Another Unique Opportunity -or- "Protecting Your Right to Protest"

In the early fall of 2002, through connections our incumbent chief had with the Washington, D.C. area, our police department was invited to send a contingent of officers to our nation’s capitol. The World Trade Organization was planning on holding two summits over the course of two weekends, and local law enforcement was expecting heavy opposition and protesting. Calls went out for Mutual Aid on a grand scale.

This time, to take advantage of this unique situation, it wasn’t who you knew or what position you worked. It all came down to seniority—and chance. An announcement was read at the roll calls detailing the specifics of the assignment, with a special sign-up to be held in the near future. We learned that each weekend would include the potential for 40 hours worth of overtime pay. This included pay for our travel time for the nine hour journey, a briefing, and two twelve hour-plus shifts on post. There would also be a per diem for meals and spending money. A sweet deal indeed.

Duties would include standing on post along a scheduled protest parade route. We needed to be prepared to march in formation and deal with potential riot situations—including tear gas deployment, take-downs and extractions. We were advised this assignment was not for everyone, and successful completion of a riot training refresher course would be mandated for those who signed up.

With the opportunity to practically double my paycheck, I was able to work out being available for each weekend and looked forward to signing up for both. At the sign-up, many of the usual regulars who signed up for overtime monthly were there, along with a few newer officers. There were 70 slots available for officers—35 each weekend, with five sergeants each as well. My seniority of nearly eleven years and the fact that many of those ahead of me could not work both of the weekends assured me of spots on both details. I was going to Washington!

A week later came the first bit of bad news. We learned that the Summit was being shortened and would not hold over for another session the second weekend. All those who happened to sign up for the second detail, regardless of seniority, were canceled. Those on the first weekend were still in the game. Although not looking at quite as big a payday, we who signed up for both weekends were considering ourselves very lucky.

The next piece of bad news came shortly thereafter, but only for a few of us—although we all were a little nervous not knowing what was in store for us. Our riot control refresher course required some marching in double-time in our riot gear, which included our gas mask and baton. It happened to be a particularly warm and sunny day that spring, and many of us wore long sleeves and thick clothing in order to ward off the effect of the tear gas we would be marching through. It was tough, feeling like you were breathing through a thin straw, never able to get the air as fast as you wanted while the instructors ran us harder than I think we were expecting. Then, our Lieutenant lobbed a CS gas canister into an open field. As the thick yellow cloud blossomed, we were told to run through it and back again. I could feel the particles in the gas stinging the top of my head and the backs of my hands as I made my way through the dense fog. Then, the worse part—we had to remove our masks, stow them properly, then run through a newly deployed canister completely unprotected. By this time, the shirt I was wearing was soaked through with sweat, and it acted just like a sponge, sucking the irritant in the gas right through to my skin. Not an inch of me was spared. It was also a bad time to find out that my sweatpants and underwear were also soaked through! The ones who could not keep up with the run or who had severe reactions to the mask or the gas were advised that they would not be able to work the assignment.

Another week passed by, and the day was upon us. Arriving at District 2 at 0500 hours in the pitch black of an overnight downpour, I lugged my riot gear bag, my suitcase and garment bag containing my recently detailed and tailored dress blue uniform. I stowed them in the cargo hold of one of the five large shuttle vans that awaited us then ducked indoors to stand around with the other sleepy-heads. After the Powers That Be determined all was a go, we filed into our vans and started our nine hour journey to D.C.

My bus partner and future roommate for the adventure was Officer Dan—not the Officer Dan of the recent basketball pole fame, but the Officer Dan whom I’ve mentioned earlier in past stories earning his fame as running fast and falling even quicker. We left each other to his own devices, but as the morning wore on, the riders on my particular van woke up, and its occupants became quite lively. A group of forty cops stuck together in a confined space for several hours lends itself to some hilarity. From the inside jokes, to the pranks and the bodily functions, heard and smelled from across the aisles, the time spent on the road soon seemed to go very quickly.

The vans eventually pulled up in front of an opulent high-rise hotel on the outskirts of downtown where we were to stay the next several nights, courtesy of the Federal Government. We collected our belongings and stood dumbstruck in the lobby. A huge planter graced the ground floor as the levels rose on three sides, each floor with a view that wrapped around the large expanse of the atrium below. It sure beat staying in some military barracks or a Motel 6 somewhere.

