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The Los Angeles Police Department:
A Case of Police Brutality

January 1, 2013

These are the events that transpired on June 17, 2012 in Los Angeles, California.

"Whoa! Tiger blasted that shot into the rough," the television announcer said as Tiger Woods teed off at the US Open and promptly hit the first ball off the course on a line. How could a seasoned pro who had been preparing for this moment, this first shot, hit it so poorly? There was almost no wind and this was an important event.

Shaking my head, I reached for my iPhone and tweeted my surprise about Tiger’s "mistake". How could arguably the best golfer ever shoot so poorly? Was he throwing the first shot to make a point? Was he trying to let the others have a chance, so he could create some drama and catch up later? Or was it just a lack of concentration?

I was trying to enjoy myself in a run down hotel in Los Angeles, on the famed street known as Western. Drug dealers walked around the hookers to get to their clients. Pimps ruled the area, but they stayed out of my way because I stayed out of theirs.

Earlier, a kind black man entering the room next to mine asked me if he could do my laundry. I had quizzed him about the area and the local laundromat. Since I didn’t trust anyone, I couldn’t trust him to do my laundry without stealing it, but I appreciated his kind offer.

Analyzing some Twitter feeds, I was increasingly intrigued by Boots Reilly. He had joined epic guitarist Tom Morello (who had played with Chris Cornell in Audioslave and Zack De La Rosa in Rage Against the Machine). Was this Boots guy for real? The guitar work on their Street Sweeper Social Club album was epic. However, I couldn’t tell whether Reilly (the vocalist) was making these songs up or actually singing from his personal experiences. His words seemed part acting and part angst.

Growing up in Christian churches, I often prayed for the intangible things. I wasn’t overly religious at this point, but I still had those things I had asked for and sought. Frequently, I prayed for discernment because more than anything else, I wanted to know and understand the truth. It was this gift that helped me analyze everything I read, thought and saw.

After giving it some thought, I tweeted to Boots Reilly and accused him of being a shill. In fact, he looked to me like a make believe gangster who would talk and act tough from time to time to get the real tough guys to stand up. Why? I strongly considered that he did it to alert law enforcement to the real thugs they should be looking out for; even some real life criminals. Law breakers aren’t exceptionally smart, so when they followed and communicated with Boots Reilly, could the Police be watching and tracking them and going after them? I thought I knew the answer to that question, so I let Boots know how I felt.

Not a huge golf fan, I continued listening to music and disinfecting my room with alcohol. A few hours later, there was a loud knock at the door.

"I already have religion!" I yelled. Nobody knew I was in this hotel room and I wanted to keep it that way. Quoting my enigmatic college roommate, Chris Clayton was my pleasure. That was something he’d say to his friends, my friends and even a few strangers when they knocked on our door. After a 10 second pause, the knocking continued.

"I said, I already have religion!" I said a little louder. Seconds later, I heard the knocker walk down the stairs, start his car’s engine and drive off. I returned to my business of singing, speaking in tongues and staying clean. However, about 30 minutes later, I peeked out the window and noticed a black and white Police car. What was the Los Angeles Police Department doing here? Was I in danger? Could I help them in any way or should I be concerned? These thoughts went through my head as I put on my shoes.

Walking outside, I noticed a Police officer at the end of my balcony. He was the same officer who came to my Burbank hotel a couple of days ago. There was a giant bloodstain on the floor and I wanted the Cops to check it out and he was one of the two officers who came to the scene when the hotel management called them. Was he following me? Did he know who I was? Did he have a connection to the Palestinian/Lebanese/Armenian woman (or her family) I was married to for 10 years?

A bright light shined from a hotel room near him and the door was wide open. I slowly walked toward him and even though he was about 30-40 yards away, I opened both hands and extended my palms to show I had no weapons and I was not a threat.

"Is everything ok?" I mouthed to him. His eyes grew bigger as he saw me, but he kept talking on his cell phone, ignoring me. After walking about a quarter of the way toward him, I noticed a second Police car parked below. Shrugging my shoulders, I turned and began walking back to my room.

Suddenly, like a flash of lightning, two tall, white American Police officers bolted out of the brightly lit room, ran toward me and grabbed me before I could get back to my room. Spinning me around, they pushed me against the cold, black railing.

"Don’t resist!" the officer with short, spikey, bleached blonde/white hair said to me in an angry voice as he reached for his handcuffs. The other officer grabbed one of my arms and leaned his weight into me. Roughly the same build, these strong LAPD officers were over 6’ tall and 200 pounds.

