by Norm Stamper
At five o’clock Wednesday morning, having established a “police perimeter” to keep demonstrators from getting too close to the WTO venues, officers observed people carrying crowbars, rocks, masonry hammers, and bipods and tripods (from which to suspend intrepid activists high in the air, in the middle of intersections). The cops confiscated what they could and began arresting the first bunch of the hundreds who would be jailed that day. Against a backdrop of full-scale urban rioting, police officers and Secret Service agents escorted our national leader and his entourage from one venue to another—from the Westin to the Bell Harbor Conference Center on Elliott Bay to the Four Seasons Hotel. Officers continued to take a pelting but POTUS was never touched.
By mid-morning the ACLU filed for a temporary restraining order in U.S. District Court seeking to overturn the “police perimeter.” A police commander had to break away from his duties to summarize the department’s defense of the tactic, but it paid off. The court denied the request. (As if the demonstrators were paying any attention at all to the so-called “no protest zone.”)
All that day and into the night, with action shifting once again to Capitol Hill, cops fought the fight, ducking often as protesters chucked unopened cans of soup and other objects. A platoon commander’s car was surrounded by a fun-loving crowd that jumped up and down on the vehicle, then attempted to flip it over. (The lieutenant, who had himself been an antiwar demonstrator at the University of Washington back in the days, told me later, “I’ve been on every kind of call there is, Chief. But I’ve never been more scared than I was that night. I thought sure they were going to pull me out of the car, grab my gun, and . . . and who knows what.”) Officers dispersed that group with gas and rescued their boss.
Moments later an employee at a gas station on Broadway called 911 to report that the station had been taken over by rioters who were filling small bottles with gasoline. One officer witnessed an individual dressed in black carrying a Molotov cocktail. A crowd of three hundred to four hundred broke off from the Broadway festivities and moved to the 1100 block of East Pine where they threatened to take over SPD’s East Precinct.
At two-fifty Thursday morning the precinct was still under siege, the crowd having grown to somewhere between a thousand and fifteen hundred. The officers protecting it were no longer surprised by the pelting they took, or by the infinite variety of projectiles.
A combination of chemical agents and rubber pellets finally secured the peace. The building, which contained weapons, injured police officers, and prisoners, was never breached.
Downtown at dawn was much quieter than it had been the past two days, a portent of positive things to come. Clinton flew out of town at ten, and the “no protest” perimeter was shrunk. A crowd circled King County Jail at about one in the afternoon (triggering a lockdown), but other than that it was peaceful. Most of the violent demonstrators were either in jail, lying low, or scurrying out of town. As day turned to night the crowd continued to hang around the jail, listening to speeches from protest leaders, criminal defense attorneys, and other activists. At seven-thirty they split up, half of them sticking around, the other half, under police escort, heading up to Capitol Hill where they continued their mostly peaceful ways.
On Friday, the final day of the now-truncated WTO conference, the drama ended. (If the demonstrators had been shouting “Truncate it! Truncate it!” instead of “Shut it down!” they would have achieved their goal.) All that remained of the protests was a hastily negotiated, legally sanctioned march by organized labor. It drew a decent crowd, maybe eight hundred to a thousand, but by then the focus had shifted from the WTO to claims of police brutality and to condemnation of the curfew and the perimeter. At its conclusion the marchers headed back to the Labor Temple.
A hundred or so of them broke from the group, marched over to Fifth Avenue, and swarmed the main entrance to the Westin—did they think POTUS was still inside? (Protesters earlier in the week had effectively made hostages of a furious Secretary of State Madeline Albright and U.S. Trade Representative Charlene Barshefsky—both of whom were unable to leave their hotel rooms for the better part of a day.) Several of the demonstrators chained themselves to the front door of the hotel. It was a lame tactic—the Westin had other obvious entrances but there were too few protesters left to cover those doors. I walked into one of those other entrances and took the elevator to the twenty-first floor where a suite had been set up for officers assigned to dignitary protection at the hotel. I helped myself to a bottled water and walked over to the window. It was dark outside. A good-size crowd had gathered to cheer on this last hurrah. We could hear the muffled chants from behind the thick glass. A couple of hours later, the chains came off and what was left of the crowd either went home or over to the jail to shout words of encouragement to their imprisoned brothers and sisters. The riot was over.
