RNC Arrest Pt 2 (Ramsey County Jail)

Processing took a long, long time. They barked orders and made us stand with our noses to the wall as we waited. Wrist ties were cut and they proceeded to move us around from room to room for hours. Pockets of 20 or so people were stuffed into small, filthy holding cells with no bathrooms. While sitting around talking with folks, I discovered that most of the people taken from the park were being charged with Felony Riot. Utterly ridiculous. Many people were scared. Scared at the implications of what having a Felony on one’s record could mean and scared at being in the County Jail for an indefinite amount of time.

I reached out with my mind and tried to imagine how many people were currently locked up in this dark fortress. I saw it all stretch out before me like an unbeatable video game; so many different levels, boards, and stages. An ugly hive teeming with all manner of prowling bad guys, bosses, and under bosses. Maybe the County Sheriff was a fire breathing dragon somewhere high above at the last level. Maybe if you made it there you got a chance to explain your way out of everything and wound up eating an apology dinner with the Mayor of St. Paul. But the realness of what was happening was as stark as the gunmetal in the holster of every henchman stalking these gloomy halls. There were no cheat codes or passwords out of this dreadful place.

After being finger printed for the first time I was made to sign a property waiver, at which point I discovered there was no record of my wallet, ID, cell phone, or bank cards in my ‘property’ at all. The officers had been refusing to answer any questions since the park, but I refused to be easily brushed off on this one. “Officer, I’m here writing an article for a paper in a State over a thousand miles a way. If you lost my wallet, my ID, my phone, and all my money, then what am I supposed to do? I won’t even be allowed to buy an airline ticket, let alone get on a plane. I need to know where my stuff is.” The officer looked like he had a split second’s worth of remorse, but it disappeared just as fast as it came. He said there was no way to know where my stuff was or if they even had it. The best I could do was track down the Police Station of my arresting officer when I got out.

About 20 of us were now crammed into a small room with two large windows. Looking out we saw the cops bring in a huge, terrifying looking man; black boots, mean scowl. He had to be at least 250 pounds with tattoos and a shaved head. They put him in the room adjacent to ours. He immediately stuck his nose up to the glass pane of his door and began to stare directly at us. He started mouthing threats like “You’re dead meat” and “I’m going to kill you.” This frightened some of the people in our cell at first, but a closer inspection showed that the room holding the psycho was in fact not a holding cell at all. It was a questioning room with a desk and a cabinet. Shortly after, another cop brought in some papers and we saw that our psycho was actually an off duty cop brought in to scare us (many of whom had little or no previous jail experience.) Later the same guy was spotted laughing with the other on-duty officers behind one of the processing desks. And these are the people we are paying to “keep us safe.”

I was in the cell long enough to make friends with some of the other people who’d been on the bus with me from the park. We began singing and telling stories to pass the time and to keep our morale up. The eldest of our bunch, a photographer from an unnamed paper, sang a beautiful Irish labor song. I performed a poem of mine called ‘Dig’ with an intro from the anti-war traditional ‘Down By The Riverside.’ People applauded and stomped on the floor. Shortly after a cop came in and screamed at us for singing. He cursed at us and said that our “racket” was preventing them from doing their jobs, and if they couldn’t process us then we’d be stuck in this cell for a long time.” People were respectful to him, but he seemed shocked that nobody was scared or apologizing. He left in a huff and slammed the door behind him.

