DuckBites

Welcome to Oakland / Goodbye Sweet Chevrolet

Imagine this scene, you're from San Jose, California, and you're looking for the the Federal building in Oakland to get some paperwork from the Veteran's Administration office.

As you pull off interstate 880 in your 1996 Chevrolet pickup, you take a
wrong turn somewhere. You're not familiar with Oakland, having avoided it
for years. As you get twisted around in the city, you notice that you're not
exactly in the best part of town.

Getting a little nervous now, you start searching for somewhere to get
directions. At a stop light, a nice new white BMW pulls up next to you. You
roll your window down, and make motions asking the driver of the 'Beemer' to
do the same.

He does so, and you ask for directions to get out of this area of town. The
driver mumbles something unhelpful, and speeds away. Flummoxed, you pull
over to the side of the street (nervously) to consult your map. You ensure
you doors are locked.

As you're rotating the map, and alternately looking for a street sign, you
notice in your rear view mirror a police cruiser pull up behind you.

Waves of relief wash over you, as you assume that you will finally be given
some aid by Oakland's finest. You open your door and you step out of the
car, with the map in one hand, your keys in the other. Then you notice that
the lights are flashing on the cruiser.

A loud bullhorn yells: "Get back into the truck! NOW!"
"What's the matter?", you ask.
"I SAID GET BACK INTO THE TRUCK. NOW!!"

You get back into the truck, confused. Oh well, maybe it's procedure or
something for officer safety. You roll your driver's window down.

Now what? You need to ask directions, but you can't do that in the truck.
Hmm, guess I should wait for one of the policemen to approach.

You look at your right side mirror, and notice the passenger door of the
police car open, and an officer steps out. He puts his hand on the butt of
his service firearm. At the same time, the driver gets out and, with hand on
his pistol, and walks toward your truck.

"Put your hands out the window so I can see them!", yells the second
officer.
"What's the matter? What's going on?", you yell.
"I SAID PUT YOUR HANDS OUT THE WINDOW SO I CAN SEE THEM!! NOW!"
You follow the instructions. The officer approaches closer. You start
babbling.

"I'm SO glad you're here, officer! I got lost looking for the Federal Office
building. I have no idea where I am, and I really need directions to get
there. I'm not from Oakland, I'm from San Jose. Do you know the way?" You
wince at your choice of words.
"Tell it to the judge", says the second officer.
"Judge? What judge?", you stammer.
"Shut up! Open you door with your right hand, and step out of the truck,
please."
"What's going on? You just told me to get back into the truck!? Why am I
being treated this way?"
"I SAID SHUT UP AND GET OUT OF THE TRUCK!!", screams the cop.
You reach down to the latch inside the car to open the door.
The cop screams "KEEP YOUR HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!!"
You jerk your hand up. The cop jerks his weapon out of its holster.
"FREEZE".
You freeze.
On the other side of the truck, the first officer appears in your passenger
window, pistol pointing at your head.
"What's going on? Why are you treating me this way?", you ask.
"SHUT THE F*** UP!!"
"I SAID GET OUT OF THE F***ING CAR!"
You don't move, you don't speak. This doesn't make any sense. You Ove done
nothing wrong. Two cops have their weapons pointed at your head. You can't
open the door without moving. But if you move, the cop screams at you.
Behind you, the first cop speaks into his radio. You hear some static and a
voice, but can't determine what was said.
"WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?", screams the second cop. "I TOLD YOU TO
OPEN THE DOOR AND GET OUT OF THE TRUCK."
You finally bleat "You told me to keep my hands up. How can I open the door
if my hands are in the air?"
"WHAT ARE YOU? SOME KIND OF WISEASS?"
"Huh?"
"OPEN THE DOOR AND GET OUT!"
You don't move. Your mind isn't functioning too well. Dimly you're aware of
sirens and screeching tires as two more police cruisers scream onto the
scene. Four new officers, with four new guns pointed at your head.
The next few minutes are a blur. As if an indifferent third party observer,
you see yourself dragged out of your truck and smacked to the pavement. A
hard pressure is on your head and neck, and you feel hands all over your
body.
Next, the metallic chink, and feel of shackles on your wrists. You're lifted
up, and stumble, as your bad left knee gives way. You hear cursing as you're
half dragged to a cruiser and thrown into the back seat.
You hear a newsreporter and sense the heat and light of a video camera
through the window. You look away from the harsh light because it hurts your
eyes.

