Every time -- and there are many, many -- the story of a Michael Brown, Trayvon Martin, Eric Garner, etc., etc. comes up I am reminded of how the police and volunteer and paid security get away with murder. Yes murder.
In 1992, I did something stupid. In a moment of fear and hubris I did not immediately pull over on my motorcycle when a police car with two officers lit up its lights when I passed them on a side street doing 60 in a 45 mph zone. I ran. I hit over 100 mph. I was on a very fast bike that I didn't know how to ride very well. I led them on a chase of about 3 miles on a Sunday morning at 7am on curvy Sunset Blvd. I was way out in front, but as the adrenaline subsided I remembered my three kids and wife at home still sleeping. I remembered that radio is faster than the fastest bike. I remembered that I was a "solid citizen" who didn't do things like not pull over. So, I pulled over on a nearly deserted commercial area of the boulevard and waited for the police car to arrive.
I turned off the bike. Took off my helmet and sunglasses. Held my wallet in one hand and my registration in the other. My hands were straight out at shoulder height, I faced the direction of the arriving police car and waited to be arrested or ticketed. The blond senior officer stopped the car about 30 feet from me. He unholstered his 9mm semi-automatic pistol, chambered a bullet and walked toward me with the gun pointed straight at my forehead, saying nothing. When he was 10 feet away he cocked the trigger. I stayed frozen in position. He closed the distance and when two feet away, reversed the gun so the butt was up and hit me hard right above my right eye. I stayed standing. He stepped to his right and hit me again with the butt at the base of my skull. I was still standing though a little woozy. He ordered me, "lie face down you fat fuck." I was a bit offended since I was powerlifting at the time and bulky . . .but, fat?
I complied immediately with my hands still outstretched on the ground. License and registration still in my grip. He proceed to kick me in the ribs with his steel toed shoes. Three kicks to a side as he circled. A woman of about 70 (I would have said elderly back in '92) who was walking her dog, said, cheering him on, "kick him again! Kick him again." His rookie partner (He was the one who later did my cavity search so we chatted a bit), bear hugged his partner from behind and pulled him off me. A more normal (expected) process proceeded from there. Two more police cars pulled up. A sergeant came on the scene. He had me look in the rearview mirror to see the blood streaming down my face from my vantage from the backseat (handcuffed) of the first police car. He told me I could file a complaint if I wanted.
The aftermath is another story, but I'm here. But, here's what I know:
If he had shot me in the head would he have been tried for murder? No.
If he had shot me in the head would the dog lady have said he had to do it? Yes.
Would his rookie partner supported whatever the senior partner said in an internal inquiry? Yes.
So, I wasn't shot, just beat up. If I had filed a complaint would I have gotten some satisfaction other than personal? No.
Did the officer intend to kill me? No.
Did he care if he did? No.
Why did he engage in the gratuitous beating? Because they can.
