The Day After the Fairfax Riots

I am white. I am 63 years old. I have lived in Hancock Park for thirty years. I have been blessed with good jobs in the entertainment industry. My three kids went to Third Street Elementary school. I coached little league baseball and ref’d AYSO soccer. On Saturday afternoon, at 2:40 pm, not far from my house, I was beaten and handcuffed, held for seven hours without charges and treated with the same contempt, indifference and cruelty so many less fortunate Angelinos experience. I saw young women my daughters age hit with clubs, well dressed men shot with rubber bullets at point blank range, signs ripped from people’s hands, people pushed back with cross checks against their chests. Citizens went down in heaps. When I set out with my family to support anti-racism and reform in police departments I was a police supporter, but the LAPD and Sheriff’s Department lost my support yesterday.  

Yes, there were rocks and debris thrown and two police cars were set on fire, but all that occurred much later, after police escalated the situation. Before, during and after my arrest, from my unique vantage point, the protestors who were within a few yards of the police lines, those who were literally face to face with the LA and Hollywood Officers did not commit any acts of violence. The people on the front lines at the Fairfax flashpoint were exercising their 1^st amendment right to assemble and were punished for it. 

  I didn’t sleep well last night. I am bruised and aching this morning with a sickening, unfamiliar  reality in the pit of my stomach. On the tv, the aftermath of the terrible destruction last night, the vandalism and looting, are sad reminders of past rage and injustice when those prone to violence and criminal acts used chaos as a cover to do damage to those who neither deserved or could afford it. And here we are again, this time in the middle of this crippling pandemic, when everyone is already angry and weakened. I didn’t loot or cause destruction yesterday, but that is how I was treated while in custody and this is how I may have appeared when I was splashed on national tv. I want to try and set the record straight.

The media portrayed the demonstration as a peace march gone bad because of a few rotten apples. I think both the police and media got it wrong yesterday. There’s always more than one narrative of course, and I was only in one place, under a media blackout in the long hours I was in custody. But from where I was, what I saw, the LAPD instigated the riot in the Fairfax District.  Here is what I personally experienced.

Saturday was a beautiful, sunny day. At 2pm my wife came out to the backyard to say our 16 year old daughter wanted to go down to the rally in Pan Pacific Park. I wasn’t aware there was a rally going on and had no particular desire to go, but we wanted our kids to get a firsthand view. I had no expectation of violence or intent to be arrested. I stupidly took a walking stick I had used with my eldest daughter to walk the Grand Canyon, perhaps as a misguided symbol that a thousand mile journey begins with a single step. The walking stick is a useful tool for old fools like me when walking a long distance and I honestly didn’t know how far I might be walking that day. I strapped on my covid-19 mask, went outside and waited. After ten minutes I started walking, thinking they would catch up.

When I got to Pan Pacific Park the crowd was already on the move along Gardner. Everyone was masked, keeping social distance. The demonstrators turned west on Third Street, most walking quietly on the sidewalk.  I texted my location and told my kids where I was. As we passed the Grove we saw the intersection at Fairfax was completely filled with people. Traffic in all directions was stopped. There were a couple of people making speeches on megaphones, a few people sitting on light poles, and three or four men standing on a muni bus which had presumably been abandoned. The bus had not been vandalized. I was leaning on my stick, next to a guy in a lone BMW stranded in a sea of people, happily joining the demonstration, standing through his sun roof. I tried calling my family and, as usual, no one picked up their phones.

Some in the crowd continued walking west on Third Street and I joined them. The entire atmosphere was more subdued and quiet than I’d expected. I felt a little like as tourist. There were a few waves of chants but nothing sustained, like a wave at a baseball stadium that never really gets going. There were some provocative signs, but I didn’t feel any sense of anger.  The speakers drew some applause, but it was impossible to hear them with the police helicopters circling above so I continued walking towards Crescent Heights. The noise and heavy vibrations of the helicopters above was in stark contrast to the light and bright atmosphere. They were a foreshadowing of how the day would go.