Fast forward 18 hours.

You're in court, talking to a judge. Someone you don't know is speaking on
your behalf. You plead not guilty to something, and are given bail. You are
handed a bunch of papers, you have to sign some of them. The helpful
stranger - who you find out is your public defender - tells you where to
sign.

Fast forward 4 hours.

You wait outside the jail for your wife of 24 years. She sounded very
distant on the phone. You've been growing apart for some time, but there was
always a sincere mutual affection. You have an uncomfortable feeling as you
stand there amidst malodorous tramps, hookers, and lots and lots of police
officers.
The smell of urine is so pronounced it is making you queasy.

Fast forward 2 hours.

Your wife is still not there. What's up? You call your friend Bill, and ask
him to get you out of there.

Fast forward 2 hours.

Bill finally shows up, "Traffic was bad", he says.
He looks at you and says, "Ted, you look like hell! What happened? I saw you
on the news last night! Mayor Jerry Brown was interviewed, and was saying
something about cleaning up Oakland, and then they cut to YOU in a police
car looking away from the camera!"
"Wh-What?", you stutter. "I didn't DO anything! I got lost, and was asking
the cops for directions, and THIS happens! I can't figure out what the hell
is going on!"
Bill shrugs. "All I know is Cindy and Becky were talking a lot today. Cindy
says Becky is very upset. I gotta tell you, Cindy and I had a fight after
you called. She said that if I picked you up, I'd be endorsing your
actions."
"What actions?", you wail. "What did I DO? ALL I DID WAS GET LOST IN
OAKLAND!"
"Whoa, don't yell at me! I'm helping you here, right?"
"Sorry Bill, I'm shell shocked."
"Is that true? You weren't trying to score a prostitute? Or drugs?"
"No Bill. I got lost in the wrong part of town. And they wouldn't let me get
my truck back. It's been confiscated by the City of Oakland." Sigh.
"So how much to get it out? Can we get it now?", Bill asks.
"Nope, it's not impounded. I can't get it out until this is all resolved.
It's not even paid for! All my tools are in the back, too!". You start to
feel even more depressed. You didn't think that was possible.
"But you haven't done anything wrong! You haven't even been convicted of
anything. They can't do that, can they?", Bill asks.
"I don't think so. But all I know right now, is that I don't have my truck,
or my tools. I can't work without them. And Becky's mad at me, and I didn't
even do anything".
Bill says, "I'm sure it'll be ok. They'll see it's all a big mistake."
"Yeah, right."


Fast forward 15 days.


Judge: "All charges have been dropped, bail will be returned. You're free to
go Mr. Donally."
"Thank you your honor," says your public defender.
You sign a bunch of paperwork, and ask the clerk, "Who do I see about
getting my truck back?"
"I don't handle that, sir. Check with the impound division." She hands you a
slip of paper with a number and address on it.
You call the number. After waiting on hold for over fifty minutes, you
finally talk to someone.
"Yes sir, 1995 Chevy Pickup Extended cab. Red. Yes, we had it here."
"Great, where do I go to pick it up?", you ask.
"It's not here, sir. It has been turned over to be auctioned off at the next
police auction."
"Auctioned off? My truck?? Wait a minute! I didn't get convicted of
anything! I just got out of court, and they dropped all the charges!".
"I don't know anything about that, sir. I just see what it says on my
computer."
"But, but, who do I talk to about this? This isn't right!"
"I don't know, sir. I just know my screen says it's been turned over for
auction."
Click.

Fast forward 78 days.

The crowd is getting bored, most of the stuff has been junk. But you never
know, maybe something interesting will show up.
The loudspeaker pipes up:"Item number 32188. 1995 Chevrolet Pickup, King
cab. 39, 233 miles. Red. Start the bidding at $500.00 do I hear $500?"
The crowd perks up, the truck is in excellent shape. Obviously cared for by
its previous owner. It finally sells for $3300 to a used car dealer from
Sacramento, who has picked up five other cars so far today.

Fast forward, 11 days.

As you check you mail at your lonely apartment, you notice a bill from your
former bank. Opening it, you see:

Past Due Notice'.

You sigh. Only 10 more payments to go.



Copyright © 2000 by Neil Alexander All rights reserved.