Saturday, December 4. I made one last round of the still-operating venues, stopping finally at the MACC where I informed the deputy mayor I that I was turning in my badge.
My decision made headlines. And a Horsey cartoon which had the chief of police falling on his sword. Its caption: “I figured I’d do it myself before someone did it for me.”
It took great self-discipline for me not to blurt out publicly what I thought of the mayor. But had I done it, it would not have been for the things the mayor was being accused of (hubris, naïveté, lack of foresight—all of which, if it fit him, also applied to me). In fact, I strongly believe that Schell got a raw deal for his role in the battle. It just wasn’t his fault, any of it. The guy wasn’t a cop, or a tactician, or a “demonstration management” expert. Hell, he’d only been a politician for two years. But the mayor had acted the fool on other fronts, and it was those occasions that had riled me. First and foremost were his reckless remarks to and about Sheriff Reichert.
Riding around at the height of the rioting with King County Executive Ron Sims, Reichert had observed an act of vandalism. Telling Sims he’d seen enough, he bailed out of the car and gave chase. He didn’t catch the suspects, but his actions produced a satisfying sound bite on the evening news—and endeared him to my cops, who had plenty of other reasons to favor the county lawman over their own chief.
As the mayor and the sheriff walked out of a hall following one of Clinton’s speeches, Schell cornered Reichert. He told him he didn’t appreciate the sheriff “acting like a fucking hero out there,” or words to that effect. He blocked Reichert’s path, and continued to berate him. The sheriff ignored the mayor, and pushed past him. Schell, always the gentleman, shouted after him, “I’ll personally destroy you!” The many witnesses to the mayor’s actions were not impressed.
After the dust had settled, Schell presided over a special cabinet meeting. He praised all the city departments who’d played any kind of a role during the week (especially the crews who’d cleaned up around Westlake Park over the weekend and made downtown sparkle once again). He thanked us for our personal sacrifices, and so on. It was a gracious statement. Then he said, “You know, everyone did a terrific job under incredible stress. Everyone except our lunatic sheriff.”*
I cornered the deputy mayor after the meeting, Schell having scooted off. “I’m sick and tired of your boss’s character assassinations.” I told her he was acting like a “narcissistic sociopath,” and urged her to put a muzzle on him.
“I know, I know,” she said. “He’s been under such pressure . . .”
It wasn’t that I didn’t understand. The week had taken a personal toll on everyone. I, myself, had gone home to my condo in the middle of the night, four nights in a row with only enough time to shower, air out my gas-saturated uniform, and try to squeeze in a couple of hours’ sleep. Bone tired, I found it next to impossible to get to sleep. Some nights I could still hear the whoop-whoop-whoop of Guardian One, the sheriff’s helicopter I’d ridden in with the governor in order to get an eagle’s-eye view of the proceedings. As with a song you can’t get out of your head, I’d be wracked by a rerun
of the day’s other noises: drums, police whistles, chants, screams, rocks landing on police helmets and on the face shields of our horses, dueling bullhorns, glass shattering. I replayed over and over in my mind the frantic radio call of one of my mounted officers as the cop reported being pulled from his horse. I’d responded to that one, Code 2, turning onto Pine Street just in time to catch a faceful of CS gas.
With eyes shut I saw Technicolor images of bipods and tripods, looters, Dumpster fires, intersection bonfires. I saw cops being baited and assaulted. And I saw a cop kicking a retreating demonstrator in the groin before shooting him in the chest with a rubber pellet. That particular scene, caught by a television camera, was flashed around the globe, over and over, Rodney King–style.
Then there was the cop who, spotting two women in a car videotaping the action, ordered one of them to roll down her window. When she complied, he shouted, “Film this!” and filled their car with mace.
