Across the street from the Morena/Linda Vista trolley stop on a chilly Friday, November 19th, 2004 at 11pm I was arrested for illegal lodging. The fact that I had presented legal ID, had not been consuming alcohol/drugs and had none of either in my possession or the fact that I have no criminal record or that I was cooperative with the police all proved of little consequence.
I wrote this back in December of 2004 shortly after getting out of jail. At the time none of the alternative papers in San Diego were interested in publishing it. I'm posting it today because the issue of rights being taken away has more importance given recent events.
Part One: Taken for a Mad, Mad, Mad, Wild Ride
Standing handcuffed along side a community service van, I listened while the arresting officer and another officer discussed which vehicle to use to transport me downtown. I was thinking, arresting people because they're homeless makes no sense. It's like arresting people for existing. Who wrote this law, Thomas Malthus?
Looking across the street I saw a large group of college students gathering at the trolley stop for their evening out downtown. Ruefully I thought, I too would be heading downtown. But little did I know, I was actually about to go on a wild four hour joy ride throughout San Diego's Mission Valley, courtesy of the SDPD.
One of the officers decided they should wait and send for a car to come get me. To this the other officer replied "it's all overtime to me." And about 15 minutes later I was placed into a squad car, but instead of heading to jail, I ended up locked and cuffed inside the back of a police van parked in a lot at the corner of Texas Street and Camino del Rio South.
If you've ever had the misfortune to see the inside of the back of a police van you know it's essentially a black metal cage divided lengthwise by a stainless steel partition. The outer walls are lined with a metal bench so you sit facing the divider and on either end there are small wire-mesh windows which provide grainy exterior views out the front and rear of the van.
So there I sat, far from downtown, in the dark, puzzled. What the hell is this? Peering out the wire-mesh window, I decided it was all too elaborate to be one of my dreams. Maybe I was unwittingly caught up in one of those uniquely Californian historical traditions. Like some sort of reenactment commemorating events during the Great Dust Bowl depicted in "The Grapes of Wrath".
Still scratching my head, I noticed the lot was filling with more police cars, maybe nine or ten in all, plus the community service van. The cops gathered in groups between their vehicles, talking animatedly. Something was up. They appeared to be in high spirits--almost giddy--like they were anxious for the show to begin.
Then things then took a turn for the more interesting when the back doors of the police van swung open. Silhouetted by car headlights, into the van stepped four prisoners. Illegal lodgers like me, this bunch was caught living in relative seclusion in one of the canyons nearby. Escapees or castaways from the San Diego everyone knows and loves--high rents, big expenses--they had been, in their own words--"living for free".
None of them had that pulverized look from hard living on the street that I've come to associate with the homeless you see downtown. In fact, by their manner of dress and grooming, all but one of them could have passed for members of some hippie commune circa 1970. I'll just call them the Texas Street Collective.
Two of them were added to each side of the partition. I could hear the two on the other side talking about one of their dogs, Digger, who was captured and another dog Daisy, who apparently got away. I'll refer to Daisy and Digger's owner as 'Jerry', since when he was being arrested, one of the cops said he looked just like the late great Jerry Garcia.
From the beginning I could tell Jerry was one of those dog owners particularly devoted to his animals. That's because when the cops came across--to Jerry's chagrin--a picture of the escaped Daisy among his possessions, they naturally wanted to know why the dog in the picture didn't match the dog in front of them. I heard Jerry aver convincingly that the photo they were holding was in fact one of Digger after a bath.
I learned later Jerry is 61, is originally from east Texas and earned a degree in social work here in San Diego. With his portly build, a long grey beard just starting to turn white, a head of long hair still more on the grey side and a style very laid back... he was Garcia's double. And Jerry's friend, who I'll call Ben, about the same age, with similar beard and long hair, looked like someone Jerry Garcia would be seen hanging with.
Jerry was concerned about Digger, who he has owned for the last eight years, and how Digger had "freaked out" last time the cops put him in the pound and how he wasn't sure how Digger would react this time. More troubling though, was the problem of Digger's bail. Here Jerry's Texas drawl became more pronounced when he lamented the pound would "prob'ly have to keel'm".
