Standard Protocol

This summer has been a summer of firsts. Its been my first summer without a formal occupation during the day hours since those summer camp days way back before the internet. This has been my first summer playing "Uncle Jamel" to nieces and nephews--its suprising how much time this summer I've enjoyed in the company of four year olds. I got the oppurtunity to be part of another interesting statistic for the first time this summer--it was my first time in a pair of handcuffs. It seems as if it is a rite of passage for every black male to endure an assault by the police. I'm no stranger to police harassment...in fact, my run-ins with the police were growing more and more severe. Plus, growing up in DC, you're schooled in the methods of racial profiling from the time you're old enough and large enough to be considered a threat. My own mother considered it it was "a matter of time". To make matters worse, the U.S. State Department, aka my humble benefactors, haulted the grant as long as I'd had an open case, and demanded a statement. What I gave 'em was a little something like this:

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A Lesson In Standard Protocol

Despite the scars and bruises, I am thankful that the following events have given this sociologist to study firsthand the realities of the American justice system.
On the night of June 13th, 2008, I, Mr. Jamel Mims was assaulted by four Boston City Police officers and then charged with disturbing the peace and resisting arrest. The incident began at a party for a retailer whose offices are located on Tremont Street. Entering with no more probable cause than a noise complaint, the Boston Police suddenly arrived on the scene. They had not announced their presence upon arrival, nor vocally attempted to shut down the party, or asked to turn down the music. Instead they introduced the host to a pair of handcuffs and his Miranda rights. I suppose the party host had forgotten to renew this month’s office party permit—if such protocols exist. My friends decided it was probably a good time to make an exit and we headed downstairs and out to Tremont Street.
We traveled in a scattered crowd of twenty to thirty persons or so, with the police and the party a few dozen feet to our backs. I remember hearing a scuffle and loud yells up the street. Seconds later, I saw one of the men’s buyers of the company Mr. Eddins, now handcuffed and shoved by the nape of his neck, being speedily escorted down the street by three to four officers. A few yards away from the police, the events hired photographer, Mr. Cole, stood taking pictures of the incident, just as he had been taking pictures of the entire night.
And then the officers turned on him. “You’re trying to make this look like some kind of Rodney King thing” I heard, as they rushed him, cuffed him. His camera on the ground. Another officer, crossed my path, and I noticed Jemell’s camera in his possession. Amongst the crowd of yelling voices, I asked
“What the fuck is going on?”
“What are you doing with his camera?”
I didn’t know it then, but in the city of Boston, questioning an officer is enough to be charged with disturbing the peace. The officer closed in on me and locked eyes. Under the streetlight, I noticed dilated pupils and his body swaying, it occurred to me that he might possibly be intoxicated. Maybe I’ve just never seen a policeman that up that close before.
“C’mon man”, I’d almost thought out loud. I’d just graduated from Boston College. His breath and stance were tell-tale; he was intoxicated—either on alchohol or bloodlust, or some crude combination of both. Something clicked in my head when he bared his teeth. It didn’t seem right—the level of his aggression stood unchecked while the other officers stood by. Flecks of saliva scattered my face when he spoke:
“What do you want to go, too?”
I respond, “No officer, I’d rather not.” I’ve learned from previous incidents of racial profiling growing up in DC. By the time I was thirteen, mom dukes already schooled me in the ways of police avoidance. I did all the right things. My tone was flat. My arms were at my side. Amaris’ grip on my arm tightened, she pleaded, please officer, “He’s with me, we’re leaving, we’re leaving.” We turned away. I felt a hand tighten on my shoulder.
Then the officer pounced on me. “That’s it!” he yelled as he dragged me into the street. “This officer is drunk!” I shouted, to the other officers. “Help me! Why are you doing this?” My speech became screams. It fell on deaf ears, as the other officers ignored my pleas. “Stop resisting!” he said as he wrestled me into the ground, his hand scratching my neck and arm. Having never been jumped in my life, I naturally tensed up. Quite naturally a second officer responded, by running over and throwing his knee in my chest. “Why are you hitting m—“ A third officer came to shut up my questioning. They brought me down to my legs and put me flat against the pavement. The Buddhist beads I brought back from my last trip to China were shattered, my pants and shirt ripped and somehow stained, and my camera dented and rendered inoperable. I was handcuffed, and told to sit down against the subway grate.
Meanwhile, the fourth member of our party, Mr. Laniere, a New York City fireman, was brought down. He had been cuffed and pepper sprayed in one eye. I was later to learn that Vinny was first restrained, cuffed and then sprayed, and threatened to be beaten with a baton. I didn’t see the fifth and final member of our party arrested, but I was later to learn that they pulled him from his car, for trying document the incident. I’m not even sure if he was upstairs at the party.
I challenge the Boston Police Department to find a legal reason for my arrest. I did not fight. I did not resist I was not informed why I was put under arrest until the morning of my release. We were told no badge numbers, and coerced into surrendering our cameras memory cards. The police report itself was nothing but retroactive justification for random arrests; the document was randomly peppered with the names of my four co-defendants and myself. In fact, the five of us share the exact same incident report. In the entire one and a half paged police report, I am mentioned in only one sentence, which has absolutely no correlation to my charges, and plays much more on my race, and mirrors the ambiguous motives of the police: “A black male, later identified as Mr. Mims arrived on the scene, and while disturbing the peace, interrupted arrests.”