We were required to attend a briefing in one of the large conference halls of the hotel at 2000 hours. Several other police departments who sent personnel were also staying at the same hotel. They also attended the meeting which was hosted by a Washington D.C. Police Department Representative. We received materials and viewed a PowerPoint presentation detailing, among other things, the protest parade route. The most interesting thing about the slides we viewed was learning the tactics and make-up of the highly organized protesters we were likely to encounter. From other cities’ experiences, we found out there is an entire group of individuals who make it their calling to promote civil unrest by joining protests and stirring up as much trouble as possible. These people don’t even subscribe to the point of view of whatever protest in which they happen to be participating. There are people in the crowds, many of them defense attorneys, who wear bright neon ball caps, and they make it a point to be visible to the protesters and be on hand at any potential police action. They instruct any protester involved with the police to make it as difficult as possible within the law for the police to do their jobs, and they wait with notepads to write down everything they see for threatened future litigations.

That did not scare me. I’ve been the recipient of the “I’m calling my lawyer” speech many times, and so far, I have only been named in one lawsuit. What had me on my toes during our briefing was the descriptions of the devious ways some of the violent protesters have attempted to cause harm to law enforcement at protests and rallies in the past. From altering their attire to include noxious substances or hidden barbs or razors, to actual floats containing concealed miscellaneous projectiles, including staffs and spears. These floats were called “Trojan Horses” and were nothing more than crude wood and cardboard structures hand-pulled or carried by several marchers. Nevertheless, our group left the briefing pretty psyched and prepared for what lay ahead.

A lesson I quickly learned was that one did not travel this far from home on this type of outing without sampling the city’s nightlife. It did not matter that we would be expected to be up and ready to be on post by 0630 hours the next morning. Several in our group had been in this area of D.C. before and had recommendations for a good club or bar within walking distance to visit for a few drinks. Officer Dan and I followed the small crowd we happened to be with and ended up in a bar that played really loud music—but served awesome hamburgers! The surrounding tables were populated by groups of other officers from other departments across the states, and pitchers were bought for each other promoting good will amongst the brotherhood. I had a few more beers than I care to admit and stayed out a lot longer than I wish I would have, but no one wants to be the first or the only one to leave a “party.” I saw an opportunity, and actually Officer Dan and I managed to leave at the same time with a few others.

I struggled to remember the way back to the hotel, tired from the late hour and the alcohol and all the time cramped up on the bus. I am told this later, as I vaguely recall it myself, but apparently Officer Dan was feeling much the same way as me, and at a familiar intersection now close to our hotel, he started to cross the street in the crosswalk. I grabbed his shirt and pulled him back just as a car whisked by so close it practically rattled the change in his pockets. He later credited me with saving his life that night, but at the time, the whole episode passed by without a word. We stayed intent on reaching our goal of comfortable beds with whatever amount of sleep we could muster before our alarms would go off.

We really pressed it the following morning, getting up at the last possible moment. I dressed in my long sleeve uniform sans the black tie and strapped the canvas gas mask bag to my leg opposite my gun-side. I placed my riot helmet on and checked the chinstrap and face shield. We were not to carry individual radios for this assignment, but the other mandatory equipment included our handcuffs, sidearm, pepper spray and crowd control/impact weapon. Following the negative publicity the Rodney King incident provoked, our department steered away from the recognizable, yet highly effective, PR-24. The 24 inch plastic composite baton with the ribbed side handle set six inches back from the end was replaced with the ASP. Also 24 inches in length, it is a hollow, metal tube, collapsible to about six inches. More portable, yet less versatile, it tried to eliminate the poor perception the PR-24 gave the Law Enforcement community. My academy class was one of the last ones to be issued the PR-24 (we were certified with the ASP at a later date), and we were still authorized to use it in potential riot or civil unrest situations. It was definitely my tool of choice for this weekend.

As dawn broke, we boarded several shuttle vans and headed out under local police escort. I tried to catch a glimpse of any familiar landmarks as I squirmed in my seat, the extra equipment making for a tight fit. A short time later we arrived at a nondescript intersection downtown. Banks and financial offices were prevalent in this relatively clean area of town. No other traffic was on the road, nor were there any pedestrians about at this hour. The streets had been gated several blocks away. Within our new environment for the duration was a black shuttle bus as a staging and resting area. It was parked behind large concrete slabs that had been previously laid out in the street conveying the message that no one or no thing was coming any farther down that street. Closer to the actual intersection were interlocking bicycle racks and large orange construction barrels. These provided a user-friendly and potentially moveable barricade right along the parade route. Their presence made it clear that no one should be walking beyond their lines.

The thirty of us officers were combined with fifteen deputies from our corresponding County Sheriff’s Office, and we were split into three platoons. The assignment was easy-going at first. One platoon took a post for thirty minutes several feet back from the front line in a loosely spread formation, just to maintain a police presence within our assigned area. The second platoon was on standby for thirty minutes, instructed to be near the staging vehicle or within the block. The third platoon had a thirty minute break and would be able to walk freely about, interact with other officers at other staging areas, or even see the sights.