I found the crowd had been halted and were bunched together at Edinborough. This was the first police presence I saw. The LAPD had formed a circle, presumably to keep people off the street (on the sidewalks). They were surrounded but not threatened. I was standing a few feet from the front line at this point, took a video of the crowd and tried texting my family again.  This was the last text I was able to send or receive until 10pm that night.

The human police barrier was causing people to pinch together so I walked around the circle on the sidewalk. I shouted something about we have the right to assemble, to keep walking, but at Crescent Heights the LAPD had created a firm and more formidable line. They were more on edge and had their batons pointed outward directly towards us. Many of us tried to engage in conversation, asking the officers why they were blocking our way, explaining we had a constitutional right to assemble, reminding them we were regular citizens, just like they are, and not out to do  anyone harm . We were warned not to take a step further, so we stood, holding our ground.

After a few minutes the police line started moving forward. I was pushed back hard and knocked down. When I tried to stand I was butted with a heavy stick and body checked. The crowd fell back into the parking lot to the north. I ended up just off the sidewalk in a dirt area on my knees, using my walking stick to hold myself firmly. One thing which should be made clear was that my walking stick was NEVER used in any threatening way at any officer. Now I was part of social resistance. I felt it was my duty to not be turned back from my 1^st amendment rights. This was MY neighborhood and I was willing to take another blow and not fight back.

The line of LAPD stopped for a moment – and then suddenly forged ahead.  One of them grabbed my walking stick and jabbed me hard me with his baton in the ribs. I felt a second baton strike my arm. I fell down on the stick and covered my head to avoid serious injury. The man I had tried to talk to moments earlier beat me on my back, wrestled my walking stick away. I was pulled to my feet, my covid-19 mask was ripped off, my stick was tossed and I was told I was under arrest. I was frisked by another officer, tightly cuffed and told to stand against an SUV squad cruiser and to spread my legs.  The engine was running and it was hot. If I moved my feet even an inch I was threatened not to move again.  My feet were burning. I was to stand in this position for about two hours.  I want to emphasize that I was completely cooperative from the time of my arrest until my release seven hours later. To my knowledge the people who had me in custody did not know my name and no one bothered to tell me what I had been charged with.

For about an hour it seemed, I was the only one arrested. I was in the middle of the street, seeing exactly what the police were seeing. A line of protestors to the east about fifty yards away were his with batons and rubber bullets. To the north the dispersed crowd were being cornered into a Trader Joe’s parking lot, driven back like cattle and hit as well. As the Hollywood division came in to replace the downtown officers who had started the action, the energy intensified. I could hear the police radios, see men in riot gear loading up small backpacks with large rubber bullet rounds. Whoever was directing this action was ordering the troops to “Take back the Fairfax intersection”.  This felt like war with only one side engaging in battle. One of the police loading his gun and backpack seemed to be smiling. 

The crowd behind me holding the line at Crescent Heights were not attacked. They were to hold that line for much of the afternoon, never doing anything violent or threatening, refusing to retreat. I asked the officer holding my arm what I was being charged with and who was my arresting officer. He didn’t answer. Suddenly, one of the police cars was on fire. I didn’t see how it was started. The fire quickly spread to a second car and within just a minute or two the street was filled with a thick black smoke. Rocks hailed down and I was thinking what a bizarre sight I was standing in the middle of. What I thought curious was that the demonstrators had been pushed back, far from the vehicles which were set on fire. No objects were being thrown yet. I didn’t hear or see anything hit the vehicle; it just seemed to spontaneously combust. Someone may have done an end run around the police, rushed in, thrown an incendiary device.

The fire department arrived ten minutes later and put out the fires. The smoke made it impossible to see what was happening in the direction of Fairfax.  At around 4:00 someone ordered the guy still holding my arm to move over to the sidewalk. This is where my image standing handcuffed next to the officer was caught and played repeatedly last night and this morning on CNN.

