by Rebecca Reilly
Mercury Rising #11, August 1995
Riding a Greyhound across New York State, the woman seated next to me told me that every Sunday she lit a candle in church for the boys in blue. She saw them as courageous for always going into the mouth of danger. In the six cities I have messengered in, I rarely meet people who wholeheartedly share her sympathy.
In D.C., the first city where I worked as a messenger; it was unusual for police to come after messengers for traffic violations. More commonly they would show up at Dupont Circle when a lot of messengers were congregated after work. They would come with their paddy wagons and begin busting the unwary for drinking in public, possession of drugs and possession of an unregistered bike. Unregistered bikes were then thrown in the paddy wagon.
Some police had been known to double-lock a courier's bike. Since other couriers double-locked to collect debts, once had no way of knowing if the owner of the extra lock wanted $20 or to make a bust. There were also undercover bike cops. They were too clean, always standing-by in the wrong places and never talking to any friends So they were easy to spot.
Chicago, my second city, is easy to break traffic laws in due to the density of traffic and the fact that everyone participates in the free-for-all. But, like most things in Chicago, things can turn ugly in a hurry. A velocity rider was riding N. Michigan when a car behind him honked. He gave the car the finger. The driver sped up and began cursing the rider out. The verbal fight escalated until the messenger invited the driver out of the car for a fight. There they stood in the alley. The messenger dumping his bike and bag, preparing to finish things when the tables were turned and in a split second, the rider rendered completely powerless. The driver took out his badge. Entrapment, but good luck if you have no witnesses. Before the officer was pulled away on official business, he told the messenger, "I'm going to be looking for you on the street. When I see you I'm going to kill you. And you know what? There’s not a damn thing you can do about it.
The next city, Houston, was low key, however, police brutality seemed to be a fact of life. My advice from other messengers was something like this, "You'd better say "Yes, sir," then the bending won't be so hard. Houston’s messengers were not bigger troublemakers than say the messengers in D. C. or Portland, but there were an inordinate number of them on probation. They were pulled over often; cited nearly every time. The court system had no sympathy for them so they found it difficult to put out $150 per ticket. After a certain amount of time a warrant would be made for their arrest from nonpayment of tickets, so the next time they got pulled over they spent the night in jail. I had messengered in two cities for two years and in that time I was pulled over once. I was in Houston for three months and I was pulled over three times and once threatened with imprisonment.
Denver was city number four for me. It was there that I witnessed an ongoing dialogue between the city government and the bike messengers. It all started when J-Bone arrived from eight years messengering in San Francisco. Right away he detected a paranoia among the messengers and rampant discrimination from the police. Upon witnessing one officer who sat in wait at the busiest messenger intersection in town pulling over messengers all day, J-Bone pulled his quarterly reports. He went to the chief of police, demanding that the police back off in light of the fact that he had enough evidence for a selective harassment suit.
In Seattle, the messengers joked that if someone was pulled over by a motor cycle officer, three things were sure: You'd get a lecture; You'd get a ticket; and the officer would have a moustache, even if it was a woman. Police forces around the country send teams to Seattle because they have the best bike patrol in the world. Indeed, the boldest maneuver I've ever heard of or seen from a bike cop happened in Seattle. He flew down Seneca Hill blowing his whistle. When he reached the car, he slapped it with his open hand and yelled, "Pull over! Seattle’s messenger's had more respect for the bike cops than the motorcycle cops. One Seattle messenger remembered a bike cop telling him, "If you see us, just don't break the law right there in front of us, or else we have to bust you, honestly we understand we really don't want to bust you. In the case of motorized patrols, pursuit sometimes borders on the ridiculous. One motorcycle cop wrecked his bike on a curb chasing an ABC rider. Many others have broken various laws, driven on sidewalks, all in pursuit of that light running fiend.
San Francisco is easy to avoid police in. Traffic is dense and there are a myriad of alleys to get lost in. When messenger and cop meet, the lines of justice get murky. The most striking recent example that comes to mind is of an incident in the Tenderloin. One messenger pulled over for running a red light. Another messenger arrives to switch packages. Upon seeing the injustice of ticketing of his friend and colleague in such a cesspit of illegal activity, The second messenger inquires as to the seriousness of the firsts' offense seeing that there were other things of greater importance that needed more attention. After having switched packages and satisfied that he got to put his two cents in, he started on his way. The officer yelled for him to stop, pulled him from his bike, flung him into the side of a car and hand cuffed him tightly enough that he was left with multiple cuts on his wrists. His offense to evoke such brutal treatment? He didn't have a license plate on his bike.
A candle lit for sympathy. How about a candle for hope. Hope that one day the fair cops are the ones people tell stories about.
For more of Rebecca's writings visit Lambchop Monthly
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