The James Tripp Blogs: 2014

Thursday, December 25, 2014

Tuesday, December 09, 2014

Monday, June 16, 2014

Tuesday, June 10, 2014

Thursday, June 05, 2014

Thursday, February 20, 2014

On February 18, 2014, I was walking home on Martel Avenue in Los Angeles, CA heading north from an acting class at my union at 5757 Wilshire Boulevard at about 10:30 or 11:00 pm, which I’ve been doing for fifteen years. At Santa Monica Boulevard, Martel becomes Plummer Park for a block, and I proceeded. As I entered the park, I noticed there was a Sheriff’s patrol car idling to the right of the path that cut through the park. As I passed the vehicle, the Sheriff nodded to me and I nodded back. Once I passed, the Sheriff started inching towards me on the path. I thought he wanted to move on to the path, which was paved and wide enough for a vehicle. I stopped, stepped off the path, and waved for him to pass.

He didn’t want to pass. He stopped. He didn’t say anything. When I could see that he didn’t want to get on the path, I got back on and started walking again. As far as I could tell, I was proceeding into the park with his permission. He started following me again, exhibiting predatory behavior. What I did not know, and what the Sheriff did not tell me, was that the park closed at ten.

When I started walking again, the Sheriff pulled up next to me and began asking me questions. He did not say why he was asking me questions. The Sheriff didn’t tell me the park was closed because he wanted me in the park to create probable cause to “stop and frisk” me. He was corrupting the law for his own unconstitutional purposes. He had two opportunities to tell me the law, but he didn’t want me to know the law.

“Where are you going?” He asked.

“Home,” I said.

“Where’s that?”

I told him the name of the street.

Then he asked me another question. I can’t tell you what it was. He was violating my fourth amendment rights. I had stopped listening. He repeated the question. He had not identified any probable cause to question me. This was an unconstitutional “stop and frisk.” I ran.

Why did I run? I hadn’t really done anything, but it’s been my experience, after living in Los Angeles for over twenty years, that innocence or guilt really doesn’t matter. In Los Angeles, you’re either a policeman or a suspect. Not all, but a lot of the police in Los Angeles are just bullies with badges. West Hollywood Sheriffs start out as county prison guards, and some regard everyone as their prisoners. They do their job if you’re guilty, but they do the same job if you’re innocent, because everyone is their prisoner. To them, the City of West Hollywood is an extension of the county jail.

I did not have the intent to run. I just found myself running. It was an involuntary reaction to a perceived danger. I’ve been traumatized by the police in Los Angeles. I did not feel safe. Running was instinctual.

The Sheriff later told me he profiled me because I had long hair and was wearing a long coat. He was convinced I had drugs. But while he was profiling me, I was profiling him. The last time I got “stopped and frisked” by the West Hollywood Sheriff’s Department, the Sheriff got friskier than a TSA agent.

During this “stop and frisk,” I was sexually assaulted. It was more of a “stop and molest.” My civil rights weren’t the only thing being violated. During this “stop and frisk,” the Sheriff asked me a series of questions that were similar to the questions the Sheriff in the park was asking. I was wearing a back-pack and he asked to search it. I let him. I was also wearing a penis and he asked to search that, but not in those words. He said, “I’m going to frisk you now.”

When he put his hand in my left pocket, he went right. He was fondling me long enough to know I didn’t have testicular cancer. The West Hollywood Sheriff’s Department had a new slogan that day: “to protect and service.”

Once I had escaped the danger in the park and crossed Fountain Street, I stopped running and resumed my path on Martel. As I said, it was a fight or flight panic response. When I felt safe again, I stopped running. It was a flashback to a sexual assault by a West Hollywood Sheriff.

About three quarters of the way down this block of Martel, between Fountain and Sunset, the West Hollywood Sheriff’s patrol car from the park pulled up next to me in a screeching halt. The Sheriff jumped out of his vehicle and seemed extremely emotionally distressed.

I remained still. The Sheriff grabbed my right arm from behind and pushed me towards the back hood of the nearest car. He said, “Move to the car and stand up against it.” He pushed me down on the hood. I broke the fall with my left hand. A second Sheriff had arrived and he told me to spread my legs.

At this point other Sheriffs were arriving. Eventually there would be up to ten Sheriff’s patrol cars swarming the street. They parked across both lanes with their lights flashing and shut down traffic.

While one Sheriff held my right cuffed arm behind my back, the one from the park was on my left side and he had his hand around my wrist. He said, “Put your left hand behind your back.”

I was suffering from a long standing painful injury in my left shoulder. I had already scheduled a doctor’s appointment regarding it for the following Tuesday. I said, “I have a shoulder injury.”

He then emptied half a bottle of pepper spray into my eyes, onto my glasses, my face, my hair, and my clothes. He then repeated his order: “Put your left hand behind your back.”

The fact that he had assaulted me with half a can of pepper spray did not change the fact that my shoulder was in pain. I said, “I have a shoulder injury.”

