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| INNOCENT FOOTSTEPS by Ka Ponda 1999 My body had convinced my mind that a hot meal and a peaceful environment would soothe the exhaustion caused by the rigor of the grueling day. The aroma from a nearby restaurant titillated my palate as my feet labored down the red, brick path. Suddenly, out of a recess, the sound of a distressed voice pierced my left ear. Inhaling my cigarette, I paused to listen to its cry. It was the impassioned plea of a man asking if someone could help him through the maze of people on the bustling downtown San Francisco street. Before I could reply, the thunder of a menacing voice pierced my right ear, "Vacate the premises immediately!!" I was perplexed as to why the men in blue had directed the glower of their bigotry at my, for no apparent reason. I then asked, "Why must I vacate, since I just stopped?" "Because there is no loitering here" they yelled back to me. The person for whom I had stopped revived his courage, grumbled some inaudible gibberish and departed like a bandit. The wind chased the ruddy ashes of the cigarette to the edge of my lips as the nicotine particles slowly tumbled to claim their place amid the other debris on the street. After a quick dialogue of barbs, I tossed the butt of the spent cigarette and thought it wise to move along. "Why are you giving me a ticket?" I asked, incredulously. Using the ticket as his dagger, the man in blue retorted with a wry expression, "For littering, have a nice day!" 1997 The morning hinted of a nice day. It was the kind of magic in the air that only a crisp day in late December could produce. I deposited my paycheck and withdrew funds from the bank and started on my way to work. As I walked east on Golden Gate Street in the direction of Stockton Street, I stopped to talk with a former co-worker, Ronnie Eagles. We talked in front of the building out of which Mr. Eagles had still been employed. As we talked, a voice blared, "Hey John, are you still on parole?" It
sounded like the hue and cry directed toward an habitual criminal or some
low-life individual and not a civilized person attempting to communicate
with another person.
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We turned to see a haggardly,
bleary-eyed person sitting in an automobile staring straight into my eyes,
seething for an answer to his question,. I calmly informed the person that
my name was not John and I had never gone to prison. He then demanded that
I come to his car and show him some identification. He had not shown me
anything representative of an official of the law, nor was he in a San Francisco
Police Department uniform. Since I had just come from the bank, I had no
intention of opening my wallet to a person inside a car behind the steering
wheel with the motor running. As Mr. Eagles and I stood, the two men stormed
out of the car in a frenzy and barreled toward me. I had never seen these
two men in my entire life and was baffled that they pretended to have known
me and wondered about their intent. Once again, I reiterated to them, "My
name is not John, and I have never in my life been in prison."
One of the two men flashed a badge as he aggressively moved towards me. When I saw his badge I realized that I had been arbitrarily singled out for harassment and that my rights, guaranteed by the Fourth Amendment to the Constitution, had been violently trampled upon by these two agents of the law. I asked Mr. Eagles to walk inside the office building and get the staff attorney, Judy Appel. Mr. Eagles returned with a video camera and documented the incident. He stopped recording and went inside, again, to get the director, Paul Boden. The two officers handcuffed and crammed me into the front seat of their small car while Messrs. Boden and Eagles were coming out. The car was not designed to transport a six-foot person in handcuffs as I was in a contorted position during the trip. At the police station, I was asked to be seated on a metal bench while still wearing handcuffs. I informed them that I had a bad knee due to an operation for torn anterior cruciate ligaments and that it was aggravated by the position in which I had been during the trip in the small car. They forcibly shoved me onto the metal bench and then began jeering me as though I had been brought in for some heinous crime. The sergeant, who had no knowledge of what had happened or why I was there, chimed in with a ludicrous, stereotypical comment that he was going to send me back to prison, as though I had already been in prison. After they had checked my records, they removed the handcuffs from my
wrists and released me. I called my employer, J. Boragine & Associates,
and explained what had happened and that I was in no physical condition
to report to work. I went to the emergency room at San Francisco General
Hospital on Saturday, December 20th, and was provided with treatment.
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What It Means To Be Poor, Nina Siegal, SF Bay Guardian Poor Magazine gives a fresh, vibrant voice to the poor, Emily Gurnon, San Francisco Examiner |
