 an animal rights activist's account of failed justice |
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There I was, sitting in Kenosha County Jail, a hardened criminal All right, I wasn't quite hardened, and the criminal part had yet to be proven, but indeed I was in Kenosha County Jail, sitting on the ugly blue mat that'd been issued to me along with sheets and a plastic-coated pillow by a scowling guard. And there I sat, silently rehashing the last few hours and trying to make sense of the events that led me from my comfortable apartment in Chicago to a grimy cellblock in Wisconsin. Picking hard blue flakes off my mat, my mind wandered back a few months to a seemingly ordinary day in July, a day that unbeknownst to me laid the groundwork for what would turn out to be a labyrinthine and strangely illuminating journey through our country's criminal justice system. For the past few years, my husband John and I had been going to the Renaissance Faire when it came to Bristol, Wisconsin, which is about an hour's drive north of Chicago, just past the Illinois border. This past August when we went, there were the usual craft booths and gainfully employed actors wandering about in period costumes, but about halfway through our visit something strange in the distance caught my attention, stranger than the sight of 16th century-style Midwesterners traipsing around carefully managed Wisconsin fairgrounds. What I saw was a large grey movement in my peripheral vision, and as I turned to focus, my heart sank in recognition: in a small fenced-in area strewn with straw, there were two elephants and a camel taking children on lackluster rides within the confines of the pen. That was the end of the Renaissance Faire for us. We waited in Ye Olde Customer Service booth for a manager or administrator to talk to for over two hours. During that time, I saw a flyer advertising a show that was coming to the fairgrounds in the fall, a "wild west rodeo". I put the flyer in my pocket, and, later, when we were finally talking to two of the Renaissance Faire managers, I made certain to mention our disappointment that they were bringing another such atrocity to Bristol. I offered to supply them with educational materials, but they respectfully declined. They felt that they couldn't back out of their contractual obligations at that late of a date. In all, though, the meeting went well: we were able to have an open dialogue, there were no threats or sarcastic comments, everything was kept in an honest and compassionate realm. I felt like we may have made real progress at stopping the animals from having to return next year.
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We anticipated that it'd be a fairly straight-forward protest, winding down in an hour or two. How wrong we were. |
You wouldn't want this done to you So then October came around. I was working with a friend of mine from SHowing Animals Respect and Compassion (SHARK) to organize protest against the rodeo and contact the local Wisconsin media. To be honest, we were a bit negligent about properly promoting it, and just a few days before it was to happen, we almost called it off because we had fallen so far behind. The only reason why I mention this is that all the events that were going to transpire that day came close to not happening. John, my friend Kelly and I drove up to Wisconsin in the same car, and we anticipated that it'd be a fairly straight-forward protest, winding down in an hour or two. How wrong we were. When we arrived in Bristol, we met up with some other activists from Chicago who were there for the protest. Donna from SHARK was going inside to do undercover videotaping of the rodeo, and she gave me an electric cattle prod to show the media, in case anyone showed up. She also leant me a book of photos of horses and bulls that had been burned, scarred, and crippled, many by the very same rodeo company that was putting on the "wild west show" in Bristol. There were eleven activists on the side of the road leading to the parking lot of the rodeo, and there was a group of police officers standing together in the lot about 100 yards from us. We had a few unused megaphones, so I took one, and when cars started pulling into the parking lot I would say, while displaying the cattle prod up in the air, "This is 5000 volts of electricity - this is what they use on the animals in the rodeo. You wouldn't want this done to you". If there were children in the car, I'd say something like, "You're paying for them to torture animals inside those gates. Is that the message you want to send to your children?" We weren't there more than three or four minutes when a police officer rushed over to us, and, addressing me, bellowed "Put that weapon down on the ground and step away from it!" I did what he said. I thought that would be the end of it, that he would confiscate the cattle prod, but instead he took me by the arm, made me stand against the squad car while he frisked me, handcuffed me behind my back and made me get in the back seat. It all happened very quickly but somehow in slow motion at the same time. |
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About 10 minutes later, I was still sitting in the car and the arresting officer, Deputy Klinkhammer, was standing outside, skimming through his book to see if I had actually broken any law.
I was no longer myself; I was suddenly in a bad TV movie of the week, and this was amusing to me.
