PERSECUTION AND PROSECUTION

     2AM, Monday November 8, 1999. Highway 50 was barren. I headed east at a steady 60 miles per hour. I had spent the last few hours at a noisy, smoke laden nightclub and was eager to get home. I had just passed the intersection where 50 intersects Forsyth when I spotted a Florida Highway Patrol Officer traveling westbound. Unfortunately he also spotted me. I watched the cruiser make a U-turn and activate its lights in my rearview mirror. 

     On those rare occasions when a police officer pulls me over, I try to find a well-lit area to stop at, partially for the officer's piece of mind but mostly for my own safety. My car came to rest in front of the Circle K on the southwest corner of Highway 50 and Chicasaw. Things went poorly from the start. The corn-fed Cro Magnon patrolman approached my window irate. He accused me of taking too long to pull over and implied that I had flirted with the idea of evading him. I calmly tried to explain that I would not have slowed down, activated my turn signal and moved to the far right lane if I had not intended to cooperate. My words fell on deaf ears.

     What followed went way beyond the usual "license and registration." Every question was an interrogation, every statement an accusation. In a classic witch-hunt scenario, I was bombarded with questions about everything from my where I lived to what I did for a living. No degree of cooperation was sufficient to ease the officer's troubled mind. My patience quickly reached the point of exhaustion. I asked the officer flat out what his problem was. He announced his suspicion that I was driving while intoxicated. He claimed that I had, "An odor of alcoholic impurities" on my breath. I was skeptical since I had consumed only one cocktail that night some three hours earlier. His suspicion became a foregone conclusion when he saw the neon nightclub band around my wrist. If the officer would have shut up long enough for me to respond I would have informed him that wristbands were compulsorily issued to all patrons of Orlando’s Have a Nice Day Café who were 21 and over and was therefore indicative of age not alcohol consumption.

     He disappeared into the darkness to run my license. I was not overly concerned since I had no outstanding warrants and no criminal history whatsoever. In fact, my last speeding ticket was six years prior. When he returned he instructed me to step out of my car and stand inert. I did. He then returned to his patrol car where he did God knows what for an interminable period of time. When it dawned on me that he was doing his best to waist my time I made myself comfortable by leaning against my car. The officer immediately stormed back to my vehicle furious that I would have the audacity to lean when he had instructed me to stand! He took an unnecessarily aggressive posture that included putting his face centimeters from mine. He stood so close that even in the darkness I caught a glimpse of the tiny words on his nametag: OFFICER CROY. He began roaring at me like a drill sergeant which caused me to instinctively fall back against my Toyota, at which time he accused me of being too drunk too maintain my balance. Later he would write that I was "swaying back and forth" in his arrest report. Croy then commanded me to run the gamut of awkward, unnatural movements known as the roadside sobriety test. I cooperated, confidant that my performance would satisfy the test's criteria and that the ordeal would soon be over (To my astonishment Officer Croy recorded my performance scores on the palm of his hand). Without elaboration Croy assured me that I failed the RST. He instructed me to turn around and place my left hand behind my back. I tried to remain calm by telling myself that this was just another test of my motor skills until I felt the cold constriction of handcuffs around my wrists.

     I was placed in the cruiser's back seat, my wrists searing from the sharp steel and my arms being crushed by my body’s own weight. I noticed that the cruiser's video camera (which had recorded the traffic stop in its entirety) was tightly trained on my car with no background or foreground visible. Officer Croy had deliberately moved me out of frame while performing the roadside sobriety test to leave no record of my performance. 

     In direct conflict to the pattern of harassment and persecution which he had exhibited and would continue to exhibit as the night drew out, Officer Croy allowed me to phone some friends to request that they pick up my car rather than incur the expense of having it towed. My friends were fast asleep and my call went unanswered. In another gesture completely uncharacteristic of his behavior that night, Officer Croy spoke with the Circle K's attendant and got permission to stow my car in the parking lot overnight.

     I arrived at a D.U.I. testing center on Orange Blossom Trail in Apopka and was immediately fitted with a waist chain like a violent felon. Over an hour after being taken into custody Officer Croy gave me the opportunity to contact a lawyer. However, when I began making in-depth inquires about my right to counsel I was verbally intimidated and no information that is not compulsory under the Bill of Rights was made available to me. Like most naïve Middle Americans placed in the same situation would do I remained certain that innocence would serve as a viable defense against criminal charges and foolishly chose not to retain an attorney. 

