How the NYPD Ruined My Weekend & Saved My Life

It was Thursday night under a soft drizzle when the NYPD stopped me in my tracks in the Bed-Stuy neighborhood of Brooklyn with an open can of Budweiser in my hand. After the officer checked my ID, I knew what was going to happen next. They cuffed me and threw me in the backseat of their car. Next stop was the 79th precinct, just a few short blocks away. I'd been through this before. I ignored a previous ticket for a similar offence, and in New York, when you treat a ticket like it doesn't exist, it morphs into something nasty: a warrant for your arrest. The last time this happened was a few months ago in the Lower East Side. I was taken to a precinct there, spent the night alone in a cell, saw a judge the next morning, and was back on the streets without a criminal record. The entire ordeal lasted ten hours, and more than anything, it was a badge of honor amongst friends. It didn't teach me any lessons. I bragged to friends about stepping before a Manhattan judge in handcuffs. This time? Not so much.

Immediately upon my arrest, the cops assured me I’d be out by 11 AM the next day. My worst thought was I’d have an uncomfortable sleep on a wooden bench, and be a few hours late for work the next day. I definitely wouldn’t miss Thrillist’s Jet Mystery tour, the secret-destination trip which was scheduled to depart JFK early Saturday morning.

When I woke up from that first night on Friday morning, I was moved from my private cell--which smelled like urine thanks to the ignored toilet inside-- into a holding cell downstairs with three other inmates. One was a career criminal in for charges of hostage taking. Another was there because he was caught breaking and entering into his ex-girlfriend’s house to see if she was sleeping with another dude (she wasn’t). The third was an elderly man who sat with his head in his lap, and spoke no words. It’s almost impossible to have any concept of time in jail, because they take your watch and tragically, your phone. But it’s a blessing in disguise, because time would slow to a crawl if you could literally see the minutes tick by.

When food came on Friday, I knew it was no longer morning, because lunch was hamburgers from McDonald’s--not Egg McMuffins--meaning it was past 11 AM. When the officer picked up the phone and ordered “ten prisoner meals,” I had no idea I had a McDonald’s hamburger in my future. And this could be mere paranoia, but it tasted like the McDonald’s elves put less love into their burger assembly with the knowledge that criminals will be consuming them. One burger arrived without any meat--just two buns, a pickle, some diced onions, and ketchup. A mild panic crept in. The worst part about being held against your will is not knowing when you’ll be freed. I asked every officer I saw--and there were many--what the hold up was, and they explained that since my warrant was issued in Manhattan, I had to see a judge there instead of Brooklyn. They also assured that this was not a speedy process. Some of them appeared to take an unexplainable pleasure in my distress. That’s when I mentioned I had a flight to catch at 5 AM. Making it to work was no longer a concern, but I was determined to make that plane, which rumors indicated was destined for St. Maarten. 

Every hour or so, a new officer walked into the precinct with a new prisoner and put him in our cell. Eventually I was locked in a cell that was no more than 10 feet wide with a dozen other captives, all retelling stories of their arrests and how unfair they were. “You can’t be a black man and walk through Brooklyn anymore,” they protested. “This ain’t right. We livin’ in a police state!” Giuliani was told to go fuck himself many times. It was like being trapped with a dozen broken records playing simultaneously. The youngest prisoner was 16, in lockdown for assaulting his high school principal. “He hit me first,” insisted the boy. “When you get out, sue that motherfucker’s ass,” said the other prisoners.

My one out and only chance to make the flight was a transport van arriving in the evening to take the prisoners from the morning (me included) to Central Booking in downtown Brooklyn. From there I was told I’d be transported to Manhattan to see a judge in night court. This would give me enough time to stop by Butter--where my girlfriend was DJing--for a few drinks, head home and pack, and make it to JFK in time. The officers kept promising the van would be here any minute, a promise that was repeatedly made over the span of hours. At random moments, I’d snap and have an outburst. “When the fuck is this van going to come? I have to get the fuck out of here!” One of the prisoners (the alleged hostage taker) gave a response that was surprisingly calming and apt. “Stop complaining, dude! You gonna be drinking in the bars tonight. You gonna make your flight. You’ll be on the streets tonight. I don’t know when I’m gonna see the streets again!” That did wonders in shutting me up. 

At around 8 PM, I knew the van was finally ready for the transport when I heard the clanging of multiple handcuffs approaching the holding area. I was overcome with joy at the thought of my release, which now seemed imminent. Then, from a stack of papers, an officer read aloud the names of the prisoners who were being transported, and mine wasn’t one of them. Goodbye, St. Maarteen. Instead of spending the weekend on the pristine beaches of a Caribbean island described to me as “paradise on Earth,” it now seemed likely I was going to spend it in a freezing cold jail cell (did I forget to mention the temperature was bone-chilling?) in Brooklyn. That thought utterly crushed me.

Indeed, I did spend another night in the 79th precinct. By 10 PM, just as the Yankee game was wrapping up on a small television outside the cell, everyone in the room--prisoners and officers--knew I was missing a paid-for, booze-soaked getaway to the Caribbean. At one point, either to console me or to shut me up, an officer told me that my missing the trip was an act of divine intervention, that I wasn’t supposed to go, because everything happens for a reason. “Something terrible would have happened to you,” he warned.

I won’t expand upon the hellish details of my second night behind bars, nor will I bore you with details of my release, only to say that it happened at 10 AM on Saturday morning, and that it was the single greatest moment of my life. As for the trip, the destination was in fact the Iberostar resort at Montego Bay in Jamaica, not St. Maarten. The second I got in front of a computer, I wanted to put myself through the masochistic torture of seeing what kind of shitshow I missed out on, so I checked out Jet Mystery on Twitter. The seafood spread alone made me cringe. Oh well. But then this morning, a coworker arrived at the office and revealed shocking news: mild tragedy had struck the revelers in Montego Bay. Last night at their White Party (a theme I wasn’t particularly looking forward to) something like a 20-foot light scaffolding fell onto the dance floor, injuring those below it. One man broke his collar bone, and no one else was seriously injured, thankfully. Now I am the last person to believe in cosmic rationalizations like destiny, karma, and divine intervention, but really? When I get drunk, which I like to do, I head straight to the dance floor for maximum belligerence and prick-like dancing, and I’m convinced I would have been popping and locking directly underneath that light fixture, flying back to New York in a body bag. So, to the NYPD officers of the 79th precinct--thanks, I guess?