On my side, sitting next to me was a tall, skinny twenty something year old kid, with a light complexion, wispy goatee and a mass of red hair in riot. No wonder his nickname is Shaggy. Being alerted by all the commotion from the cops chasing Ben, Jerry and Digger, everyone, even the aforementioned Daisy, had seized the opportunity to abscond--everyone except Shaggy--who sadly, was wearing his headphones when the cops surprised him.
Sitting next to Shaggy at the back door of the van, was someone resembling yet another pop icon, I'll call this gentleman Orwell. On entering the prisoner van, Orwell, in contrast to the others, was clean-shaven and inveighing against the police. He is 51, "or so he has been led to believe", and his most distinguishing feature--besides being a dead ringer for George sans toothbrush mustache--is a shock of black hair perched prominently atop his head with closely cropped hair on the sides.
With everybody settled inside the van, the doors were shut and everything once again returned to darkness. Waiting again for my pupils to adjust, this time feeling a little less apprehensive--maybe misery does love company--I went back to figuring what to make of it all. Of course the word surreal had already popped into mind. But considering the near-star quality of my fellow lodgers, the human drama involved, a better word had to be Hollywood--of the reality t.v. show variety. That is, take a colorful assortment of hapless yet endearing characters, match them against an equally colorful yet formidable, unrelenting police force operation. Then sit back and watch the fun!
Then one more thought, and this time I had to chuckle when before my eyes flashed the image of 9 or 10 police cars and a community service van chasing Ben & Jerry, Orwell, Shaggy and of course Digger too through the canyons, back lots and tangled woods of Mission Valley. The Grapes of Wrath meets It's A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World.
Just then, the van started up and country music came on over the stereo (yes, this police van actually had a stereo). Then, with country music playing as if in accompaniment for spaghetti western cattle rustlers heading out yonder, all the other police cars and the community service van started up their engines and begin an almost synchronized maneuvering, a dos-e-doe this way and that way through the parking lot finally to wisk around towards the only exit and funnel out onto Texas street. Yesiree partner, this show was going on the road, our police caravan snaked down I-8, no doubt catching the attention of the other Friday night motorists who must be thinking this was some kind of important drug bust or homeland security exercise.
Then it came to me, that in the wink of an eye--so to speak--my lonely little life as an illegal lodger was now a caravan that just detoured worse heading straight to ridiculous.
From the moment they had stepped into the van, Ben & Jerry--sounding like two old-timers shooting the breeze out on the front porch--kept up a constant banter oscillating between streams of idle chatter and running commentary. Up until that time no one on my side of the partition had spoken. Then Orwell began, softly, his voice sounding incantatory. Hearing someone else speaking for once, Ben & Jerry piped down long enough to give Orwell the spotlight. Orwell's dialect was similar to Jerry's--a southerner's twang--despite the fact he grew up here in San Diego. And although his tone was almost conversational, he did sound a bit eerie, perhaps because we didn't know who he was talking to.
Listening to Orwell in the dark lent his voice a dramatic presence, like hearing a one-man act performing a ghostly monologue in a darkened theatre. He could have passed for Hal Holbrook doing his rendition of Mark Twain. Except this was the unhappy Mark Twain. A bitter Mark Twain, spitting phrases that included "Stinking cops", or "filthy police", "foul" this or "rotten" that or some combination thereof and so on and so forth. But despite this 'dirty' diatribe, his words were essentially 'clean', nothing too strong for Disney--in fact if Orwell's part was in a movie, you could have rated it pg with a garbage theme.
The next search site was again in the valley along the San Diego River. Over the police radio up front I could hear excited voices conveying directions and information. From what they were saying, it seemed the cops already knew who it was they were after. This in fact was a carefully planned production. Once all the cops exited their vehicles and were gathered, one came over to coax the van driver, who I'll call Officer Flory, spurring "I'll watch the prisoners while you go and have your fun."
Over on their side, Ben & Jerry were busy speculating as to who the cops had in mind at this location. Jerry surmised it was someone with no teeth. Ben asked how he knew that and Jerry explained he never saw a river bed dweller that had a full set.
