomorrow."
"How do I identify this."
"Wait a minute." Shuffle, shuffle. "I don't know.
Just tell them your name."
"I haven't had a ticket in Santa Clara County since I left there 10 years ago."
"Well, give them a call and find out what it's about. You can go."
My personal belongings including BART card, credit card, cash, keys to my life and my shoelaces (Berkeley Police seized them, but everyone in the county jail with me had theirs) had been misplaced and were
either in the Berkeley or North County jails, but definitely not at Santa Rita.
"Come back tomorrow."
I hadn't the foggiest notion where I was. I don't know the area that well. My wife was
out of town at a conference.
Well, luckily they gave me the cash value that Berkeley Police had recorded ($36). As I came out I had the smallest hope that someone knew what was happening and was waiting
for me. Alas...
I checked into Khalil's status and was told he had been released from Santa Rita at 5:00 p.m.
Ten others, who were released about the same time as I was, and I walked the 2+ miles to
the BART station. It was now well after 10:30 p.m., but luckily there were trains still running.
I gave most of the money away to my new friends and got my ticket. On the BART was a copy of the newspaper
the Examiner with a review of the Joan Baez benefit concert for KPFA and a photo of the hip-hop artist, Michael Frenti. A couple of the guys were all, "Is this your radio station?" Uh-huh. Wow.
What's the call number? Let me write that down. Prison radio y'all."
Without a key, I had to break a window to get in.
As I walked shoelaceless through BART stations and downtown Oakland toward
home I had a few more opportunities to witness to our cause and made a few new quick friends I likely shall not see again. The cats got fed and were torn between indignity and great affection (purring and
socializing). I flopped into bed for a long nap. I hadn't had--as many of us protesting the goings on of the Pacifica Governing Board--anything more than a handful of catnaps for the past week since Dennis
Bernstein had been dragged off the air mid-sentence and the station was chained closed.
As I came down my block there was someone casing my neighbor's car. He left. I thought, you know, it just isn't
worth it. Do not get involved with the hole that is the "jail system" in this country. Some 75 people have been taken off of death row and are back in the world when new evidence or confessors came
forth. My experience showed me, this kind of thing happens daily, people are greatly mistreated daily. Do not get involved with this system. Period.
The next day I called Santa Clara County Sheriff and
they couldn't figure out why a 1988 failure to complete traffic school warrant was still on some records.
1) I've had no problem obtaining a driver's license twice.
2) The thing should have
been purged after three years--by 1991. When the county went to purge it today, they could see it in one mode, but the warrant didn't show up when they went into purge mode. Ghost in the machine.
3)
Santa Clara County Records said they were stunned that someone made the decision to transport me because of an obvious flaw in the system.
4).The county Sheriff's Marshall Office refuses to tell me who
was bailiff for the court that day. My paperwork doesn't identify him. This is the gentleman who made the decisions to send me up on an expired warrant.
This odyssey was eye opening and a blessing. For
all the blood letting, psychological terror and injustices and scores of human rights violations and mistreatments I saw at every turn--I'm not talking about major beatings, I'm talking about little
moment-by-moment human rights violations. I'm talking about the gestalt that is incarceration. I do not blame more than a handful of guards who were out of line, most were just doing their jobs. It's the
jobs themselves and the whole bloody mess that must be taken down and rebuilt--much like we need to do with Pacifica. was jailed to protest losing KPFA. Losing KPFA means losing a forum for momentum for
reform and restructure.
The Pacifica Network must be freed from the clutches of greed and mismanagement. KPFA must continue to bring to the airwaves the causes of true justice and free speech in this
world. It will be an uphill battle with a Washington, D.C., board president who has learned to deal with the protests against her in the press rather than directly to her constituents, and who engages in
spin and put-downs rather than open discourse, hiring the PR firm of San Francisco's Fineman Associates to change the tide of press against them rather than delivering the truth to us.