"I am not resisting. I am not resisting. I am not resisting," I repeatedly said in a calm, controlled voice, but this didn’t stop them from acting like I was a wanted criminal and like I was resisting. It should have been clear to them I wasn’t trying to get away because I didn’t try to move or run or put up a fight. In fact, I was in shock that they were on top of me so quickly and treating me this way.

As the blonde officer put my arms behind my back and put handcuffs on me, he used all of his strength to apply them as tightly as possible. Turning my head, I saw his face. He looked like a bodybuilder at the gym trying to bench press 300 pounds as he crushed my wrists. I screamed as loudly as I could and my scream quickly turned into a shrill yelp, unlike any scream I had ever uttered. At the same moment, I lost control of my bowels. I had never felt pain like this and certainly never from another human being. As I soiled my jeans with feces, I continued yelling.

"Help! Someone help me! Help!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, but nobody came to my rescue. The nearby residents and the handful of others staying at the hotel were likely too afraid to do anything. These Police officers did not listen, they acted like they had an agenda and they behaved like vicious animals. Could I blame others for not wanting to get involved?

"What were you doing out here?" they asked me.

"I saw a Police car through my window and I wondered what was going on. That’s all. I didn’t do anything," I said.

"Uh huh. Have you been drinking, tonight? Any drugs?"

"No. I haven’t drank anything and I don’t do drugs. What’s going on here? Can you make these handcuffs looser?" I asked after truthfully replying.

"No, they’re fine," the blonde officer said.

"They really hurt. Can you please loosen them?" I asked, again. Since my hands were behind my back, I didn’t know my right wrist suffered a puncture wound and was deeply cut and bleeding, causing nerve damage to my hand.

"No, they’re fine," he insisted. Without reading me my rights or telling me what was going on, they walked me down the hotel stairs and sat me on the ground toward the rear left side of their running Police car. The asphalt was dirty and the car’s pollution filled my lungs.

"Can I change my pants?" I asked. I had never had an accident like this before and it was wet and disgusting.

"No. Just sit there," he said, taking some sort of zip tie out, binding my ankles tightly together in front of me.

"Don’t go into my room," I said. "You don’t have permission to enter my room." Little did I know until after the ordeal they entered anyway and went through all of my things, including my wallet.

Sitting on the dirty ground, I looked up at the tall, white officer in disbelief. Looking at his car, it read, "to protect and serve." My mouth dropped and I looked at him inquisitively. Who was he protecting and serving? I was completely innocent and just a few yards away, prostitutes and drug dealers were walking around trying to make money.

My number one goal was to stay out of jail. I thought if I could hang in there and get through it, that would be my small victory. However, it was increasingly difficult to sit up on the cold, pebbly asphalt with handcuffs behind my back and my legs bound. Eventually, I rolled slightly to my right side.

"Sit up!" the blonde officer insisted as he stepped on my feet with his big, black boot. I tried my best, but my abs and body were getting tired.

The two, big officers joined the initial officer out of my earshot for a discussion while a small, female, Asian officer kept an eye on me. Her belt contained a pistol, a flashlight and a set of handcuffs.

I noticed the officer I recognized from Burbank, who was initially on the cell phone, was wearing a different name tag. Completely certain it was the same man, he had worn an Armenian name tag in Burbank (ending in "ian"), but donned an American sounding name, tonight. He was clearly middle eastern.

As I sat there and waited, the female officer snarled at me and told me to sit still. Posturing and trying to act tough, she spoke to me in a condescending manner.

"I’m not afraid of you," I replied. This was all I said to her. Eventually, the officer who damaged my wrist returned and spoke to me.

In a calm and feigned friendly voice, he said, "since we don’t have anyone here to release you to, we have to take you to the Police station."

"You can release me to the hotel manager, Narray," I quickly replied. He wasn’t ready for this response, so he had no response. Walking away, they had another meeting while the female officer stood over me, again.

"Can I change my underwear please?" I asked her.

"No. Just sit there and be quiet," she said.

After several minutes, the blonde LAPD officer returned.

"I’ve called an ambulance and they’re going to take you to the hospital to check you out. They’re on their way," he explained. I thought about this for a minute. Would this be the best course of action? I didn’t trust these officers at all and I didn’t trust the people who were coming in an ambulance, either. These officers never identified themselves and they never charged me with anything. They also never read me my rights. How could I trust the ambulance crew? What if they weren’t really part of a hospital? What if they were and they gave me some sort of injection in the ambulance or in the hospital that damaged me more or even killed me?