Meanwhile outside, to the echoing sounds of braking branches and boots crunching twigs and dry leaves, the cops were marching into the woods, their inward progress marked by dancing flashlight beams bouncing over trees and bushes.
Out of all the manhunts, this one seemed to last the longest. I had the sense they were especially intent on this location, as if somewhere in those darkened woods, a great prize awaited. After some time, the compartment in which we waited began to get warm. I was seated next to the forward window that looks into the driver's cab and I noticed the front window had fogged up. Luckily for me, just below the compartment window was a rectangular cut-out in the wall that let the driver's cool cabin air flow in.
Orwell was now in his umpteenth repetition of his soliloquy. I would observe later on that the more stressful the situation, the more likely it seemed he would return to this state. And now the inside of the van was getting even warmer. Ben was regretting having not removed his heavy coat before being cuffed behind the back or at least not having tried to get his coat unzipped before getting in the van. So he employed Jerry to try and unzip it. For sometime, there were the sounds of these two struggling in their pretty confined space, Jerry using only his teeth, in the dark, elbows bumping into the walls, garbled words coming out, trying to get the dam coat unzipped. With all the racket and suspense as to the outcome, everyone waited, even Orwell stopped mid-mantra to listen.
Apparently they were successful because a short while later it became unusually quiet over that side, like maybe they were resting. After a few minutes of silence, Jerry asked Ben if sweet milk contained sugar and Orwell resumed talking-trash and all was back to normal.
Then from the woods, in a trail of coruscating white lights, the cops slowly emerged. And as this somber procession neared, it was evident that either a most resourceful prey had cunningly escaped or had stepped out to grab a snack down at the 7-11. Helpfully, by this time too, Ben & Jerry had narrowed the possible targeted denizens down to someone called Scary Mary. As we pulled away from the site Jerry said it must be Scary Mary's lucky day.
But it wasn't. A mile or so down the river near the on ramp to I-8 again at Texas, another hunt was conducted and this time it indeed produced one Scary Mary. Persistence had paid off. Scary Mary's luck had just gone bad and was soon to get much worse.
Shopping list complete and the wagon full, it was time to head downtown. Here I should point out that conscientiously and perhaps to ease Jerry's worrying about Digger, Officer Flory made sure to find out if Digger had been fed, had already relieved himself and that he had contact information filled out in a note that would be left at the dog pound night deposit site.
So we split off from the caravan on our way to the next stop, an apparently time-honored tradition, the underground garage at police headquarters. Here, after a wait, they take us out of the van, do another pat-down search, then put us back in the van. Then we wait some more. I've heard this can last two or three hours, sometimes more. But as it turned out, in a lucky stroke for us, after an hour, Scary Mary, who was seated in a patrol car nearby, could wait no more.
Scary Mary went nuclear. First she began pleading to be taken out of the patrol car, then she was begging not to be arrested, then she began yelling "I didn't mean to touch it" over and over. This development took place in view of the vans windows so we could see it all. To the sounds of unbridled joy and peals of laughter coming out the van's rear wire-mesh cage window, the cops dragged Scary Mary out of the patrol car, hog tied her and stuck her back in. When we then left the garage, it occurred to me in fact everyone but Mary was scary.
On the way to our last stop at the downtown jail 'Remember When' came on over the stereo. All in the van were quiet again. I thought to myself, I remember that day, especially the heroic firefighters. And just then, somehow for the first time, I also remembered all our fellow Americans of middle-eastern decent in this country who were summarily rounded up and arrested.
At the jail we made our way from holding tank to holding tank for fourteen hours. At 5pm on Saturday, we reached our bunks. It had been eighteen hours since my arrest. My days spent in jail I devoted to sleeping and creating this journal. Getting background information on the Texas Street Collective and refreshing my memory on details proved an effective diversion so that the time went surprisingly fast.
And I began to get a glimpse of my fellow lodgers beyond just who they looked like. I couldn't help but appreciate and enjoy their good company--there was something affirming in their decency and consideration towards one another, even Orwell, his periodic vitriol notwithstanding.
Part Two: What the dickens is going on?