The report states a fight amongst a crowd of antagonized party-goers. The party was filled with retailers, web designers, film-makers, photographers, artists, b-boys and b-girls—all friends invested in the same business who had been together all night. There was no such fight. The report fails to mention the cause of the crowd’s distress was from being shoved and threatened by police officers if they did not leave the scene. The crowd was boisterous because it was attacked. It was the arrival of the police on the scene that caused a disturbance of the peace. I suppose they must have bewildered by a myriad of colorful, streetwear-clad people, with no apparent authority figure. I can only fathom they felt inherently threatened by our numbers.
Inside the station, the police had all the etiquette of a boys clubhouse. The things they wanted to do for us, they did very nicely; the same guys who had taken very seriously the job of making a public spectacle of beating and arresting us in the street now treated it had as if it was all standard procedure, and even helped to lick our wounds. “I’m just doing my job, Just be quiet and this will all be over” they said. My head wavered and fought the handcuffs slicing into my wrists, and we exchanged questions. “That doesn’t look like blood on your shirt, its probably just rust.” That’s a lot more acceptable, I thought. “Perhaps you should let the Fireman go first, to get the pepper spray out of his eyes”, they suggested. The entire ordeal was business as usual. We even shared a mutual laugh when Vinny farted. My arresting officer walked by, and I asked him why he arrested me. “This was an assault on bohemians, you know, we’re all artists and photographers.” To which he responded, “Well, I don’t come in and stop you from doing your job.” I spent the night in holding cell number 14. I meditated and napped, until breakfast. I made a point of peeing and playing with the toilets—but not eating the food.
Our collective $1000 bail was posted, and we set the hearing date for Monday morning at 8:30. The bail bondsman reminded us not to be late, assured us that the case would be dismissed, and that we’d get our bail money back, so long as we weren’t late.
I arrived in the courtroom the following monday at 8:35 AM. The court opened at 9 AM. Due to a clerical error, I wasn’t seen by the judge until 4:30 PM. On the upside, I got to witness dozens of cases; most of which resulted in thousand dollar bail fees for individuals with homeless shelters for addresses. I experienced a morning full of disappointed public defenders and bail fees. Soon I knew that getting my money back was a pipe dream.
I asked the judge if there was time to call my parents, who study and practice law, after a decision about whether or not the case would be dismissed had been made. Hearing this, the judge saw me fit for my own counsel. She charged us to complete community service or dismiss it with court fees. Seeing my apparent distress, the public defendant, who at the time was not representing me, took me aside. Mr. Eddins and I debriefed the attorneys on the curious arrest and charging of five black young professionals, including the men’s buyer of a 55 million dollar company, a professional photographer, a New York City Fireman and a Fulbright Scholar.
I never saw so many mouths hang open than when the court found out their police had mistakenly arrested, charged, and assaulted a Fulbright Scholar. Who would’ve guessed they came in our color? None mask their surprise, and the entire courtroom stood gaping; all but the judge, who kurtly suggested that the grant money would be adequate to provide for an attorney. There was no opportunity to plead guilty or not guilty to the charges, as I had hoped, only to dismiss them with court fees or community service that I could not logistically complete before I am to leave the country in August.
Dismiss it? My thoughts raced. We were beat in the street. We went to jail. These officers deserve to have their badges removed. I deserve to have my camera, an integral tool for my research project—my livelihood—repaired or replaced. I deserve to have my camera’s memory card, which only has pictures of the party from hours before, back in my possession. There is little I can do to regain my dignity, and the humiliation of being dragged through the street, and then pleading to what I believed to be a fair and understanding judge, only to refute my victimization.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure I could ask my parents or friends for the money. I’ve got nothing against doing community service, and if it were possible to do it in DC, where I am a local, and not Boston, I would do so if not merely for time’s sake. But that’s beyond the point. I guess writing this, in a way, is a sort of community service. I’d seen enough that day in court to know my offenses, in the scheme of things were rather small. Those defendants with less fortune than my own were banished into the silence of penitentuary bars simply from their lack of access. I could be in their position. You could be in their position. The lessons of American History teach well: we share a savage similarity in our epidermal disposition. This is community service for them.
The judge has left me no options in which justice can be enacted. The only lessons I can hope to gather from her judgment are to remain silent through police abuse and destruction of property, and then pay the court money for their mistakes. Sounds strangely similar to extortion to me.
I will not remain silent.
I do not have the luxury.

Here’s to being a model citizen.
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*Pardon me if my naivete is showing, but after college, life gets real --real quick. Fortunately, for us, this little escapade ended well enough. After listening the affairs the first hearing, the judge dropped our charges without any court fees or community service. Because of the death of a young man in police custody during the NBA Finals, the FBI is currently investigating the Boston City Police Department for excessive force. Couldn't have come sooner.