     Under the watchful eye of a video camera I consented to a Breathalyzer exam. I blew with Poseidon’s fury into a black machine vaguely resembling an old typewriter. The machine emanated a high-pitched whistle attesting to my satisfactory performance. After the first reading, Officer Croy and the Breathalyzer technician conversed in hushed tones. I was instructed to blow into the box a second time. Again the whistle vouched for my cooperation. Again hushed whispers passed between Officer Croy and the technician. Without any explanation of my right to consent or decline I was asked to submit to a urinalyses exam. Continuing my pattern of blind faith in due process I consented. I was led into a bathroom, and with one hand cuffed to my arresting officer I urinated into a receptacle. From there I was led into a holding cell roughly the size of an elevator. From inside the tiny cell I overheard a conversation between Officer Croy and the technician who administered my Breathalyzer, "He blew twice, the machine beeped both times, I'm not gonna make him take it again." The technician was refusing Croy’s request to administer the Breathalyzer test to me a third time. Shortly afterward I would come to understand why.

     Still confined in handcuffs I was again loaded into the back of Officer Croy's cruiser. Once inside the vehicle he begrudgingly informed me of the results of my Breathalyzer exams, .000, a reading indicating no alcohol in my bloodstream whatsoever. I responded by asking him if I had been given the urinalyses exam under the assumption that if I was not inebriated by alcohol I must have been intoxicated with narcotics. He affirmed.

     I entered the cold, concrete depths of Orlando’s 33rd street correctional facility. I was patted down, fingerprinted and had my mug shot taken. My personal possessions were tagged and bagged like trinkets at a garage sale. The staff made it clear that questions were unwelcome. I was instructed to remove the laces from my shoes and be seated in a holding cell slightly smaller than a sarcophagus. Later I would learn that shoelaces were routinely confiscated to prevent suicide attempts. The first thing I noticed when I entered the cell was a large pool of dried blood on the floor. I shut my eyes and tried not to imagine how it got there.

     From there I was deposited into the spacious confines of the largest holding cell in 33rd Street Correctional. However, sharing the cell with twenty other detainees negated the spacious effect. I placed another phone call to my friends Josh and Nicole that went unanswered. When the last inmate had been admitted and the dilapidated iron door slowly shut itself for the last time, the reality of my situation sunk in: drunk or not I was going to spend the night in jail. Since all of the cell’s first-come, first serve concrete benches were occupied I was left with only one option if I wanted to get some sleep. I laid down on the filthy linoleum floor, removed my shoes and rested my weary head on their hard, soiled leather.

     At 10 AM the rusty, red door rolled open and my name was called. My bond had been posted. Early Monday morning shortly after waking, my friends had heard my messages and high-tailed it to the jail to bail me out. I signed some papers and my possessions were returned. I was given copies of all necessary documents and a notice to appear. At precisely 20 minutes past 10AM on November 8, I walked out of Orange County Correctional a free man again. 

     The very next day I went to the University of Central Florida’s Student Legal Services. I retained a criminal attorney who took my case pro bono. If I had had to hire an attorney at my own expense it would have meant the end of my college career. A full-time college student with enough money to pay a bond, a lawyer and his rent all in the same month is a very rare breed.

     In desperate need of employment to replenish my exhausted coffers I went job hunting. I attended a job fair at Universal Studios and applied for a part-time valet attendant position. I was informed that all prospective hires were required to submit to a background check. Rather than risk having it uncovered I came clean about my arrest. Despite previous employment at the park and a spotless driving record, I was told that until the case against me was legally resolved I could not and would not be hired. 

     Shortly after the Christmas my lawyer received a letter from the State's Attorney informing him that my case had been declared a Nollo Prosequi (Latin for "will not prosecute.") This was the state's coy and cowardly method of avoiding having to admit that its case against me was a farce. It turns out that my urinalysis came back as clean as my Breathalyzer leaving the prosecution no choice but to drop the charges against me. The Clerk of the County Courts assured me that my bond would be mailed to my residence in approximately three weeks. One month later my bond had yet to be returned. I was told that the State Attorney's office had failed to send the Clerk of County Courts the proper documentation authorizing the remittance of my bail money. I contacted the prosecutor's office who would only discuss the matter with my attorney. When my attorney called he was told that the matter was resolved and the check was in the mail. Four more weeks passed and my mailbox was still empty. I called the Clerk of the County Courts again and was told that the State Attorney still had not sent the paperwork authorizing the return of my bond. At last a kind-hearted anti-beauracrat at the Clerk’s office took pity on me. She made a special arrangement permitting me to personally provide the Clerk's office a copy of the missing document.