For the next two hours, others were arrested and brought to where I was standing. No one knew what they had been charged with. The officers escorting them said unlawful assembly. One man was arrested simply because he was walking with his service dog by Trader Joes. One of the officers suggested that maybe he’d been looting and pulled his dog carelessly against a wall where he was ordered to sit down. One of the young petite blonde woman I’d seen beaten earlier was brought over in handcuffs. Then a guy with a hat that read PTSD was brought over; the man was visibly shaken and scared. I later learned he was caught in his car, hemmed in by the crowd and he’d been ordered to turn left. As he did, his car was pelted with rocks and bottles. He stopped to get out and was arrested, presumably for stepping out of his car.

I want to emphasize those arrested were cooperative and anything but dangerous. None of us had looted, vandalized or defaced private property. We were normal, law abiding people, yet we were treated as if we had set fire to the police car. Our questions were met with utter dismissal. When we asked for water we were told the water bottles had been in the burned police car. When we said the handcuffs hurt, we were reminded they can be unpleasant. We were tightly handcuffed, hands behind our backs for hours, offered no water, and were told time and again they did not know when or if we would be taken to jail. There were two sheriff jail buses parked a few yards away but no one could say when we might be moved. Despite limited manpower and resources, six officers stood guard for 2-3 hours, as if we were escape risks.  They insisted they were holding us for our own protection and the streets were blocked in every direction. Neither of these claims turned out to be true. We were never read our Miranda rights or told why or when we had become guilty of unlawful assembly. There were hundreds of people in every direction who could also be charged but were not. One of the officers rifled through my pockets and, without my permission, took my wallet from me. She wrote down my name and license number on a piece of paper and stuffed it into my pocket. I asked her what probably cause she had to take my belongings or search me. I think they realized no one had ever identified me, so I could not be legally charged until I was identified. This officer was not present when I was “arrested”. I realized I was being charged by proxy.

I felt as though due process and the rule of law was set aside Saturday. I was not aware of any martial law being ordered, nor do I understand at what point my presence on Third street became illegal.

One of the officers smiled and said there was no playbook. I replied, “Of course there’s a playbook. It’s called the constitution.” Through all this, the phone in my pocket had been continually buzzing. I asked if I could text my wife and children to let them know I was all right. They wouldn’t allow it.  A reporter came by at one point and relayed a message to my family, but she was not allowed to speak with us. I still don’t know her name or who she was with. One of the women arrested was suddenly escorted by three officers into a side alley. I walked over to see if she was ok and was ordered to move away from the wall and sit down.  We don’t know exactly what happened to her although we think she was likely released.  Despite being told repeatedly that being held on the street handcuffed was for our own safety, people on skateboards, bikes and small groups were casually allowed to walk by. The crowd at Fairfax had been pushed back towards the Grove. I assume this was when the more serious vandalizing and looting began. I didn’t know it at the time, but Melrose and parts of Beverly Boulevard were being destroyed. The sun had disappeared.

I honestly believe if the marchers had been allowed to simply walk down Third street a good deal of the violence, vandalism or looting might never have happened.  

               At six o’clock we were lined up and finally loaded onto a bus. A Sheriff’s bus is a lot like a dog kennel for people. Each handcuffed prisoner was locked inside in a three by four by five cage. The man in the cage in front of me had been shot several times with rubber bullets, his hand bandaged and bleeding, his face torn and cut. Why the LAPD turned us over to the Sheriff’s department was never made clear. Why they could not sight us and let us go is a mystery. Why we needed to be handcuffed while in these locked cages seemed punitive rather than safety related. No one on the bus ever gave any hint they were dangerous or wanting to escape in all the hours we were held. We were told we would be taken to Parker center for processing. The bus was parked for almost three hours, yards away from the demonstrators. Many of us were concerned the bus might be set on fire as the squad cars had been. The crowd outside would have no way of knowing we were inside.

At around 9 pm the bus pulled out, sirens blaring from our police escorts, the stark industrial lights in the bus turned on. We soon headed south along LaBrea. I could see through the holes in the metal plate covering the windows that there weren’t any burned out stores, broken glass or graffiti. The popular food truck at Venice and LaBrea was swarmed with hungry people. All seemed normal. For a moment, I thought, the Fairfax flashpoint had been a single, localized event.