I honestly cannot say how many more rooms they moved us to after that. Maybe as many as 10 or 11. It’s a defense department tactic known as “Frequent Flyer.” The idea is that if prisoners are constantly moved around that it will lead to confusion and hopelessness. You move them from one place to another, allow them to think they’ve gotten to where they’re going for the night, get comfortable with the people they are currently being held with, and then just as they start to relax you move them again. It makes prisoners become disillusioned, dispirited, mentally exhausted, and easily pliable. We had been in custody for hours and whether the Ramsey County “frequent flyer” treatment was part of the plan or not, I noticed it take a toll on the people around me. After hours of this treatment, an angry officer with a clipboard stepped into our holding cell and began calling names. But we had questions…

“Officer, do you know what time it is? Do you know where we’re going?”
“I don’t care what time it is, and you’re not gonna like where you’re goin’.”
“Do you know when we can use the phone or what time court is tomorrow?”
“You ain’t going to see no judge tomorrow. You boys are gonna be in here for a long time…”
“Come on, man. Can’t you just tell us?” ”
“I can tell you that if you don’t shut your mouth I’ll do my best to make sure you wind up on the third floor with the rapists and murderers far away from all your little protest friends.”

I tried really hard not to show it but my stomach sank. I think everyone’s did. I didn’t really believe general population with
violent offenders would be part of the plan but I knew they could do anything they wanted with us. We were, after all, being charged with Felony-Riot. What got to me the most is the way he spoke so surely about us being in for “a long time.” How long would it be… two days? Till the end of the Convention? Longer? Would I make my scheduled performance in Syracuse on Sunday night? This began to concern me more than the RNC article I would now be unable to write.

When my name was called I was led down a hall lined with shower stalls that didn’t have any actual shower faucet heads. There were grimy yellow walls with a moldy, rancid meat smell that filled both nostrils and brought me near to gagging. An armed guard led me to one of the stalls and said, “Strip, then put your clothes in that crate.” Excuse me? “TAKE OFF YOUR CLOTHES AND PUT THEM IN THE CRATE.” Everything in me wanted to refuse. I was innocent. I hadn’t done anything and they had no right to keep me there. Blood rushed into my face as I looked the huge man up and down. I saw that he was tired and very irritated. Not abusive like the other officer, just worn out and at the end of his rope.

I was more angry than scared but I knew it would be dangerous to tap into that kind of venom. This is how the Law tricks innocent people into more trouble than they were swindled into in the first place. I switched my focus. “Remember everything and then write it all down,” I thought. “When you get out, win this case, prove your innocence, and then report on how justice was trampled here in St. Paul.” Trying to remain calm I took a deep breath and removed my clothes.

“Turn around, face the wall. Lift up the bottoms of your feet, one at a time. Good. Bend over and touch your toes, spread your ass cheeks; left, right. Good. Stand up, turn around. Lift up your sack, move it to the left, the right. Separate the shaft, from your sack; left, right. Good. Now wait here and don’t move.”

He shut the shower curtain and left with my clothes. Naked as a newborn, I waited amongst the meat smell until he returned with another crate. “Now put on the uniform and wait till I come back.” The uniform was a bright orange jumpsuit and it reminded me of images I’ve seen from Guantanamo. I thought of all the innocent people that have been held in that place for years without a lawyer, without rights, and I felt ashamed for what little I’ve done to get them out of the illegal shackles my tax dollars paid for. I also thought of all the innocent people in American jails that I’ve done so little for. Then I thought about the implications of putting that suit on myself. It seemed, to a certain degree, that the simple act of stepping into it was a giving over, a rendering, an acceptance of defeat, or an admission that a crime had been committed. I mean, how many hours walking around in G-Bay orange does it take before you you start thinking of yourself a criminal on one level or another?

It was late and I was incredibly tired. I had to remind myself that the Victory would be in making my way through this snake pit without them getting the best of me, following it up with a successful legal battle once I was released. My arms and legs (seemingly on their own orders) went slowly, methodically putting on the suit. Mismatched orange socks in scummy, thousand-time worn County flip flops click clacked along the dull floors as we were finally placed in cells where we could sleep. Two guys to a cell about the size of a walk-in closet. Stainless steel lidless toilet, two mattress-less bunks, and one sliver of a window made of frosted glass. I’m not sure why they have a tiny window that no one can see in or out of, but lets chalk it up to some kind of metaphor I haven’t deciphered yet.