I think she was still bewildered by the end of this little exchange, but then again, I was the meat-shunning weirdo who was brought in with a megaphone and a cattle prod; what should she have expected? |
I knew I was gonna get her on something About 10 minutes later, I was still sitting in the car and the arresting officer, Deputy Klinkhammer, was standing outside, skimming through his book to see if I had actually broken any law. I'll never forget the sheer delight in his voice as he looked up from his violations book and shouted out to his cronies, "All right! I knew I was gonna get her on something... And it's
a felony!" Once inside, I was fingerprinted, had my mug shots taken, and changed in front of a guard into my dark blue prison uniform. Since I'd never been through this whole drill before, I have to admit that I was a little mesmerized by the whole thing. I was no longer myself; I was suddenly in a bad TV movie of the week, and this was amusing to me. One of the last things I had to do before I was led away was answer questions from a woman in a bullet-proof office area, who read them with an indifferent, yet slightly hostile tone off her computer screen. Most of the questions were predictable (what is my address, did I have a police record), and some were more personal (was I HIV positive, did I feel suicidal). One question, and my answer, did elicit snickers and sideways glances from the cops and office workers who were stationed in the with my questioner: Did I have any dietary restrictions. Even though I knew that I wasn't going to eat anything they gave me, I still responded that I did not eat animals or animal products. I wanted them to hear the word "vegan". The question just happened to be asked while they were ordering pork sandwiches and burgers off a menu, so there were a few moments of awkward silence and self-conscious grins following my response. Another strange moment was when the office woman asked me whether I was married or single. When I told her I was married, she asked what my maiden name was. I told her it was the same that was on my driver's license, Rose. Slightly annoyed, she said, "No, that's your married name. What was your maiden name?" I replied that it was the same, Rose. She decided that talking to me like I was an uncomprehending 2-year-old might penetrate my obviously addled brain. She sighed, and slowly she asked, "Okay... what was your last name on your birth certificate?" "Rose". She was growing ever-flustered, "What's your husband's last name?" "Beske". "So your last name's Beske", she said as she began to type. "No, it's Rose. My maiden name is also my married name - I didn't change it". I think she was still bewildered by the end of this little exchange, but then again, I was the meat-shunning weirdo who was brought in with a megaphone and a cattle prod; what should she have expected?
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I trudged along, dragging my heavy mat behind me, convinced that if I took an accidental step that strayed from the line, a sharpshooter would appear out of nowhere, bringing an end to my short, relatively happy life.
"How do you consider turkey to be meat?!" she demanded. "It's poultry, it's not meat!" |
The entertainment center of cellblock "O" From there I was taken down a hallway to the holding cell. That's where they put anyone who is waiting to be "processed", whether one is waiting to go before a judge, or waiting to be brought to a cellblock. The layout of the room appeared to be constructed by the set designer of "Midnight Express": it was a dank, dark cell behind a large locked door, probably 8'x8', with a dirty, blacked-out window facing the hallway, two narrow metal benches on either side, and a very conspicuous toilet in back. Because the window was covered, sounds from outside the holding cell became the only focus: the heavy clanging as the main door to the hall slammed shut, guard's voices as they walked down the hallway, and the shrill siren of my confiscated megaphone, as correctional officers entertained themselves in the office. Finally, probably a half hour after I'd been put in the holding cell, I heard keys jangling, and the door opened. A guard casually unlocked the door and told me to walk out into the hallway. In the hallway, there was a mat, sheets, blanket and pillow waiting for me. The guard said, "It's easiest to put everything else inside the mat, fold the mat in the middle and pull it along with you". Once I did that, she gave me further instructions: "Follow me down the hall, walking along the yellow line". I looked down, and indeed there was a chipped yellow line for me to follow. I trudged along, dragging my heavy mat behind me, convinced that if I took an accidental step that strayed from the line, a sharpshooter would appear out of nowhere, bringing an end to my short, relatively happy life. Halfway down the hall, we stopped at a door which, when the guard unlocked it, led to a small vestibule where she led me to another door. Once inside this door, which was a tiny area between the cellblock and the door to the vestibule, the guard briefed me in a manner as though she was giving directions to an annoying tourist: "This is your cellblock. There aren't enough beds to sleep on, so you'll have to sleep on the floor. When you go inside, walk along the side of the hall until you reach the TV room. Put your mat against the wall facing the guard's station. Lights out at 10 pm, there will be no leaving your bed after that. Lights on is at 6 am, and you can shower up until 8:00. You are expected to keep your area neat, and your bed must be made in the military style by 8 am. The rules are taped against the window." I remember just nodding my head numbly. The reality of everything was finally settling down like sediment. I walked down the short, narrow hall as the guard instructed, thinking: This is one of those defining moments. As the cellblock door clanged shut behind me, I walked past four open jail cells and five women, all with varying shades of brown skin, who were crouched around a jigsaw puzzle set up on the floor of the hall. I clumsily hoisted my mat up to avoid messing up their puzzle, and continued on my short path to a little square area where there was a TV attached to the wall, and a metal picnic table bolted to the concrete floor. There was also a horribly smudged, barred window that looked out on the parking lot. This was the entertainment center of Cellblock O. For the first few hours I stayed very quiet. I didn't want to draw attention to myself, and, because every movement and sound is magnified in the close quarters of jail, I remained very still, not straying from my mat, as though it was a safety zone. I was also lost in thought. The little black and white television played continuously, from an infomercial for a miracle saw to a syrupy drama about a minister and his family, until I noticed through the window that the grey afternoon had turned into evening. In the meantime, three of my cellblock mates continued working on the puzzle while two others moved on to play cards on the picnic table near my bed. They picked puzzle pieces and drew cards wordlessly. The only sound came from the television. The first real interaction with anyone happened when the guard brought dinner. I wasn't familiar with the ritual, and I was so caught up in my mind, that I didn't realize anything was happening. The other woman who also had to sleep on the floor, Chiffon, looked over to me as she rose from her card game and told me it dinner time. I followed her down the hall where all six of us stood, receiving our sealed boxes of food as the guard slid them through an opening in the door. Out of curiosity, I asked what it was I was being handed. The guard told me it was a turkey sandwich. I told her that I'd give it to someone else, I didn't eat meat. She got angry and defensive: "How do you consider turkey to be meat?!" she demanded. "Well, it's the flesh of a dead animal", I said simply. "It's poultry, it's not meat!" (I wish I could pretend that the guards and police officers I met in Kenosha were more three-dimensional than this, but they were every bit as abrasive and rude as I am relating. Guards did shout and scowl at me and others continually; I know it sounds like a cartoon or parody, but it's unfortunately true.) As I was walking away from the door, I could hear one of the women in my cellblock say, "That guard's nuts. I can't believe she doesn't know that turkey's meat". I gave my food to Chiffon; she was pregnant.