By law you must be arraigned within 72 hours of booking. Having spent five days in jail (Saturday & Sunday are not business days) by Wednesday I couldn't wait to have my court date. This is the big date and if you've been waiting in jail for it to arrive, it's more anticipated than any prom date, more significant than any wedding date. But unfortunately for me ,unlike the other accused illegal lodgers, mine would be a date from hell. An experience that came close to extending my five day incarceration to thirty one.
Before seeing the judge you have to wait your turn to speak with a public defender along with about 20 others in a holding tank . While waiting, I noticed Orwell standing near the back, looking stressed. I had also just become aware of a piece of paper taped to the tank window that said: "Wanted people arrested under section 647j for illegal lodging, where drugs and alcohol were not involved --see Angelica after arraignment." I tried to tell Orwell it probably had something to do with the class-action suit being filed on behalf of people like him and me but I could see I wasn't getting through, he was busy chanting about government implanted tracking devices.
When my name was called, unlike the others who went to see a public defender from the get-go, I was assigned--I kid you not--a law school student. This little deviation from SOP would guarantee me a more interesting time with the California criminal justice system. Oh, before I go on, as for interesting times, you may have heard of the ancient Chinese curse: "may you live in interesting times". Actually this popular saying is not really ancient or even Chinese for that matter--but I'll show you why they call it a curse.
Going before the judge with... I'll just call him Student F, Student F quickly rattled off that I was pleading not guilty, waiving OR, requesting trial by jury and some other legal jargon I didn't hear because I'm still back at "waiving OR" thinking, what's this OR shit and when did I waiver anything? So I'm looking at what he's reading and I see the letters NR written down and now I'm wondering what that's about. By this time, he and the judge are setting the dates for my pre-trial and trial and the judge is saying I'll be remanded to the custody of the court until my trial date December 20th! Pow! I got that part alright. My flabber totally gasted, I post-haste beat it to the microphone and ask to speak to the judge. Student F shakes his head nope, so I ask him, is she saying I stay in jail until December 20th? He nods Yup. At this point blood begins rushing to my head, I can hear it in my ears, and my vision is starting to narrow as I start shaking my head no, no, no and telling Student F and anyone else who will listen that this makes no sense. It's like some Dickensian nightmare. Hearing and seeing my distress, the judge suggests that Student F and I confer in private. When we do, from nowhere, (by this time I'm seeing through a pin hole), Mira (her real name) real public defender, reaches around Student F, grabs what he's reading and tells him I have NR -no criminal record and that he should request OR -own recognizance. When he requests OR from the judge she wants to know if he had a signed OR waiver in the first place. He admits he didn't and the judge grants me the OR.
While Student F weighs the merits of stingily protecting his client's OR rights as opposed to generously giving them away, Mira leads me into the hall to a chair, which at this point I sorely need because my legs are all rubber and my head is numb. I feel like a truck just missed me. Mira tells me that with no criminal record I should have never been arrested in the first place. Somehow, I think of Orwell, so I give her his name, telling her he is no criminal, no alcohol/drug addict, he's just disoriented. Then I wanted to puke.
Since my trial will be held before a jury, Mira mentioned that a December court date provides me an advantage. I assumed she meant that in the spirit of the holidays, juries are more forgiving. I would rather have a Christmas holiday jury more inclined to be for keeping. This is why; the City has already rationalized enforcement of section 647j as teaching the homeless to be responsible. This argument is not only specious, but quite cleverly, it's reasoning appeals to the many people who are enticed by the altruistic notion of teaching the less fortunate. The only cost to supporting section 647j is abrogating rights, like giving away presents and not trying to keep them. That is why, I will need a jury that, despite the holiday spirit, chooses to be stingy as Scrooge when it comes to rights. Folks concerned and aware of just where their honest self interests lie, citizens who refuse to allow any fundamental rights to be taken from anybody, not even the down and out in San Diego like Orwell and me, lest automatically, their constitutional freedoms be stolen as well.
In the words of John Donne...
Any mans death diminishes me, because I am
involved in mankind.
And therefore, never send to know for whom
the bell tolls;
It tolls for thee.