By Richard Hall, Mullen Avenue
We, my wife, sons, and I, were returning late from a family dinner. It was a little after midnight, we had wanted to sing happy birthday to our niece who was just turning twelve. We had passed the intersection of Cortland and Mission, headed towards Army Street, when we noticed a number of blaring red lights coming from the opposite direction. Two police cars passed us and swung sharply east on Cortland, followed by a third car coming from the other direction.
Concerned and curious, we decided to circle the block. We had spent some time the preceding week in the brand-new offices of the Cortland Avenue Progressives; we wondered what was happening in their neighborhood.
We passed the dark Progressive office; all seemed well. There was a great commotion, however, further up the street on the Moultrie side of the library. A large crowd was gathered, and in the glare of the many red lights we could see familiar faces. At many street-crossings were parked police cars, forming, I imagined, road blocks of a sort. We could hear loud, angry voices coming from the crowd and a man was talking excitedly to a police officer.
"You're arresting him on a say-so," someone yelled. Two young men were spread out against a police car.
The mood of the crowd grew angrier and the police moved accordingly. They loaded one person in a car and started leaving the streets. Soon there were only neighborhood people talking hotly among themselves. Della [Richard's wife] and I walked over to two women we knew (Mrs. Lewis and Mrs. Roya, mothers of Progressives) and asked them what was going on. Bitterly our friends told us what had happened. The gym, behind the library, was being used for a fund-raising event sponsored by the Progressives. There had been live music, raffles and a dance contest. A good time was being had by all. Order was maintained by the Progressives themselves. Paul Hopkins had just won the dance contest. Suddenly, Mrs. Lewis told us, there was a commotion out in front of the library. A car was burning, a car owned by a private "security guard" who worked for some local merchants.
Tension Builds
We were told quickly that the "guard" had a history of being overly aggressive in his dealings with the young people who spend much of their time on the streets he was commissioned to watch. He apparently did not like the young people congregating in front of the buildings; he made it his business to keep them moving. Feelings ran high between the street youth and the "guard," the "guard" threatening often, at times with a drawn weapon. There is talk that he has fired his gun, in anger, on three occasions.
An Arrest
The fire was extinguished and the armada of police vehicles began to arrive. The angry "guard" had seized on Paul Hopkins as the man seen leaving the burning car. The description fitted Paul (and five other young men) quite well.
That night a young man came to see someone at the party. Rather than go inside, he waited across the street in the doorway of one of the businesses watched by the "guard." The "guard" told the young man to move and the man questioned the "guard"'s right to issue such orders. Words led to more words and the scene ended with the familiar gun being drawn as a back-up to the order. The young man wisely chose to move on. It was shortly after this encounter that the patrol car was observed to be burning. The Progressives, knowing that suspicion would be directed at them, cooled things out. Paul Hopkins (who had just won the dance contest) was one of those who helped.
The "guard" proceeded to arrest Paul.
This was the point at which we arrived. After talking briefly with Mrs. Roya and Mrs. Lewis, there was little we could do so we went home. At home we talked indignantly about what appeared to be a grossly unfair arrest. We, with Mark and Sally Green (other Progressives friends), ended up going back to the Progressives office to see what could be done.
The Progressives were already hard at work. By this time it was 1:30 in the morning. After a number of tries we managed to get in touch with Deputy Chief of Police William Keays and, considering the late hour, he was eager to help.
Meanwhile, concern centered on getting Paul out of jail. Twenty of us drove in caravan to Mission Station, where he was taken to be booked.
No Bail
When David Wallace emerged, we were told that bail ($250) could be made at the Hall of Justice. It was nearly 2:30 a.m. We were parked in a dark gas station across the street from the Hall of Justice while Mrs. Roya made calls to bondsmen. After nearly an hour of calls and waiting, we were informed that due to the nature of the charge (felony arson), bail would have to be set by a judge. Of course, there were no judges available at that early hour of the day.
We speculated angrily why we had been told that bail was possible. Certainly the Sergeant at Mission Station knew this would happen. We felt as if we had been deliberately misled. We went home realizing there was nothing more we could do until morning. We did not feel easy about leaving Paul in jail. It was 3:30 in the morning.