If Paul Schell wasn’t responsible for this mess, who was? I was. The chief of police. I thought we were ready. We weren’t. I thought protest leaders would play by the rules. They didn’t. I thought we were smarter than the anarchists. We weren’t. I thought I’d paid enough attention to my cops’ concerns. I hadn’t. All in all, I got snookered. Big time.
To this day I feel the pangs of regret: that my officers had to spend long hours on the streets with inadequate rest, sleep, pee breaks, and meals, absorbing every form of threat and abuse imaginable (including, for a number of officers, a dose of food poisoning, from eating vittles that had been sitting out all day); that Seattle’s businesses were hurt during the rampaging; that the city and the police department I loved lost a big chunk of collective pride and self-confidence; that peaceful protestors failed to win an adequate hearing of their important antiglobalization message; and, yes, that Paul Schell’s dream of a citywide “dialogue” had been crushed.
When I think back to that week in 1999, which I do probably too often, one event stands out. It’s three in the morning. I’ve just walked into my darkened condo on Lower Queen Anne.
I check for phone messages. There’s only one. I’m sure it’s from one of my cops. Friendly and jovial on Day One, the officers had joked with me, shown off their new equipment, passed along compliments they’d heard from protesters. But this was Day Three, and now they were shooting me nasty looks. Why?
Word had spread through the ranks that I’d answered “yes” to a reporter who wanted to know if I’d seen any police conduct that disturbed me. Well, I sure as hell had, and I wasn’t about to lie about it. That I’d lavishly praised the sterling performance of my officers at a string of press conferences made no difference to many of my cops. I’d broken an important provision of “the Code.” Like the Republicans’ “Eleventh Amendment,” police officers are not to speak ill of one another—even if one of them has assaulted an unarmed, retreating demonstrator. Or maced innocent women.*
I punch in the code and retrieve the message. It’s not from a cop, after all. It’s from a friend. A doctor friend I have dinner with several times a year. I sigh. Thank God, I can use a little support right about now.
“I can’t believe what I’m seeing on TV,” says the friend’s voice, dripping with venom. “Your cops are worse than the fucking Gestapo. I’m totally repulsed that you’re allowing this. You’re a sorry, miserable excuse of a human being and I’m appalled that you’re our chief.”
But at the end of the week there was this: My cops hadn’t killed anyone. Given fatigue, provocation, and ample legal justification to employ lethal force on numerous occasions, they’d held their fire. The Battle produced not a single death (and fewer than a hundred injuries, the most serious of which was a broken arm).
The Battle of Seattle was an important event in the history of American social and political protest. Whereas ten years ago a thousand people might have shown up to protest the WTO, there were fifty times that number on the streets of Seattle in the fall of ’99. I believe that’s a testament not only to the power of the Internet (which has all but replaced posters on fences, campus leafleting, and telephone trees as the primary means of organizing and mobilizing protest) but also to broad, intense antiglobalization sentiment and to a deep mistrust of our government’s policies. Witness the awesome numbers of protesters who took to the streets locally (as well as globally) to protest America’s invasion and occupation of Iraq.*
Seattle was, in the end, just too damned small to pull it off. If you’re thinking about hosting such an event you need to be able to count your cops in the thousands or tens of thousands, not hundreds. Hell, the city wouldn’t have had enough cops had we called in every officer in the state.
We learned many lessons from the Battle, foremost of which are: (1) line up as much help in advance as you possibly can, then find more; (2) plan for “force multipliers” (i.e., volunteers), but don’t become overreliant on them; and (3) keep demonstrators at a much greater distance from official venues. No matter how much they bitch about it.
And finally, my gift to every police executive and mayor in cities the size of Seattle’s: Think twice before saying yes to an organization whose title contains any of the following words: world, worldwide, global, international, multinational, bilateral, trilateral, multilateral, economic, monetary, fiscal, finance, financial, fund, bank, banking, or trade.
