with the
conduct of your official duties, we have a right peacefully to gather and observe
the proceedings.
People v. Baldwin
. Supreme Court, 1984.”
Both cops were silent.
“My father argued it,” the third-year said. “He is now United States deputy attorney
general.”
“I don’t give a damn what your daddy does,” said the cop. But it was clear that he
did.
“Oh, I concur with that sentiment exactly, Officer. I only mention it because he lives
right here in Old Town, and if you will allow me to, I can call him and have him here
within just a few minutes so he can give you not only the cite to
People v. Baldwin
, but he can bring the published opinion, show you where—”
“You’re already interfering with our official duties,” the cop said. But lights were
going on in the homes lining both sides of the street, and out of the corner of my
eye I could see the cop swinging his head from one lighted house to another. This
was not what he had anticipated. He knew even better than we did that anyone could
be living in Old Town: Supreme Court justices, cabinet officers, elected officials.
It was that kind of place.
The cop got off me altogether, pushing down with his hand on my shoulder harder than
was necessary as he stood up. I stayed where I was and waited to see what would happen
next.
“With your permission, Officer,” the third-year student said, “I would like to have
one of my colleagues attend to Ms. Bettinelli, who appears to be in some danger. My
colleague is an Army medic who served in Bosnia.” He pointed to a rather dazed-looking
fellow with short hair. “And if you would prefer not to have him approach her, then
we really should call the EMTs. In fact”—he pulled out a cell phone—“I can do that
right now, if you wish.”
Roy hesitated. From my position on the ground, the left side of my face in the dirt,
what I saw was a pack of drunken law students. Roy must have seen it differently.
He said, “You got a medic, send him over.”
The dazed guy lurched forward in a relatively straight line, dropped down onto one
knee, gently turned Marion’s head, and then used his thumb and forefinger to apply
pressure to the sides of her mouth to force it open. I was lying right next to him.
I didn’t see anything but teeth. “There’s signs of vomitus,” he announced gravely.
“She’s got to get to a hospital.”
“That’s where I was taking her,” I called out in a sudden wash of inspiration.
“Oh, gosh,” said the third-year, and everyone was quiet for a moment as if contemplating
the dangerous possibilities of this traffic stop.
“She still has a pulse,” shouted the erstwhile medic as if he had done something miraculous
to discover it.
“Cyrus,” ordered the cop in charge, “see if there’s vomit.”
Cyrus, who had made it back to the patrol car, returned to Marion, reconnoitered a
position where he could get down on his hands and knees and move his head between
hers and mine, got down so low his head was on the grass and his hat fell off, and
tried to peer into her mouth. His picture got taken in that posture, too.
“Oh, God, Cyrus,” said the other cop, “sit her up, would you?”
Cyrus and the student each took Marion under the shoulder and twisted her and rolled
her until they could hold her torso in some semblance of a right angle to her legs.
There was no sign of vomit on her lips, her chin, her sweater, at least none that
I could detect. There was, nevertheless, a round of murmurs from the gathering of
students. It grew stronger until the cop, perhaps thinking that none of this was going
to be worth the effort of filling out forms and making court appearances, not to mention
responding to media and department inquiries, gave up. “All right,” he said without
bothering to look himself, “I’ll accept what you’re saying. Go. Take her to the hospital.
But,” he added,
conduct of your official duties, we have a right peacefully to gather and observe
the proceedings.
People v. Baldwin
. Supreme Court, 1984.”
Both cops were silent.
“My father argued it,” the third-year said. “He is now United States deputy attorney
general.”
“I don’t give a damn what your daddy does,” said the cop. But it was clear that he
did.
“Oh, I concur with that sentiment exactly, Officer. I only mention it because he lives
right here in Old Town, and if you will allow me to, I can call him and have him here
within just a few minutes so he can give you not only the cite to
People v. Baldwin
, but he can bring the published opinion, show you where—”
“You’re already interfering with our official duties,” the cop said. But lights were
going on in the homes lining both sides of the street, and out of the corner of my
eye I could see the cop swinging his head from one lighted house to another. This
was not what he had anticipated. He knew even better than we did that anyone could
be living in Old Town: Supreme Court justices, cabinet officers, elected officials.
It was that kind of place.
The cop got off me altogether, pushing down with his hand on my shoulder harder than
was necessary as he stood up. I stayed where I was and waited to see what would happen
next.
“With your permission, Officer,” the third-year student said, “I would like to have
one of my colleagues attend to Ms. Bettinelli, who appears to be in some danger. My
colleague is an Army medic who served in Bosnia.” He pointed to a rather dazed-looking
fellow with short hair. “And if you would prefer not to have him approach her, then
we really should call the EMTs. In fact”—he pulled out a cell phone—“I can do that
right now, if you wish.”
Roy hesitated. From my position on the ground, the left side of my face in the dirt,
what I saw was a pack of drunken law students. Roy must have seen it differently.
He said, “You got a medic, send him over.”
The dazed guy lurched forward in a relatively straight line, dropped down onto one
knee, gently turned Marion’s head, and then used his thumb and forefinger to apply
pressure to the sides of her mouth to force it open. I was lying right next to him.
I didn’t see anything but teeth. “There’s signs of vomitus,” he announced gravely.
“She’s got to get to a hospital.”
“That’s where I was taking her,” I called out in a sudden wash of inspiration.
“Oh, gosh,” said the third-year, and everyone was quiet for a moment as if contemplating
the dangerous possibilities of this traffic stop.
“She still has a pulse,” shouted the erstwhile medic as if he had done something miraculous
to discover it.
“Cyrus,” ordered the cop in charge, “see if there’s vomit.”
Cyrus, who had made it back to the patrol car, returned to Marion, reconnoitered a
position where he could get down on his hands and knees and move his head between
hers and mine, got down so low his head was on the grass and his hat fell off, and
tried to peer into her mouth. His picture got taken in that posture, too.
“Oh, God, Cyrus,” said the other cop, “sit her up, would you?”
Cyrus and the student each took Marion under the shoulder and twisted her and rolled
her until they could hold her torso in some semblance of a right angle to her legs.
There was no sign of vomit on her lips, her chin, her sweater, at least none that
I could detect. There was, nevertheless, a round of murmurs from the gathering of
students. It grew stronger until the cop, perhaps thinking that none of this was going
to be worth the effort of filling out forms and making court appearances, not to mention
responding to media and department inquiries, gave up. “All right,” he said without
bothering to look himself, “I’ll accept what you’re saying. Go. Take her to the hospital.
But,” he added,
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