Our group was stationed just a few blocks from one of The Smithsonian Museum buildings and about a ten minute walk from the White House itself. The morning progressed, and businesses opened as usual. The sun was up, and it was becoming a beautiful day. My early times on the front line passed without incident. Occasionally, the clueless tourist or businessman would come our way and inquire what was going on. We had a relaxed air about us and willingly engaged the public. Officer Ken even “made friends” with a lady who had mental issues, and the two spoke for quite sometime, much to the dismay of Officer Ken who was silently looking to anyone who could give him an “out” in this situation and free him from the otherworldly topics rambling from the woman’s lips.

Once our thirty minute shift was up, the Lieutenants and Sergeants led us in a “changing of the guard,” trying to portray some sense of organization and military feel to our presence, setting the tone for what to expect closer to “show time.” Once relieved off the front line, we had thirty minutes to ourselves. I knew I couldn’t see all of D.C. in that time, but I was determined to take advantage of our proximity to the White House. After several rotations through each post, Officer Dan and I ventured away from the staging area and set out for 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. It had been about fifteen years since I last visited Washington, D.C., and seeing the familiar columned structure behind the black wrought iron fence beyond the expansive front lawn filled me once again with a sense of awe. There were many other police officers around mixed among the sightseers, taking in the sights and probably feeling the same way I was. Thinking of our purpose for coming to the nation’s capitol, it felt really good to be there in some other capacity besides tourist—if only for a minute. Officer Dan and I quickly, yet discreetly, pulled out our disposable cameras and started snapping pictures. I just had to get one of me “guarding” the President’s home.

We soon trekked back to the staging area where other officers took advantage of any spare space to catch a quick nap, get a hurried bite to eat, or connect with others back home. A D.C. Police Representative made his way to the various posts and staging areas in a golf cart, carrying bagels, doughnuts, fruit and bottled water. We were definitely being well looked after. I grabbed a doughnut and stuffed it in my mouth, allowing myself to be photographed by a fellow officer and thereby solidifying the familiar stereotype for posterity. With a smile, I made my way away from the chatter and busy noise to check in with the family as I had the next thirty minutes to just relax. I learned that the downpour yesterday morning back home did more than soak and inconvenience a few dozen officers boarding a bus as my wife told me our finished basement flooded with about three to four inches of water. There was nothing I could do from several hundred miles away; although, she also let me know she handled herself quite well with a Wet-Vac and the ensuing clean up. I tried not to think about what waited for me back home in that regard as my platoon was getting ready to relieve the other one on the line. I spoke to my kids, telling them I picked up a few neat souvenirs for them from the gift shop. I soon had to say good-bye to my family and got ready to get into formation.

As the day progressed, the streets became more and more congested. We were briefed on when the parade would be starting, but we still saw quite a few people milling about, protesting one issue or another throughout the afternoon. During the half dozen or so rotations, each platoon had plenty of elbow room when stationed on the front line. Prior to the parade, we were there primarily for effect. When the Lieutenant told us in paramilitary “SWAT-speak” that the time had arrived, two of our three platoons joined together, now shoulder to shoulder, on our front line with all barricades behind us. I was “lucky” to be one of the officers initially stationed on post. The remaining platoon stood by some twenty yards back behind the concrete barricades as relief officers.

I wouldn’t need any relief. I was sure of it. I was keyed up and ready to go. I could hear the steady thrum of makeshift drums off in the distance as the parade got underway from sights unseen and made its way toward us. I was aware of several smells funneling past the buildings through the city blocks and to our ready group of officers, which, when looking left or right, seemed to stretch on indefinitely with the numerous members of the other invited departments. Something was burning in the distance, and the scent of the mild wood smoke drifted by. Even the protesters had a particular smell my heightened senses were picking up. Dirty wool, hemp, and— dare I say it?—marijuana. The people passed within mere feet of us, angrily chanting their messages of hate, mistrust, and sometimes downright anarchy. Several shouted anti-police slogans as they snapped individual pictures of officers on the line. Many thrust poster board signs on wooden sticks high above their heads. As we were told to, I kept an eye on these individuals, ready for one of them to get out of hand and use his sign as a weapon. I also watched any of the floats or papier-mâché effigies for signs they may be ready to be used in the manner of the Trojan Horse we learned about in the briefing.