"No thanks," I replied. "I’ll be better off on my own."

"Well, they’re coming. They’ll be here in a minute," he said. "I think you should go with them. It won’t hurt to just get checked out." The other tall officer who grabbed my arm in the beginning, who was a white American with short, dark hair tried to convince me to go with them, but I wasn’t having any of it. Eventually, they arrived.

"How are you doing, sir?" the technician said.

"My hands hurt and I need to change my pants. I didn’t do anything and I don’t know what’s going on," I said. After sitting on the asphalt for over an hour, I smelled dirty and like feces.

"I need to check your vital signs. Ok?"

"Fine, but I’m not going to the hospital," I said. The man listened to my heartbeat with a device. It was in the normal range. He tried to convince me to go with them to the hospital, saying it could be a routine check just to make sure I was ok, but I insisted I did not want to, so he deferred to the officers. This caused them to have another private meeting. Huddled together and speaking in hushed voices, I sat there and waited, again.

Eventually, the ambulance drove off and I could tell the medical crew was a little disgusted with me and my choice, but I simply couldn’t go with them because I didn‘t trust any of these people.

"Can you please let me go? I didn’t do anything!" I said.

"No. Just sit there and wait," the blonde officer commanded in a creepily conversational voice. My body was getting tired and it was nearly impossible to sit up any longer. My legs were cramping and my abs were tired.

"What? Do you think I have abs of a savior?" I said. I was in great physical condition, especially for my age, but I wasn’t used to this sort of thing. I have an active sense of humor and I knew this wasn’t the time or place, but I conjured up this question with thoughts of Dmetri Martin’s stand up act about Jesus and Buddha. The Police officer did not reply and shirtless, I continued sitting on the filthy Los Angeles asphalt.

Eventually, the officer who inflicted pain on me began to avoid eye contact with me. He started looking ashamed and sheepish. My lack of retaliation, my patient maturity and my meekness began indicating to him I was a very strong individual they weren’t going to break.

About three hours after the initial contact, a Police car drove up and parked and a stout, black man got out. He gathered the officers out of my earshot for another meeting and they spoke with hushed voices.

How could this be happening to me? Had they done this before to other people? Were they told to do this to me?

Out of nowhere, a bearded, chubby, middle aged black man appeared in handcuffs. I hadn’t seen him and had no idea who he was. However, they put him in a Police car. I wanted to know what he did, but I kept my mouth shut.

After several minutes, Sergeant A. Wright walked up to me, grabbed my arm and helped me up. Making a little small talk, he was cordial. Was he going to let me go? I hoped so. Grabbing a camera, he took pictures of my wounds and my stained pants.

I asked him how I could contact him and he wrote his name on a blank Los Angeles Police Department business card and handed it to me. He told me I could reach him at that number, then they left.

Meanwhile, a few miles away, Rodney King, Jr. died. The cause of death was assumed to be drowning for several weeks before toxicology reports came back. Eventually, his death was described as a drug overdose that resulted in drowning in his own swimming pool.

On November 28, 2012, after filing a civil suit against the Los Angeles Police Department, Sheriff Leroy Baca attempted to serve Sergeant A. Wright at 10:47am at 1546 W. Martin Luther King Blvd. in Los Angeles, California. However, Officer Perez said Sgt. Wright only works nights. On December 3, 2012, Sheriff Baca attempted to serve Sgt. Wright at 9:48am at the same address. Again, Perez told Baca that Wright only works nights. On December 11, 2012, at 7:05pm, Baca attempted to serve Wright again, but he wasn’t in. Sergeant Stack said I should serve the Los Angeles City Attorney.

Since Sgt. Wright could not be served in three attempts, Baca filed a NOT FOUND/NO SERVICE/CANCELED notice and sought to collect the $35 waiver fee for being unable to serve the defendant.

On December 17, 2012, after meeting in her courtroom in October, I wrote Judge Michelle Flurer of the Los Angeles Superior Court, San Pedro branch, and explained to her I was unable to serve Sgt. Wright. I sought an extension from December 28, 2012 to February 11, 2013, but I received no response.

On December 28, 2012, I decided to ignore my court date and Case Number NC057934 in favor of writing this summary of events. I intend to refile my case in the Los Angeles Superior Court, Long Beach branch as soon as possible.