When we got to Interstate ten the bus turned west. We were going to Van Nuys for processing, miles from the jurisdiction where we had been arrested.  No one explained why. Once in Van Nuys we waited on the bus another hour. We filed out in threes, sat down, still handcuffed and were processed at a long plastic table. The sheriff across from me put her name on my citation. I asked her if she’d been at Third and Fairfax that day. She said she had not. 

At around ten pm I was finally uncuffed. I could not feel my arms or hands. We were told to walk down the ramp and head towards Victory or be arrested. By then a curfew was in place and we asked how we were to get home. This drew an apathetic shrug. I think I heard one of the sheriff’s say “that’s your problem.”  Apparently we were garbage for having marched and could find our own way home. 

I had been in media silence and now it was late.  With my hands finally free, I took my phone from my pocket and found 64 texts, dozens of missed calls. A text chain from my son had started at 3pm, becoming increasingly more frantic as he tried to locate me. Friends and family recognized me being arrested on CNN, asked if I was all right. My best friend picked me up. The narrative he’d been given by the media was a peaceful protest gone rouge. What I’d seen was not the narrative the media had played for him. I wondered how many people thought I was just another scum bag looter or a white supremist trouble maker transported in to stir up shit.  Almost everyone asked me why I wasn’t wearing the mask the police had torn off my face and would not allow me to put back on.

Maybe I shouldn’t have stood my ground or tried to exert MY political will or rights. Maybe I should have thought of my family first, backed away, gone home, ignored the fate of George Floyd and Brionna Taylor and the countless others who may follow. But if I had, I would have missed the most lesson of the day. I am now part of the fight. Reluctant perhaps, ill equipped and inexperienced. I am not the enemy of the LAPD and they can not and are not an enemy of mine. We can’t survive or solve any problems, individually or as a society, if we hate each other.  I am certain some of the same ill will and presumptive negative judgement I experienced yesterday was in the air when the man we marched for was murdered. I’m also certain if we can’t find a way for the police to see all of us as allies, brothers and sisters they are sworn to protect and defend, we will be served up more of the same tomorrow.

The LAPD lost my respect and support yesterday, but they can get it back. Here’s a couple suggestions: Take a knee or stand with us.  Even better, march with us. Law enforcement officers are in a unique position to inspire us and their condemnation of police brutality and racial profiling will be far more powerful than our civilian voices. Let us march. Stop treating these events as crimes. Walk alongside us as you did during the Women’s march. People were keeping their social distancing before being attacked, corralled and scattered. Your community is simply trying to end horrible practices which the vast majority of your officers agree need to end. Give us safe passage. Expending every resource to halt our walks is counterproductive, because it opens the door for crime and disorder. The true demonstrators won’t harm buildings or property if you escort them. It will be easier to spot radicals bent on creating havoc and burning cars. These chaotic people are our common enemy as they seek to delegitimize what we all truly stand for—peace, justice and order. 

I now believe these demonstrations are proof we’ve reached a tipping point and will not end anytime soon unless change begins. Both sides see the absolute need to sit down and figure out how we end the culture of racism.  Everyone realizes we need to remove those who are too mentally ill to serve and protect.  At a time when every event is recorded, we can no longer afford to have authorities publicly murdering citizens. We know these recordings go viral and create social unrest. And we simply can’t afford to keep inciting millions of people to take to the streets in times of pandemic. Keepers of the peace do not have the time or resources to waste assaulting citizens for exercising constitutional rights. Last, we all want to stop the chaotic forces which destroy our neighborhoods and burn our beloved businesses to the ground. These may not have been the reasons why I walked down to Pacific Park yesterday with my walking stick and was arrested. But these are the reasons why I can no longer sit on the sidelines in my comfy backyard. 

This guest blog was posted in the Wrap in June 2020 a couple weeks before I started my trucking career, spending 5 weeks on the road with a hardcore MAGA supporter.