RIGHT PLACE, WRONG FACE

At home in my lobby, I fit the stats - and went directly to
jail.

As the youngest of five girls and two boys growing up in Cincinnati, I
was raised to believe that if I worked hard, was a good person, and
always told the truth, the world would be my oyster. I was raised to
be a gentleman and learned that these qualities would bring me respect.

While one has to earn respect, consideration is something owed to
every human being. On Friday, June 16, 1999, when I was wrongfully
arrested at my Harlem apartment building, my perception of everything
I had learned as a young man was forever changed— not only because I
wasn’t given even a second to use the manners my parents taught me,
but mostly because the police, whom I’d always naively thought were
supposed to serve and protect me, were actually hunting me.

Ihad planned a pleasant day. The night before was payday, plus I had
received a standing ovation after portraying the starring role of
Coalhouse Walker Jr. in the Broadway musical Ragtime. It is a role
that requires not only talent but also an honest emotional investment
of the morals and lessons I learned as a child.

Coalhouse Walker Jr. is a victim (an often misused word, but in this
case true) of overt racism. His story is every black man’s nightmare.
He is hardworking, successful, talented, charismatic, friendly, and
polite. Perfect prey for someone with authority and not even a
fraction of those qualities. On that Friday afternoon, I became a real
life Coalhouse Walker. Nothing could have prepared me for it. Not even
sto ries told to me by other black men who had suffered similar injustices.

Friday for me usually means a trip to the bank, errands, the gym,
dinner, and then off to the theater. On this particular day, I decided
to break my pattern of getting up and running right out of the house.
Instead, I took my time, slowed my pace, and splurged by making
strawberry pancakes. Before I knew it, it was 2:45; my bank closes at
3:30, leaving me less than 45 minutes to get to midtown Manhattan on
the train. I was pressed for time but in a relaxed, blessed state of
mind. When I walked through the lobby of my building, I noticed two
lightskinned Hispanic men I’d never seen before. Not thinking much of
it, I continued on to the vestibule, which is separated from the lobby
by a locked door.

As I approached the exit, I saw people in uniforms rushing toward the
door. I sped up to open it for them. I thought they might be
paramedics, since many of the building’s occupants are elderly. It
wasn’t until I had opened the door and greeted them that I recognized
that they were police officers. Within seconds, I was told to “hold
it”; they had received a call about young Hispanics with guns. I was
told to get against the wall. I was searched, stripped of my backpack,
put on my knees, handcuffed, and told to be quiet when I tried to ask
questions.

With me were three other innocent black men who had been on their way
to their UHaul. They were moving into the apartment beneath mine, and
I had just bragged to them about how safe the building was. One of
these gentlemen got off his knees, still handcuffed, and unlocked the
door for the officers to get into the lobby where the two strangers
were standing. Instead of thanking or even acknowledging us, they led
us out the door past our neighbors, who were all but begging the
police in our defense.

The four of us were put into cars with the two strangers and taken to
the precinct station at 165th and Amsterdam. The police automatically
linked us, with no questions and no regard for our character or our
lives. No consideration was given to where we were going or why
Suppose an ailing relative was waiting upstairs, while I ran out for
her medication? Or young children, who’d been told that Daddy was
running to the corner store for milk and would be right back? My new
neighbors weren’t even allowed to lock their apartment or check on the
UHaul.

After we were lined up in the station, the younger of the two Hispanic
men was identified as an experienced criminal, and drug residue was
found in a pocket of the other. I now realize how naive I was to think
that the police would then uncuff me, apologize for their mistake, and
let me go. Instead, they continued to search my backpack, questioned
me, and put me in jail with the criminals.

The rest of the nearly fivehour ordeal was like a horrible dream. I
was handcuffed, stripsearehed, taken in and out for questioning. The
officers told me that they knew exactly who I was, knew I was in
Ragtime, and that in fact they already had the men they wanted.

How then could they keep me there, or have brought me there in the
first place? I was told it was standard procedure. As if the average
lawabiding citizen knows what that is and can dispute it. From what I
now know, “standard procedure” is something that every citizen, black
and white, needs to learn, and fast. Ifelt completely powerless. Why,
do you think? Here I was, young, pleasant, and successful, in good
physical shape, dressed in clean athletic attire. I was carrying a
backpack containing a substantial paycheck and a deposit slip, on my
way to the bank. Yet after hours and hours I was sitting at a desk
with two officers who not only couldn’t tell me why I was there but
seemed determined to find something on me, to the point of making me
miss my performance.

It was because I am a black man!

Isat in that cell crying silent tears of disappointment and injustice
with the realization of how many innocent black men are convicted for
no reason. When I was handcuffed, my first instinct had been to pull
away out of pure insult and violation as a human being. Thank God I
was calm enough to do what they said. When I was thrown in jail with
the criminals and stripsearched, I somehow knew to put my pride aside,
be quiet, and do exactly what I was told, hating it but coming to
terms with the fact that in this situation I was a victim. They had
guns!

Before I was finally let go, exhausted, humiliated, embarrassed, and
still in shock, I was led to a room and given a pseudoapology. I was
told that I was at the wrong place at the wrong time. My reply? “I was
where I live.”

Everything I learned growing up in Cincinnati has been shattered. Life
will never be the same.