I have disagreements as much as the next guy over what Uncle Sam is doing with our money or our resources, but I just couldn’t fathom some of the people who marched past me that day. Were they just conscientious objectors? Self-important show-offs? Or stone cold mentals? Who could go through their lives acting with such organized hate at something—be it a person (George W. Bush sure got a lot of grief) or an organization? A fleeting thought flashed through my mind as I held my PR baton across my waist in front of me, if only to bean someone atop the head and knock some sense into him. The thought lingered, but any desire to randomly carry out the act soon passed. And, I’ve been referencing the masculine as I make my observations, referring to “him” or “he,” but I need to say, there were quite the number of females as well who jumped on the Hate Train and showed their true colors during this event.

As the chants and drums from the various groups blended together, I lost track of time as a continual cascade of marchers passed us by. Tensing me even further was some action that happened half a block away to my left. Several individuals in the crowd became disorderly and crossed an imaginary threshold that had been predetermined in all officers’ mindsets. It was time to remove them from their environment. Several undercover D.C. officers had dressed down like protesters and mingled throughout the parade, occasionally checking in behind the lines at our post and others. They had been watching a small number of guys for a while now and alerted an extraction team it needed to act. A group of six officers in dark blue tactical suits with black knee and elbow pads and black visored helmets marched two by three double-time from behind the frontline. A line officer moved left, one moved right, quickly forming an opening that was just as swiftly sealed as the team made its way into the moving mass of people. Like attacking white blood cells facing a troublesome germ reeking havoc through the bloodstream, the officers effectively surrounded the most disorderly of the men. The two officers at the rear of the line handled the apprehension, quickly flex-cuffing the individual as the other four officers watched in all directions for more trouble. Once the plastic ties were about the detained man’s wrists, the group backed up as quickly and efficiently as it had infiltrated, and the parade continued without incident, the majority of the other little red blood cells unaware of any problems in their little part of the circulatory system. Out of sight, out of mind is the popular mantra. Once this troublemaker was removed from the parade route, he was quickly whisked those twenty yards back, behind the concrete slabs into an awaiting van, which then transported him to a central processing facility away from the action.

It was about this time that I realized the make-up of my line had changed. There were no longer the same officers standing beside or near me who had been with me these untold minutes. Sure enough, it was my turn as well to get tapped on the shoulder, which was the signal to fall out of formation and accept my relief. It wasn’t until I marched double-time back to the staging area that I had realized how weak my legs had become and how close I had possibly been to locking my knees and passing out on the frontline. I was a bit disappointed I had been pulled from the action but relieved that the supervisors were looking out for their guys and getting them rotated before anything bad happened. Now I could stand, resting my forearms tentatively atop the concrete slabs, and watch my fellow officers for any signs of needing relief—and take out my camera to snap a few pictures of the protesters! It didn’t have the same effect as a camera right up in one’s face, but it still made me feel good. I stayed on the back line until the parade was over then was rotated back in as we stood by in a more relaxed formation, maintaining traffic control until the local P.D.’s cleared the area and deemed it appropriate to open back up certain streets.

By the time were dismissed from our post, it was close to eleven o’clock that night. We boarded the vans in the cool night air that had been getting progressively colder as the darkness wore on and fewer and fewer people were about. We sat in the vans, literally exhausted despite the lack of actual strenuous physical activity and awaited word from our supervisors. All the while, the gears in my head turned as I tried to figure out how much money I was going to make today. It was about a sixteen hour work day—all on overtime pay! Plus the travel time out and back home—eighteen hours! Plus, we got to do this all over again tomorrow! Cha-ching!

And, alas. As we sat there waiting, not moving for what seemed the longest time, for someone to tell us something, anything, we received the final bit of bad news amidst this otherwise fun, exciting, and eye-opening opportunity. The Lieutenant boarded the van and told us the law enforcement response to the protests was being majorly scaled back for day two of the summit. Our services would no longer be required tomorrow, as those in charge over-estimated the protestors’ presence this first day. It certainly was better to error on the side of caution. I just hoped the decision to let half the departments go wouldn’t bite them in the behind tomorrow. I didn’t have time to feel bitter as I continued to think of the extra 32 hours of overtime on my upcoming paycheck. The personal thank you from D.C. Police Chief Ramsey as he boarded our van that evening also helped. We traveled solemnly back to our hotel, looking out the van windows for signs of any familiar famous landmarks illuminated in the darkness. The next morning we woke early and eventually made our way home to our small Midwestern town, with the satisfaction of a job well done and the feeling one gets from being involved in a once in a lifetime experience.

Or so I thought. A few years later, I had the opportunity to once again return to Washington, D.C. with a group of my fellow officers as we were invited to participate in parade security for the Inauguration of President Bush upon his re-election in January 2005. The tale of that adventure to come at a later date. Stay tuned!