David Wallace arranged a meeting with Deputy Chief Keays for the following morning. Before leaving Cortland Ave., Della and I decided we would take care of some business across the street at the Bank of America. As we entered the bank I noticed a police officer talking to one of the bank officials. He spoke loudly, not caring who heard the conversation. "He's been pushing people around again," the policeman was saying. I did not hear what the bank man said. "I'm going to throw him in the radio-car one of these days," the officer went on, "and run him downtown. He doesn't have any kind of license. He made that tin badge himself." The policeman was agitated. I realized he was talking about the "security guard" so I moved a little closer. The officer continued, "He got some kind of a business grant from the Government, $68,000, but he doesn't have a license." The officer moved toward the door and said something else that I could not hear, waved good-bye and left.
Later when we arrived at the Chief's office, Captain Keays did not keep the appointment that David Wallace had made. We decided to wait til the end of the day when Captain Keays would return to his office. In the meantime the Progressives pressed for bail action. After considerable searching, the arrest record was located. It was determined that Paul could be released under O.R. (Own Recognizance) Provision, which meant that he didn't have to post bond. We took the elevator down to the O.R. room.
Some interest and compassion
It is hard to believe that such a room can exist in the heart of the Hall of Justice! It is so contrary to the mood around the rest of the building. The people who handle O.R. appear to be interested, compassionate individuals. Business was handled quickly, but with purpose, and I had the feeling that the hustle here was in our interest. "Gotta get these forms to the judge, a young blonde-haired man told us as he hurried from the office, "It's almost quitting time and they'll all be gone."
As he promised, the Deputy Chief had made a telephone call and the Station Sergeant agreed to speak with one of the group. David Wallace went into the inner office. There was some badgering that took place between the young men in our party and the coming and going police officers. One officer, who had a little smiling, yellow happy face pasted to the grip of his revolver, was particularly pushy. He strolled out of the locked inner room, his thumbs in his gun belt, and walked up to Michael Thomas. "You're not here to start trouble, are you?" he said, looking out from under his hat.
Michael was quiet, looking honestly puzzled at the young cop. "I don't understand why that had to be said," he replied.
The cop looked at him for another second and turned and went back into the locked inner room.
We watched as a young policeman reenacted, behind a heavy Plexiglas window, a difficult arrest that he had just made. For the benefit of the other officers, he showed how he had slugged, gouged and twisted the resisting arrestee. All behind the Plexiglas window seemed pleased with the methods that had been employed.
Captain Keays was back from his previous business and, when his secretary told him we were there, he opened his door and invited us in.
The Deputy Chief sat quietly and listened to our side of the arrest episode. He had read the police report and conceded that there had been some judgmental errors involved in the handling of the situation. It was at this time we were given confirmation regarding the "security guard"' right to engage in the business he was about. The Deputy Chief said the City's control by charter over such enterprises is weak. He also mentioned that he and his Department have been pushing for tighter restrictions in that area.
We were assured that the "security guard"'s status would be thoroughly looked into and if something wasn't right, action would be taken. About Paul Hopkins, we were told that every influence of The Chief's Office would be leveled to favor Paul. David Wallace thanked Captain Keays for his help.
Back at The Progressives Office, the tension of the many hours broke and everyone started joking. David Wallace bent Mrs. Lewis over backwards in a position of mock-passion, threatening her with a big kiss. Mrs. Roya said she was going to go get a big steak and fix it; she hadn't eaten since the arrest business started. We left the Progressives Office in positive moods, tired from the events past, but easy tired. We had gotten Paul out of jail and had made a positive venture into the Police system. We felt we had found an attentive ear in the Deputy Chief and that our coming together in common interest had resulted in a voice that was heard.
We also felt from what the Deputy Chief said that something would be done by the police about the "security guard." But this appears not to be so.
An early report, some five days after the incident that the "guard" was out of business proved to be false. The week of Sept. 18th, I received a call from a Progressive. The "Security Guard" was back in the neighborhood, chasing one of the young people with a gun. I arrived in time to see a policeman talking the man into going home. The "guard" was angry and shouting, but he did go home that time.
I saw Mrs. Lewis and asked her: "What's going on? I thought this was taken care of! What are the police waiting for?" She looked tired and discouraged. "They're waiting for someone to get killed, I guess.
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Transcribed by Vicky Walker, 1/17/08.