Streets of San Francisco III: Lockup
I thought there was some mistake when the standard-size city bus pulled away with only about 15 protesters—the women of our affinity group in the rear and four men occupying separate bench seats in the middle. While there had been some speculation that we’d be taken to the pier near Fisherman’s Wharf that serves as an auxiliary city jail, the bus headed south of Market toward the Bryant St county jail. As we waited there in a line of busses to unload, a sheriff deputy offered to replace any handcuffs that had been too tightly fastened. This time he cuffed me with hands crossed in front, which greatly facilitated sitting. He assured us that the process-passage through the jail at the Hall of Justice for first-time arrestees was swift. Indeed, almost immediately after he affixed the new cuffs we disembarked, at which time the cuffs were cut. In outdoor corrals between the jail and freeway we were segregated initially by bus as well as gender. Cell phones, cameras, and other accessories were checked, as if we were about to tour a museum. Under the cyclone fence horizontally above our heads, we began to appreciate how small measures of relative freedom are meted out (or withheld) in jail.
Officers asked to see identification cards when we entered the outdoor pens, but there was no initial differentiation between those willing to be identified and the numbers of John and Jane Does. And no separation of the men occurred after we paraded indoors, down a corridor and into a funnel-shaped holding cell, where at the narrow end a safety-glass-paneled door may open onto another corridor. Behind waist-high cinder block walls projecting halfway from both walls near the top of the funnel were two stainless (and seat-less) toilets and two stainless sinks. Beyond this quasi-partition the triangular space was lined by a wooden bench, with another triangular double bench occupying the center. Block walls of a pale chartreuse color, which only occurs in nature in a flooded, fetid setting, stretched toward a ceiling much higher than the greatest linear dimension of the floor. Our line of some 10 men entered the cell through an opening whose door was metal-plated and sound-insulated, but a tremendous roar could be heard from neighboring cells as we joined about 25 guys already occupying the bench seating.
Alex, who had occupied the seat behind me on the bus and had sketched for me his recent successful John Doe jail action in Los Angeles, now sought to help those seeking a similar outcome. This experienced committed partisan told of a group of 20 men who had withheld their identities from their LA jailors for a two-week period, after which the jail offered to drop all charges against them provided they would just vacate the premises. Some men in our group, either because of a high sense of moral purpose or because they faced multiple charges for scuffling with arresting officers, were interested in this option. Though I had no problem with Alex sharing his experience with interested others, he managed to get the group to appoint him facilitator. In this capacity he directed us toward taking collective action, should cops decide to beat someone in our group. Though he did not intend to be a John Doe this time, Alex seemed enthusiastic about others making this commitment. Since he raised specters of unprovoked police brutality, countered by collective actions that might incite further abuse, I was feeling uncomfortable with the group process. But I said nothing.
A man unafraid to state that Alex’s talk went beyond the role of a facilitator now spoke. This attractive young man with platinum-frosted dirty blond hair asked Alex to communicate his agenda solely to the others interested in it, because, quite frankly, it was making him feel paranoid. Many of us, who had been reluctant to expose our insecurity before this group of unknown men, now murmured our concurrence. Some hours later, as we milled near the window giving onto the corridor, this guy, who now identified himself professionally as a hair-burner, spotted with a shriek a woman at a cell window whose hair he’d done. Yet, much later, when medical personnel were no longer making regular rounds, he asked an officer to find a nurse because he was late in taking necessary HIV medications. Though cellmates offered support in demanding his needs be met, he must have been initially reluctant, thinking he’d be released much earlier, to out himself to the group in this way.
When the next wave of arrestees entered the jail corridors our own group added a collective cheer to the resounding din. This shortly produced a large balding officer in the narrow doorway, who stated we were now guests in
his house and as such would follow
his rules or bear the consequences, namely loss of telephone privileges and perhaps even a curtain being draped across the glass door. This last punishment elicited general laughter, enough to drive the officer from our cell. But with our process now much improved everyone had a chance to speak. While we wished to demonstrate solidarity with other protesters, we acknowledged the value of unlimited free local calls from our holding cell. Through this utility each conversant was able to pass along vital information as to what was happening outside the big house. Our incarceration was dragging on, 6, 9, 11 hours, and the reason was that activity on the streets had not abated—the SFPD was afraid if released us we would rejoin our
compañeros.
At intervals during our lockup we’d been winnowed and sorted. Officers had led away the John Does after about the first hour. This didn’t stop them from periodically inquiring if there were John Does in our cell. We wrote names of all cellmates on the brown paper bag they’d brought our food in, but it didn’t prevent them from calling a periodic role of persons, most of whom were not present in our cell. We assumed that persons named were being released but later discovered they were just resorted in other cells. When our numbers dwindled, we were transferred to a smaller cell or joined by a new group of arrestees. Either this was intentionally tedious or police who were working extended shifts could no longer think clearly. Around 10 p.m. we observed our John Does in orange jumpsuits lining the hall. At least they’d get what passes in jail for beds.