He emptied the rest of the can into my eyes, on my glasses, my face, my hair, and my clothes. Then he grabbed my arm and put it behind my back anyway, which he could have done without emptying a can of pepper spray into my face. I never resisted. This was just something he wanted to do. I’m sure if he had more pepper spray, he would have asked me again. This is what bullies do. It’s what thugs and cowards do. It’s what the police in America do to subjugate the population.

For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure of being assaulted by your local police, when you are assaulted with pepper spray, you are immediately blinded. Mucus glands are stimulated to try to relieve the body of the alien chemical combination that has attacked their host. My eyes teared up and my nose started to run.

They already had me in cuffs so I said, “Is somebody going to wash these chemicals out of my eyes?”

One of the Sheriffs, I couldn’t tell you which one because I was blinded, said, “The fire department is coming. They’ll wash it out.” This seemed reasonable. The fire department often administered first aid and there was a station a couple of blocks over.

Chemical weapons are frowned on in warfare, but I say kudos to the West Hollywood Sheriff’s Department for not reading the Geneva Convention. They’re still working on the Constitution, particularly Amendments IV and XIII.

I was thrown into the back seat of the patrol car and the doors and windows were closed. Not even a window was cracked, which a civilized person wouldn’t do to a dog, although they might do it to a squirrel in the park after ten.

The thing you should know about pepper spray in an enclosed space is that it recirculates and intensifies. It does not dissipate. The Sheriffs knew this. They were deliberately torturing me, which is a violation of the eighth amendment.

To further exemplify this violation of my eighth amendment rights, the back seat door on the driver’s side opened up, and one of the Sheriffs sat next to me, I assume it was the punk from the park, although, through his amazing grace, I was blind and could not see. He proceeded to ask me a series of questions culminating with, “Were you in the park?” He was essentially questioning me under torture to get me to say I was in the park after ten.

I answered his first couple of questions, which I do not recall---either the questions or the answers. My senses were still reeling from the shock and awe of the police swarm and the gas attack. It’s very much like what happens to the memory in an accident. The purpose of shock and awe is to stun and traumatize. I told him, “I cannot make a statement in this condition.”

At no time during my incarceration was I read my Miranda rights. They just kept saying over and over again that I was a drug dealer. “Where are the drugs? People who look like you usually have drugs!”

I said, “I’m just a citizen,” which became my mantra throughout the booking process. “I’m just a citizen!”

Profiling is not probable cause. Any spider can catch a fly if it spins a web.

The longer I remained in the car, the more torturous the recirculating gas became. We must have remained in that area for over an hour. As I said, the Sheriffs swarmed. They were probably canvassing the area for the stash they thought I had dropped. They were stupid, but they were honestly stupid. They couldn’t fathom why anyone would run from a “stop and frisk.” ‘Don’t you like to be molested?’

At one point two Sheriffs got in the front seat, I couldn’t say who because I was still blind, and they taunted me for being handcuffed in the confines of the back seat of the patrol car with recirculating gas. “Gee I’d hate to be in here. It smells like pepper in here. I’d hate to be in here.” They were like a couple of giggling stupid high school jock bullies.

So being the only adult in the car, I said, “That’s real nice guys. Mock me. That’s very professional.”

This flustered them. After all, I’m a fifty-two year old man and these were children---punks with guns, tazers and pepper spray. They acted like punks, punks who had been caught. They tried to act like they were talking about something else: “Ooh, this pepper candy is hot.”

“Yea, pepper candy.” They jumped out of the car.

At some point another Sheriff opened up the front door and stuck his head in and I repeated my request to have my eyes washed out. “A medic is coming,” he said. No medic was coming.

At another point I wanted to kick out one of the windows, but that would not have helped my situation. All I could do was scream and that is what I did. It wasn’t a scream to accomplish anything. It was not a call for help, it was a venting.

The screaming didn’t do anything, so I decided to pretend I was having a seizure. If I pretended to have a seizure, they’d have to open the doors and let in some fresh air. I pretended to have a seizure. They didn’t open the back door or crack the windows. At one point, a Sheriff stuck her head in the front door and said, “Are you all right?” I didn’t respond. Nobody opened the back door or rolled down a window.

After a short interval, I pretended to have a second seizure with similar results.

I asked for a third time for someone to wash the pepper spray out of my eyes. I was still blind, so I couldn’t tell you who said, “You can wash it out when you get to the station.”

I said, “That’s great. You bring the disease, but you don’t bring the cure. That’s very professional.” This became my second mantra.

After being tortured in the back seat for an hour or more, the Sheriff got in the car and took me to the West Hollywood Sheriff’s jail for processing. I asked to wash the pepper spray off, but they told me I could wash it off when I was put in a cell.

I got put in a holding area while the arresting officer interviewed me from behind a glass barrier. He said I was lucky it wasn’t before the Rodney King beating because then they would have beaten me. The Sheriff who processed my release gave me a similar warning that I was lucky I wasn’t beaten---typical bully behavior.

They put me in a cell and I tried to wash off the pepper spray with no success. There was a tiny push button cold water sink that was set up to be more of a drinking fountain. Trying to wash off the chemical just reactivated it. They would not let me take a shower until the next afternoon, shortly before they released me. I had to sleep on my back. If I slept on my face or side, I would just be inhaling the pepper spray. It was freezing in the unheated cell and I couldn’t use my coat because it had been doused in the chemical.

