Arrested in Kenosha
By: Ted Seymour
Tags: Race, Criminal Justice, BlackLivesMatter, Criminal Justice Reform, Prison Reform

The Arrest

The streets were eerily silent with nary a protester in sight. I drove around taking photographs of many of the storefront messages and at 7pm I made a u-turn to drive back out for the night. I pulled over to take one last photograph and although I hadn’t even left my van, an unmarked police car pulled behind me, flashers on. I laid my wrists out the window so the police would know to not fear my carrying a weapon. “Is there anyone else in the vehicle with you?” “No sir, just myself.” “Are there any weapons in there?” “No sir.” I was then asked to leave my van and asked if I would consent to a search. I said that I was not authorizing a full search but was fine if he wanted to take a peek inside. I looked away for a minute or so only to discover that the officer was inside my van doing a full search with flashlight and pulling things off of shelves, etc. I reminded him that I hadn’t authorized a full search and asked him to please exit my van. He ignored me and continued searching so I turned on my video camera and again reminded him that I hadn’t consented to a full search. He exited the van and said “it’s past curfew so turn around you’re under arrest for a curfew violation.” I’m quite confident he would have arrested me in either case, but he was definitely a hard-ass type cop and I’m fairly sure he didn’t appreciate the exercising of my constitutional rights protecting me from unlawful search in a way that he may not have liked. I get that I was in violation of the curfew ordinance, but just by a minute or two. If anything, I’m more miffed at the unilateral application of the ordinance, and as you’ll later read, the arrest/criminalization of homeless people and those with mental heath issues.

After cuffs were placed on me, I looked around and noticed that there were several people videotaping the entire scene from their front doors or second floor windows. After seeing so many bystander videos of police encounters online it was strange to be the one being videotaped, but I definitely did appreciate the extra sense of security it offered. By this time, there were about 6–8 police on the scene and I had friendly conversations with a few of them. The handcuffs were too tight and several of the police took turns with the key trying to loosen them. Giving up on trying, one officer said “these cuffs are fucked,” words you never really want to hear. It made me chuckle, despite the tight grip on my wrists. For the most part, the officers involved in the arrest were respectful, though.

They placed me in the back of a vehicle for transport and then proceeded to arrest an African American woman who had been across the street watching events transpire. She was kind of mouthy and clearly upset, and I believe quite rightfully so. Once they placed her in the backseat with me, it became clear that she was quite likely homeless and suffering from some form of mental illness. She smelled of urine, and at best mumbled answers to the questions the officers were asking her in regards to booking.

Her arrest is the kind that screams for police reform. She didn’t need arresting and incarceration. If anything, she was in need of mental health services and quite likely supportive housing.

In the eyes of the Kenosha police department, being homeless when there is a curfew is apparently a crime, since you don’t have an indoors to go to to avoid violating the curfew. Sitting in my home (my van) is purportedly a crime too under curfew, but one I’ll hopefully get a chance to explore with a judge at some point.

Prior to my arrest, I had felt in a way that I might be immune within any possible police interaction. For those of you just coming to understand what white privilege looks like, white people within my caste (and yes I am deliberately choosing to use the word “caste”) tend to feel that way. People of color generally have significant distrust of police and for very good reason, evidenced again with the shooting of Jacob Blake. In my particular case, my white privilege got trumped (or is that Trumped) by my out-of-state California plates which put me in a different class of undesirables. White people like me bristle at being profiled. My arrest gave me a first-hand feeling of what it’s like to be profiled by the police. It sucks. Plain and simple. I can only begin to imagine what it must be like to constantly be negative profiled due to the color of one’s skin.

The Lock Up

Off to the Sheriff’s Detention Center we went for various booking procedures. I wasn’t prepared for all the shackling that happens. Every time I would sit or stand somewhere, they cuffed me to a bar of some sort on the wall . Lots of questions were asked and then off into a holding cell I went. They had taken all my possessions, including my belt, shoes and mask. The holding cell I was in was far from sanitary, with old food on the floor. Once they locked me in, I felt something completely new.

I felt like a prisoner.

Seriously.

Being locked up is one thing, but feeling like a prisoner is another. Again, it’s a caste thing, suddenly significantly lower in status, where people don’t offer much eye contact if at all, and you are treated clearly as someone beneath someone else. That’s a sharper reckoning of some of my normal white male privilege being taken away. Being locked up however placed me in a position to have more empathy for the inmate. There is something very dehumanizing about it. By the time my incarceration was over, I realized that locking people up makes no one better. It’s actually just a process which breeds distrust, contempt and oppositional perspectives. Some like myself may have some spiritual gratitude and appreciation through the process, but incarceration in and of itself doesn’t seem to have any redeeming value in terms of helping people to become better humans. If we’re not trying to help each other become better versions of ourselves, what are we here for?

In my holding cell, I found myself up against the door watching events unfolding in the hallway, mirrored by detainees in other holding cells opposite me. One whom I later came to care about quite deeply looked a little creepy wearing tatters of his issued t-shirt that he had previously torn to shreds. Looking out the cell door is definitely an inmate thing to do and suddenly I was just another inmate doing what inmates do. One of the holding cells opposite me had something serious happening which required medical personnel with many guards/deputies entering and exiting. I later learned that a man in that cell had had a seizure which was about 30 minutes in the making without attention before it fully set in. Although I’m generally the one who stays calm under fire, watching and listening to all the activity from my door, some in view but most out of view, I found myself getting anxious. There was an energy in the detention center that was seriously stress-inducing. It’s just tense there, with occasional echoed yelling and people walking quickly through the hallway on their way to dealing with some disturbance or another. I couldn’t lie down to rest and tune it out because it was too filthy and I didn’t trust that any of the surfaces wouldn’t harbor the coronavirus.