Though we’d engaged in terrific political discussions and bonded over improvised games, we were tired. My initial gay man’s fantasy-euphoria in close quarters with a preponderance of young—not only attractive but idealistic—men was somewhat dissipating. Still, conversations with a SF State graduate student in political science who resembles my oldest nephew, physically but also in his intelligent reserved manner were memorable. And his Latino friend with dark eyes and amazing full lips—aye, let me dream.
When at 2:30 a.m. Friday morning I walked along the police desk with its American flags spaced every other foot to sign my misdemeanor notice, I had been locked up for 13 hours. With the handful exiting the electronic gate into the dark night, I thought we were among the last released. On the sidewalk outside, though, were members of our group actually released quite recently, representatives of the National Lawyers Guild with forms and contact info, and volunteers with food and hot drinks. I will not soon forget the applause with which they greeted us, recalling us to the purpose we’d set out upon the previous morning—not just disrupting business as usual in a city we love but sending a strong signal that preemptive wars our leaders have charted will be opposed.
posted by Paul at 12:15 PM
Streets of San Francisco II: Citicorp[se] and after
That Thursday morning our affinity group drifted away from the Bechtel campus, having achieved the small objective of closing the corporate offices for the day but having failed to get arrested for our effort. The scene on Market Street was positively Felliniesque: it was topsy-turvy with endless giant-handfuls of mostly young people cavorting in streets devoid of cars. At the corner of Market one block west of Beale the scene coalesced in a more organized anarchy, where angry somewhat volatile youth faced a diffident squad of police in riot gear. Not sure if we wanted to be arrested with this group, Karen and I made for bathrooms in the Jack ’n the Box across the street. We rejoined our affinity group and continued west toward Citicorp[se], hoping to link our arrest location unmistakably with war profiteers. We passed a large group of protesters aimlessly hanging around the corner of Sansome, with only a few cops holding them at bay. (It didn’t occur to me until later that this was an earlier wave of folks who had blockaded Citicorp[se], were now under arrest and waiting for a police-chartered city bus for transport to county jail. Otherwise unencumbered, they were simply holding Monopoly’s
Go Directly to Jail cards.)
A half block away we reached the unobstructed entrance to the war-embroiled bank, whose tenant happens to be the British consulate. Just strutting outside with a placard, like Toshiro Mifune in a samurai flick, was enough to get the doors sealed, greatly inconveniencing a passel of suits, who now had to walk around through the parking structure to gain entrance. This apparent power for the usually powerless was proving heady stuff. I think others joined me in offering disinformation, such as “Citicorp has declared a bank holiday due to remorse for its complicity in Bush’s Shock & Awe.” Our small affinity group effectively sealed the main entrance for about 20 minutes (though like other mundane perceptions my sense of time may have been distorted). Surprised that others hadn’t joined us and a little bored with this action, we walked away from Citicorp[se] just before a squad car pulled up in front.
We passed protesters clad in colorful, oversized, papier-mâché puppets as well as serious organized groups like A Jewish Voice for Peace. On the corner of Montgomery we had seemingly entered a late ‘60s time capsule. Was this the main taproot of recent anti-globalization activism—Seattle-Genoa-Davos—or had the Summer of Love come back in earnest? A troupe of musicians & dancers, face-painted and dressed in pale mauve robes, led us in singing lovely anthems (I cannot now recall) that somehow expressed our deepest moral reasons for opposing preemptive war: weaving through this half block—between spectators and a now-apparent pincer of police in battle formation—for a time we fused as one. As most of the gathering gently dissipated under police pressure, members of our affinity group (with a few others) made an unspoken simultaneous decision to sit down. We’d intended to get arrested on this first day of war; the energy we’d collectively generated specified the place.
While I’m grateful in retrospect that the San Francisco Police Department maintained a certain professionalism in matching our non-violence—unlike Oakland PD’s subsequent shooting of protesters with rubber bullets and wooden dowels at the docks—I suspect the SF decision was strategic. SF police were totally unprepared for the scale of protest that occurred on Thursday. At times earlier in the day I witnessed small numbers of cops defensively huddled back to back. Had they proffered violence toward the thousands non-violently in the San Francisco streets, not only would they have lost any semblance of situational “control,” but all hell would surely have been unleashed. So, vastly outnumbered, they sensibly isolated us by marching in two crisp military formations. Without resorting to his club, the lead officer stood behind a group of two or three, announced they were under arrest and instructed them to stand. Individual officers cuffed each protester’s hands behind the back with belts of that sturdy petrochemical plastic—not unlike the stuff that links aluminum cans in a six-pack. (As this was my first such arrest, I wasn’t clever enough to cross my hands loosely: perhaps my masochistic victim played to my black cop’s sadist. In any case it could have been much worse.) I was led to a group of officers armed with what looked like a film’s set “Take” board and a cheap Polaroid: Ready for my close up? And on to a waiting bus.
posted by Paul at 7:00 PM