I grew up in a different America. I doubt if Thomas Jefferson, George Washington, James Madison or Benjamin Franklin ever envisioned a country where the state regularly molests citizens, whether in “stop and frisks” or the TSA. This is what occupying armies do. This is how you terrorize a population into submission. Maybe we should amend the third amendment to include “no officer of the law shall molest the citizens.”

Perhaps my interpretation of the constitution is out of fashion, but if it doesn’t come back, this country will not last long. I acted like a citizen with constitutional rights. The West Hollywood Sheriff’s Department acted like I was a prisoner in their county jail. I’m a citizen, not a suspect, or a prisoner. I am a free man. My rights are unalienable and not granted by the state.

The West Hollywood Sheriffs are a protected criminal class of prison guard thugs. They have no regard for the constitution or civil rights. They are the Hells Angels at Altamont. I was assaulted, mugged, tortured and kidnapped and my property was destroyed. I now have a record and my fingerprints are on file because I was walking home through a public park.

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Saturday, February 01, 2014

The Toll

FADE IN:

EXT. TOLL BOOTH - DAY

GOVERNOR CHRIS CHRISTIE, wearing a TOLL COLLECTOR UNIFORM, is packed snuggly into an undersized booth. He is talking to DRIVER NUMBER ONE.

CHRISTIE

Are you gonna vote for me?

DRIVER NUMBER ONE

No.

CHRISTIE

Are you gonna vote for me?

DRIVER NUMBER ONE

No.

CHRISTIE

Are you gonna vote for me?

DRIVER NUMBER ONE

Yes.

CHRISTIE

You can pass.

Christie raises the TOLL GATE and Driver Number One advances. DRIVER NUMBER TWO takes his place.

DRIVER NUMBER TWO

What's the toll?

CHRISTIE

Is that a Bruce Springsteen CD on

your car seat?

DRIVER NUMBER TWO

Yes.

CHRISTIE

That's your toll. I like to listen

to Bruce when I workout.

Driver Number Two reluctantly gives it to him. Christie raises the toll gate and Driver Number Two advances. DRIVER NUMBER THREE takes his place.

CHRISTIE (CONT'D)

I see you have a lot of garbage in

your front seat there. Your toll to

cross the bridge is to award the

contract to remove that garbage to

a mutual acquaintance of a friend

of this administration's, whose

name you do not need to know.

Driver Number Three nods.

CHRISTIE (CONT'D)

You can pass.

Christie raises the toll gate and Driver Number Three advances. DRIVER NUMBER FOUR takes his place.

CHRISTIE (CONT'D)

Business is booming!

DRIVER NUMBER FOUR

Hey, how come only one lane of

traffic is open?

CHRISTIE

I'm the tollbooth operator, putz.

I'll ask the questions. Everybody

answers to me. That's why there's

one lane, dummy.

DRIVER NUMBER FOUR

What's the toll?

CHRISTIE

You have to endorse me.

DRIVER NUMBER FOUR

What? I'm late for work.

CHRISTIE

You're late, huh, bozo? Well, guess

what happens if I don't raise this

gate? One lane becomes no lane. Now

do you want to pay the toll?

DRIVER NUMBER FOUR

(Reluctantly)

I endorse you.

Christie isn't sure he's sincere.

DRIVER NUMBER FOUR (CONT'D)

You have my full support.

CHRISTIE

You can pass.

Christie raises the toll gate and Driver Number Four advances. DRIVER NUMBER FIVE takes his place. There is a PASSENGER eating a JELLY DONUT.

DRIVER NUMBER FIVE

What's the toll?

CHRISTIE

I see your friend there is eating a

gelatinous jelly donut.

DRIVER NUMBER FIVE

Yea. That's right. What's the toll?

CHRISTIE

You know, most people buy a dozen

when they get donuts.

DRIVER NUMBER FIVE

That's right. We bought a dozen

donuts. What's the toll?

CHRISTIE

The rest of those donuts. I just

finished my workout.

DRIVER NUMBER FIVE is dumbfounded. He reluctantly gives Christie the BOX OF DONUTS.

CHRISTIE (CONT'D)

You can pass.

Christie raises the toll gate and Driver Number Five advances. DRIVER NUMBER SIX takes his place. He hands Christie a piece of paper.

CHRISTIE (CONT'D)

I haven't told you what the toll

is.

DRIVER NUMBER SIX

That's a subpoena. You should read

it.

Christie opens the notice and reads it.

CHRISTIE

You must be an idiot to serve this

to me.

Christie lowers a gate behind Driver Number Six's car.

CHRISTIE (CONT'D)

Now do you see what you've done?

You made me close the whole bridge.

This is on you. Everybody's gonna

know it was you! And I was gonna

give you a donut.

Christie leaves the booth, closes the door, remembers something, opens the door, gets the donuts, closes the door and places a SIGN on it that says: "Bridge Closed." Driver Number Six is left trapped in his car, unable to move.

FADE TO BLACK.