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As John picked up on the first ring, a robot-like electronic voice said, "Do you accept the charges from Kenosha County Jail inmate?" |
Johnny, you gotta get me out of the clink The next morning, as soon as the phones turned on at 8:30, I called John in Chicago. I didn't call him the night before because, having all my jail experience informed only by movies and television, I thought I received but one phone call, and I didn't want to waste my call before I knew when I would go before a judge for my bond hearing. When the guard pushed breakfast trays through the opening in the door at 7:00 that morning, she informed me that another guard would come to collect me around noon. I was nervous as hell, hoping against hope that John had managed to find me a lawyer in such a short amount of time. I dialed home. As John picked up on the first ring, a robot-like electronic voice said, "Do you accept the charges from Kenosha County Jail inmate?" John immediately screamed, "Yes!" My first words were, "Johnny, you gotta get me out of the clink." John and two of my friends had spent most of the night on the telephone, trying to call anyone who could possibly help us. At the time we talked, he hadn't found a lawyer yet, but he had some leads and had left many messages with people. The call from jail was only good for five minutes, and John assured me that he would try his hardest to get me a lawyer, and that he would be in the courtroom when I went before the judge. The next few hours were agonizingly slow. At about 12:30, I was brought to the holding cell again, to wait to talk to a public defender. In case John hadn't found me a lawyer, I wanted to have someone else lined up. Once again inside the hideous holding cell, I waited and waited with another woman also trying to get a public defender to work for her. She was a Mexican woman from Chicago who spoke virtually no English. She'd been in jail for three days and was terrified. She was talking to me in Spanish, crying and desperately trying to communicate. Through my limited understanding of Spanish, I understood that her troubles involved something to do with the car she was driving, but I didn't understand much beyond that. When we were finally brought the room with bullet-proof glass separating the lawyers from inmates, the guard told her to sit on one of the chairs and me to sit on another, but the Mexican woman had trouble understanding her. Rolling her eyes, the guard pointed to a chair and said, "If ya don't understand English, get out of the country!" I sat down in front of my designated public defender. I picked up the phone to talk on the other side. Again, I was hopelessly adrift in a bad movie. Primarily the public defender asked me financial questions: what was my income? What was my husband's income? What valuables did we own? After concluding her series of questions, she announced that she couldn't represent me because we made too much money. I was shocked; I thought everyone had the right to a public defender. She told me that this wasn't so. When I asked her what would happen if my husband couldn't find a lawyer for me, she sort of shrugged and said that I'd have to defend myself. I felt the concrete floor of the jail swallow me full: I was in deep trouble. I was brought back to my cellblock, and the others asked me about what happened with the district attorney. When I told them I was denied representation, the general consensus was that I wouldn't be offered bond. I was hungry, exhausted, I felt dirty, I missed my husband, I missed my bed, and I'd only been in jail overnight. The span of time between my conversation with the attorney and when I would go before the judge seemed interminable. I was struggling very hard not to lapse into negativity and depression, so I just sat on my mat and tried to concentrate on being peaceful. One of the guards had said that they were running behind schedule, so I had no idea when I'd be taken to the courtroom. I just sat on my ugly blue mat, hoping, praying and trying to maintain some semblance of composure. Finally, about an hour or two after I'd be brought back to my cellblock, a guard came by the barred door. She called out "Rose!" and I scrambled for the door. End of Part One.Look for Part Two in the coming weeks. |
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