After an hour or so on my own, I was moved to a tall desk for further processing where I was again shackled and asked more questions. Moving to another room I changed into my detention-issue clothes and was led into one of the other holding cells. I was a bit anxious about being in a cell with other people because one never knows what craziness can happen, and the folks I’d seen from my window in the other cells didn’t exactly inspire ease. It turns out I ended up alone again but as the next hour or so progressed, more and more people came in and eventually there were about nine of us together.

Impressions from the Inside

The first to join me were three African American men who came in together. The largest and oldest of the three introduced himself. His presence was calming and voice resonant and reassuring. He has created an organization called Justice for the Next Generation which advocates for racial equity, economic equality, and an end to police brutality and white supremacy for people of color, especially America’s youth and young adults. They were here to report on what is happening in Kenosha. The three of them were from North Carolina and have been traveling to various places to report from where black people have been killed by police, including Minneapolis for George Floyd and Atlanta for Rayshard Brooks. The previous afternoon they had flown to Chicago, rented a car and drove to Kenosha. They had not yet reached their hotel when they were pulled over by the police. Clearly profiled for their out-of-state plates and quite possibly from the color of their skin, the police were not interested in seeing their hotel reservation or press credentials and instead arrested them and impounded their car. Being arrested, of course they were prevented from covering the events on the ground that evening.

At some point, I started laughing, kind of out loud, kind of to myself. Several new detainees had joined us and I was in a holding cell looking down at my pants stenciled with “Kenosha County Sheriff Detention.” All roads lead somewhere I suppose. Charley, one of the new guys, talked incessantly, interspersing every person’s statements with claims to know exactly what they were talking about. “I know that.” “I know him.” “I’ve done that too.” Virtually every claim or statement was something he already knew or had experienced. It was ludicrous. “I know the bible, the whole bible. I’ve memorized it.” He was a sweet guy, but could he just shut up? For a minute? It made me chuckle to see myself in this situation. I’d have thought being locked up could break a person in different ways, but clearly my Achilles’ heal was being driven nuts by incessant fabricating talkers. And why was he here anyway? He clearly had a cognitive impairment and really had no business being incarcerated, harmless as the day is long.

After more arrived, I asked a fellow named Jimmy if he was Native American since his appearance suggested so and he wore a shirt which bore the face of a Native American. He told us of his people and his reservation in Montana. He lives out-of-state and was arrested on the same curfew charge along with his mother and sister who were in a holding cell down the hall. When they were in the hallway at one point he kept waving at them, smiling sweetly. A big gentle young man with a sensitive way about him, he slept sprawled face down on the cement floor when able. No blankets or bunks were provided for any of us. Those of us who were new to this scene quickly learned to use our orange detention-issue slippers as a poor substitute for a pillow. About 2am Jimmy broke into beautiful chanting in his native tongue. Poignant and touching.

As the evening progressed, I felt like I was in the middle of a theater piece with all of us as characters interacting and sharing our stories. We’d move around, pace, adjust, talk, sing, laugh — reclining in all number of positions, trying to find some form of comfort on concrete floors and benches. The dialogue could be such a powerful piece on race and incarceration. Many times I wish I had been able to tape record our entire time together, and take photographic portraits of each one.

Another African American man named Rolando, about 30 years old talked fairly incessantly as well. Funny and sharp, he would occasionally break into song in a sexy, nasally Trey Songz style. Music is definitely his thing and he name-dropped a bit regarding music production. He’s also been in trouble the law since he was a kid for “doin’ nigga shit.” Rolando was relentlessly charming, though, and continued to try to flirt with the female guards. His eyes looked other-planetary, an intensely rich green with a black ring around the iris and large dilated black pupils. I imagined they must have been from some sort of decorative contact lenses. As much as I wanted to playfully ask “your eyes are freaking me the fuck out, what’s the deal?,” I resisted the impulse, partly to not appear naive, but also in case of the slight possibility that they were truly genetic peculiarities. Later in the evening someone did ask what makes his eyes like that and without missing a beat he said “gamma rays!’

Impacts of Incarceration

Lives truly get torn apart from the criminal justice system. Several of those who were incarcerated with me couldn’t afford the $200 bond (or more if they had more complicated cases). Thus they’d have to spend more time locked up until they were able to get in front of a judge later in the day and see if they might get out on a “signature bond.” One particularly frustrated 21 year old white man who preferred to rest with his back on the bench and legs straight up the wall kept saying that he was sure that he was going to lose his job because he couldn’t afford bail. He was arrested for curfew violation while driving home from work at a fast food restaurant but due to other bench warrants his situation is a little more complicated. He unfortunately seemed to understand the criminal justice system pretty well. He’ll also need to come up with another $200 to get his vehicle back. Clearly not a big fan of the police, he gets credit for the funniest line of the night when he said, “the only blue uniforms that matter are the post office and Culver’s!”