Before shutting us in for the rest of the night, the guards informed us that we were on 23 hour lock down. This means that we’d only be allowed to come out of our cells and onto the main floor area for two 30-minute blocks per day until our release. We would have to remain in our cells for every second of the other 23 hours. In addition to that, nobody would be allowed to use the phone until “later.” I thought this was just another intimidation technique, like, they have to give us our phone call right? Once again I had terribly underestimated the Ramsey County Jail’s ability and willingness to do absolutely whatever it wanted to with its captives.

We were given a tooth brush, paste, soap and two paper-thin sheets for bedding. My roommate and I brushed our teeth and then collapsed into bed. We wouldn’t have been taken to an actual prison cell like this if we were seeing a judge in the morning and we both knew it. It felt like a semi-permanent placement but we were too tired to care. I opened my eyes in the morning not quite sure of where I was. A quick look around confirmed that yesterday had not been a dream. A maddening claustrophobia washed over me but spirits improved mid-morning when I was allowed to speak with an attorney.

The ACLU had taken all my info when I called them from the park and thanks to some small miracles they were able to locate me. The attorney explained details about my case and took down whatever family members’ phone numbers I could remember, as well as the email address of a good friend. I was nearly shaking with happiness just to be outside of the cell. I found myself trying to stretch out our meeting like a school kid trying to buy time in the Nurse’s office, knowing full well that the next class period was waiting as soon as the bell rang.

We were allowed to make phone calls at this point but only collect calls and even those seemed to hang up randomly. Sometimes it would hang up right in the middle of a call and then block you from calling the number you had just dialed saying “The person you just called has not yet set up a customer account with Ramsey County phone services. You must wait 30 minutes before calling again.” Being that we were only let out for 30 minutes at a time it was very difficult to contact people or get anything done.

The ACLU attorney gave me the phone number of a trustworthy Bail Bondsman’s office nearby. However, I couldn’t be bailed or bonded out because I hadn’t been arraigned yet. By law, Ramsey County could hold me for up to 48 hours without bringing me before a Judge. It was awful just knowing that they could hold me until Wednesday night without even getting bail set. Our session ended with the attorney giving me his card (the only non-County property I was allowed to keep with me.) He was very supportive and I felt a thousand times less alone knowing that he’d contact my family and start working everything out.

Later that day, during my final 30 minute break from the cell, the attorney phoned me and said he’d gotten in touch with my sister as well as Sean Daley. They were both working to find out everything they could and making plans to get me out ASAP. I spoke with them both for 45 seconds each before the phone cut out. My sister’s voice was the strongest thing I’d heard in years. It filled me with hope, like she was right there on the side of me. She explained to me that Sean had spoken with the lawyer first and then he called her explaining how everything would be worked out and that I would be fine. I thanked Sean for that before our connection was cut. I walked away feeling recharged.

The ball was rolling on the outside, but inside Ramsey Jail it was a decidedly mixed bag. Some folks were handling the situation really well and others were not. There was a guy who had the flu, which got worse over the course of the night. His cell was drafty and they wouldn’t give him more than the standard thread bare County sheets or medical attention. Another guy was in a cell all by himself and starting to get shaky about it. Under other circumstances it may have been better to have the space all to one’s self given the size of the rooms, but we were on 23 hour a day lock down and his cell assignment ended up resembling solitary confinement.

The correctional officers referred to our hall as “the pod,” and the 1st floor corner of our pod was one room stuffed with people. Apparently they had filled the other 20 or so rooms with two inmates each (except for the 1 guy in semi-solitary) and all the extra people had been put in that one corner cell. During one of the breaks I was able to peek into the room. It looked like a Yoga class in Hell. 16 or so beds stacked side by side. Had it been allowed, I would have swaped my room with one of those people to relieve them of their sardine-like quarters, but as it turned out I was destined for general population.

Part 3 coming soon…