     I never claimed that I wasn't speeding, not then and not now. I did not go to traffic court, I did not hire a traffic attorney, I paid my ticket and attended traffic school. I don’t have a problem with being suspected of DUI by a police officer whose duty it is to keep the streets safe, but even after I provided proof to refute the allegations against me the prosecution continued to the point of constituting harassment. In the United States a defendant is still innocent until proven guilty. 

     I have speculated about the real reason why Officer Croy had it out for me from the second he stopped me, and why he insisted on unlawfully detaining me even after evidence arose attesting to my innocence. My best guess is that he harbored the disdain for "know-it-all, queer, commie college boys" typical of Mid Western and Bible Belt types. Or maybe he just had a bad day and when the shit rolled downhill I happened to be at the base of the mountain.

     But in all fairness to Officer Croy, the gestures of kindness he made towards me that night he made on his own volition. He could have had my car towed as is the norm during a DUI arrest. An average towing fee is about $100. Additionally, Florida has a statute stipulating that an impounded vehicle whose owner is arrested for DUI must remain impounded for no less than five days. At $100 a day, well, you do the math. 

     Still, several questions remained unanswered; what restitution would I receive for the humiliation I felt while being cuffed and stuffed into the back of a cop car? What recompense would I receive for the night I spent in a concrete cage? What compensation would I receive for having my $500 frozen in bail for 3 months during which time I was forced to rely on the charity of friends and family to eat and pay my rent? How would I explain to my family that despite having the case against me dropped, my fingerprints, my face, and my father's last name would remain recorded in the FBI's crime lab file for the rest of my life? With a $12,500 civil lawsuit against the Florida Highway Patrol, that's how.

EPILOGUE

     I wish I could close this narrative by saying that I was compensated for my ordeal with a handsome monetary settlement. I wish I could write that I was vindicated in some way for my injury and the numerous insults I endured afterward, but both of those statements would be incongruent with the non-fictional nature of this discourse. The fact of the matter is that it took an entire year for this matter to be completely resolved. In that time I spent countless hours on hold with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, countless hours at the courthouse, and countless hours filling out numerous costly forms and applications that each took several weeks to be processed. I was also dismissed from another job I had been at for only two weeks when a background check uncovered the record of my arrest. That incident made it obvious that if I did not exercise my expungement option the surreal events of that night would continue to complicate my life for years to come.

     An expungement is a legal process whereby a person who has been convicted of a criminal offense has the records of that offense made unavailable to non-governmental investigative bodies and the general public. Citizens of the United States are afforded one per lifetime. I was forced to use mine to erase the record of what the court ultimately conceded I did not do in the first place. I was even required to pay a $75 to have it done.

     I am not an opportunist. I have nothing but disdain for people who use civil courts to profit from simple misunderstandings, bad luck and tragedy. But I did not deserve what happened to me that night, and when abuse of authority goes unpunished it tends to get worse. As I saw it, $12,500 was merely adequate compensation for an arrest, a night in jail, being turned down by one employer and dismissed by another, the utilization of my expungement, and the year of time, expense and trouble that followed. Besides, $12,500 was only an asking price, my lawyer and I expected that figure to be negotiated down to the insulting sum of $4,000, possibly as little as $3,000. Believe it or not, there was a time when I would have settled for an apology from Officer Croy or the state’s attorney had either person offered me one, but when the state attorney’s office refused to treat me with the least bit of empathy – after I had been cleared of any wrongdoing – I vowed to exact vengeance.

     And just when I was starting to believe that I might emerge victorious in this chronology’s coda, my lawsuit suffered a crippling blow it never recovered from. One otherwise innocuous afternoon my attorney called to inform me that he was moving to another state and would be unable to continue working on my case. My civil action was remanded to square one. Over the next couple of months I wasted more time and energy submitting my case to a half dozen lawyers who truly deserve the negative stereotypes that all lawyers are unfairly branded with. None of them found it profitable enough to pursue.