* A folksy missive from the mayor to thousands of Seattleites, inside and outside government, issued as events dictated or inspiration struck. His opponents accused the mayor of using “Schell Mail” to advance a political agenda—particularly with respect to mayoral dreams (including re-election), programs, and budget requests. As one of his cabinet members, I found the Schell Mail messages informative.
* From everyone, that is, but Tacoma. Their chief sent a letter declining to ante up any officers. I tracked him down at a DV conference. “We really could use your help, James.” James: “We’re short-handed.” Me: “Aren’t we all, aren’t we all. But this thing could really blow up on us.” James: “I’ve got my own city to police.” Me: “But we’re always there for you, James. Sure you won’t change your mind?” James: “No.” Me: “Well, that really blows.” James: “But if things get out of hand up there you can count on us.” Thanks, James. Thanks a bunch.
* One of my answers at one of the press conferences would infuriate my cops, but that wouldn’t come until later.
* In a script that could have been written by Joseph Heller, Joiner had asked in advance that the National Guard be placed on alert. We can’t do that unless a state of emergency exists. But we’re trying to prevent a “state of emergency.” Well, we can’t mobilize unless a state of emergency exists. Can’t you just have your people standing by, say, in Kent or SeaTac? Nope. Have your emergency first, then give us a call.
* Running a Bush “Mini-Me” campaign—support for the war in Iraq, opposition to reproductive rights, support for a constitutional amendment banning gay marriage, opposition to federally funded sex education, support for oil drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, opposition to stem-cell research—the “lunatic” won election in November 2004 to the eighth Congressional District from Washington.
* In neither of these incidents was a Seattle police officer involved. The “kicker-shooter” belonged to Tukwila PD, the “macer” was Reichert’s. Both agencies responded immediately, taking their cops off the streets—and later imposing stiff penalties.
* Prediction: With the reelection of George W. Bush and the continuation of his foreign policies, America’s cities will experience wave after wave of street protests, with demonstrations that could rival or exceed the scope and intensity of the antiwar movement of the sixties and seventies.
CHAPTER 29
COMMUNITY POLICING: A RADICAL VIEW
“WE’RE REALLY INTO COMMUNITY policing,” said an East Coast police chief at a conference in the late 1990s. “We’ve got cops on bicycles, on foot, on horseback, even ATVs.” What, no skateboards?
&
nbsp; Although two thirds of all police departments claim they are engaged in “community policing,” most of them practice nothing more than an arid, cynical form of public relations. Real community policing is predicated on the potentially frightening notion that people in a democracy have the right and the authority to act on their own to make their communities safe. And to hold their police accountable for helping them do so. Community policing is the community policing itself.
In chapter 26, I mention a community meeting I attended when I was San Diego’s assistant chief. Called on a day’s notice and held at Rick’s, a gay bar on University Avenue, the place was packed. The agenda? Public safety—and anger and fear following the slaying of a seventeen-year-old kid as part of a vicious gay-bashing spree by skinheads. Introduced first, I outlined the mugging series and provided details on the murder. I thought I was doing a terrific job—sensitive to cultural issues, forthcoming on the facts of the homicide, encouraging people to work with us to help solve the crimes. But, from the back of the room came the loud, grating voice of a man who had a less high opinion of my talk. “Look, Chief. Here’s how it is . . .” The room went silent as heads turned toward the speaker—a short, muscular, middle-aged man in a red tank top. “If you don’t catch these assholes, we will.”
I opened my mouth to give the speech I’d given hundreds of times: Whoa, now, mister. You don’t want to resort to vigilantism. Don’t put yourself in harm’s way—or violate the civil liberties of your fellow citizens. No, this is the one part of community policing you want to leave to the pros. Now, if you’ll just work with us . . . But my jaw snapped shut as my brain registered the hypocrisy of what I was about to say.
I’d been professing since the early seventies that we were the “people’s police,” that the police in America (unlike so many other places around the globe) belong to the people—not the other way around. Yet, here I was about to inform “the people” that they must let us, the police, take care of everything—or at least take the lead. The people had no right to take to the streets, to reclaim their own neighborhood.