On the Run: Fugitive Life in an American City by Alice Goffman Page B
Authors: Alice Goffman
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initially expressed anger at the authorities,
not the man, and promised to support him and protect him while he was hunted. In part,
I think these women understood how easy it was to get a warrant when you are a Black
young man in neighborhoods like 6th Street; they understood that warrants are issued
not only for serious crimes but for technical violations of probation or parole, for
failure to pay steep court fines and fees, or for failure to appear for one of the
many court dates a man may have in a given month. 5 A second and related reason for women’s anger is that the police have lost considerable
legitimacy in the community: they are seen searching, questioning, beating, and rounding
up young men all over the neighborhood. As Miss Regina often put it, the police are
“an occupying force.” A third reason is more basic: no matter what a woman’s opinion
of the police or of the man’s actions, she loves him, and does not want to part with
him or see him subjected to what has been referred to as the pains of imprisonment. 6
Riding is easy to do in the abstract. If the authorities never come looking, a woman
can believe that she will hold up under police pressure and do her utmost to hide
the man and protect him. So long as the threats of police pressure and prison are
real but unrealized, a woman can believe in the most idealized version of herself.
The man, too, can believe in this ideal version of her and of their relationship.
A few days after Tommy received the notice from family court, he went to the police
station and turned himself in. The police never came to question Aisha. They did come
for Miss Regina’s son, Mike.
WHEN THE POLICE COME
I’d spent the night at Miss Regina’s house watching
Gangs of New York
with Mike and Chuck for maybe the hundredth time. I had fallen asleep on the living
room couch and so heard the banging in my dream, mixed in with the title page music,
which the DVD played over and over.
The door busting open brought me fully awake. I pushed myself into the couch to get
away from it, thinking it might hit me on the way down if it broke all the way off
its hinges. Two officers came through the door, both of them white, in SWAT gear,
with guns strapped to the sides of their legs. The first officer in pointed a gun
at me and asked who was in the house; he continued to point the gun toward me as he
went up the stairs. I wondered if Mike and Chuck were in the house somewhere, and
hoped they had gone.
The second officer in pulled me out of the cushions and, gripping my wrists, brought
me up off the couch and onto the floor, so that my shoulders and spine hit first and
my legs came down after. He quickly turned me over, and my face hit the floor. I couldn’t
brace myself, because he was still holding one of my wrists, now pinned behind me.
I wondered if he’d broken my nose or cheek. (Can you break a cheek?) His boot pressed
into my back, right at the spot where it had hit the floor, and I cried for him to
stop. He put my wrists in plastic cuffs behind my back; I knew this because metal
ones feel cold. My shoulder throbbed, and the handcuffs pinched. I tried to wriggle
my arms, and the cop moved his boot down to cover my hands, crushing my fingers together.
I yelled, but it came out quiet and raspy, like I had given up. My hipbones began
to ache—his weight was pushing them into the thin carpet.
A third cop, taller and skinnier, blond hair cut close to his head, entered the house
and walked into the kitchen. I could hear china breaking, and watched him pull the
fridge away from the wall. Then he came into the living room and pulled a small knife
from its sheath on his lower leg. He cut the fabric off the couch, revealing the foam
inside. Then he moved to the closet and pulled board games and photo albums and old
shoes out onto the floor. He climbed on top of the TV stand and pushed the squares
of the
not the man, and promised to support him and protect him while he was hunted. In part,
I think these women understood how easy it was to get a warrant when you are a Black
young man in neighborhoods like 6th Street; they understood that warrants are issued
not only for serious crimes but for technical violations of probation or parole, for
failure to pay steep court fines and fees, or for failure to appear for one of the
many court dates a man may have in a given month. 5 A second and related reason for women’s anger is that the police have lost considerable
legitimacy in the community: they are seen searching, questioning, beating, and rounding
up young men all over the neighborhood. As Miss Regina often put it, the police are
“an occupying force.” A third reason is more basic: no matter what a woman’s opinion
of the police or of the man’s actions, she loves him, and does not want to part with
him or see him subjected to what has been referred to as the pains of imprisonment. 6
Riding is easy to do in the abstract. If the authorities never come looking, a woman
can believe that she will hold up under police pressure and do her utmost to hide
the man and protect him. So long as the threats of police pressure and prison are
real but unrealized, a woman can believe in the most idealized version of herself.
The man, too, can believe in this ideal version of her and of their relationship.
A few days after Tommy received the notice from family court, he went to the police
station and turned himself in. The police never came to question Aisha. They did come
for Miss Regina’s son, Mike.
WHEN THE POLICE COME
I’d spent the night at Miss Regina’s house watching
Gangs of New York
with Mike and Chuck for maybe the hundredth time. I had fallen asleep on the living
room couch and so heard the banging in my dream, mixed in with the title page music,
which the DVD played over and over.
The door busting open brought me fully awake. I pushed myself into the couch to get
away from it, thinking it might hit me on the way down if it broke all the way off
its hinges. Two officers came through the door, both of them white, in SWAT gear,
with guns strapped to the sides of their legs. The first officer in pointed a gun
at me and asked who was in the house; he continued to point the gun toward me as he
went up the stairs. I wondered if Mike and Chuck were in the house somewhere, and
hoped they had gone.
The second officer in pulled me out of the cushions and, gripping my wrists, brought
me up off the couch and onto the floor, so that my shoulders and spine hit first and
my legs came down after. He quickly turned me over, and my face hit the floor. I couldn’t
brace myself, because he was still holding one of my wrists, now pinned behind me.
I wondered if he’d broken my nose or cheek. (Can you break a cheek?) His boot pressed
into my back, right at the spot where it had hit the floor, and I cried for him to
stop. He put my wrists in plastic cuffs behind my back; I knew this because metal
ones feel cold. My shoulder throbbed, and the handcuffs pinched. I tried to wriggle
my arms, and the cop moved his boot down to cover my hands, crushing my fingers together.
I yelled, but it came out quiet and raspy, like I had given up. My hipbones began
to ache—his weight was pushing them into the thin carpet.
A third cop, taller and skinnier, blond hair cut close to his head, entered the house
and walked into the kitchen. I could hear china breaking, and watched him pull the
fridge away from the wall. Then he came into the living room and pulled a small knife
from its sheath on his lower leg. He cut the fabric off the couch, revealing the foam
inside. Then he moved to the closet and pulled board games and photo albums and old
shoes out onto the floor. He climbed on top of the TV stand and pushed the squares
of the
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