officers of the vice squad, specializing in narcotics, happen to be directly behind him in an unmarked, dark green Chevrolet as he runs a red light and turns left at the intersection of Mt. Olivet Road and West Virginia Avenue NE. They activate a siren and a small bubble light on the dash, and he pulls over.
Through his rear window, the officers see Bullock bending down and leaning side to side, as if hiding drugs or a weapon—or reaching for a gun. They have been trained to interpret such movement as suspicious, so one officer approaches the car on each side, while the third hangs back. They order the driver out and ask if he has any guns or drugs. “No, not on me. You can search me,” Bullock replies. An officer does a precautionary frisk and finds nothing.
A second officer then asks his permission to search the vehicle. Bullock agrees, and the officers lift the back seat, where they discover twenty-eight grams of crack, nine grams of powder cocaine, and seventy-eight grams of marijuana. They arrest Bullock for the drugs and, in their official report, justify their initial stop by citing him for running the red light. That’s the first story, sworn to under oath.
The second narrative begins a little earlier in the day. The Mercury that Bullock bought three months ago has been quitting on him all afternoon. Stalled on Mt. Olivet, he gets a jump start from a truck, leaves the hood up and the engine running, and walks down an alley to urinate beside an abandoned house. He is wearing the uniform of the ghetto:baggy khakis, a black sweater, a black jacket, black boots, and a ski hat partially covering his dreadlocks.
As he looks over his shoulder, he notices a dark green Chevy stop across from the alley and recognizes the men inside as a jump-out squad. Indeed, as he walks out of the alley while the officers watch, he realizes that he has seen one of them, Vincent Witkowski, at rallies where Bullock has spoken protesting police corruption. “So now in the back of my mind I’m saying I’m going to get messed with,” he testifies later. Bullock works in an organization led by his father called Cease Fire: Don’t Smoke the Brothers, which teaches street law and preaches against violence and police brutality.
He closes the hood, gets into his car, and is careful to fasten his seat belt, having been stopped once before for not buckling up. Aware of the jump-out squad behind, he drives along Mt. Olivet, enters the intersection on a green light, waits for oncoming traffic to clear, and swings left onto West Virginia as the light turns yellow. The siren sounds. “When I realized that they were stopping me,” he later tells the judge, “I was saying, Here we go again.”
He does not bend over or move side to side. He follows the procedures he has taught to young people in his program: sit still, put the car in park, turn off the engine, and place your hands on the wheel “where they can see them [because] you don’t want to excite the police.”
Witkowski, approaching the driver’s side, tells him to produce his license and registration. Bullock asks why he’s been pulled over. Witkowski repeats his demand for the documents. Bullock asks again, and the officer says he ran a red light. Bullock denies it and gives his version of events in the intersection. As he tries to explain, he senses that “the testosterone level was kind of going up,” as he later testifies. Witkowski asks a third time for his license and registration, so Bullock reaches for the glove compartment, where he keeps his registration, but Witkowski stops him with a command: “Get the fuck out of the car.”
Walking him to the rear of the vehicle, Witkowski remarks, “I know who the fuck you are, I know who your father [is], I know the work that you do.” Another officer then searches him by pulling everything out of his pockets—his extra keys, his cell phone, his money—a far more intrusive search than the external pat-down allowed
Through his rear window, the officers see Bullock bending down and leaning side to side, as if hiding drugs or a weapon—or reaching for a gun. They have been trained to interpret such movement as suspicious, so one officer approaches the car on each side, while the third hangs back. They order the driver out and ask if he has any guns or drugs. “No, not on me. You can search me,” Bullock replies. An officer does a precautionary frisk and finds nothing.
A second officer then asks his permission to search the vehicle. Bullock agrees, and the officers lift the back seat, where they discover twenty-eight grams of crack, nine grams of powder cocaine, and seventy-eight grams of marijuana. They arrest Bullock for the drugs and, in their official report, justify their initial stop by citing him for running the red light. That’s the first story, sworn to under oath.
The second narrative begins a little earlier in the day. The Mercury that Bullock bought three months ago has been quitting on him all afternoon. Stalled on Mt. Olivet, he gets a jump start from a truck, leaves the hood up and the engine running, and walks down an alley to urinate beside an abandoned house. He is wearing the uniform of the ghetto:baggy khakis, a black sweater, a black jacket, black boots, and a ski hat partially covering his dreadlocks.
As he looks over his shoulder, he notices a dark green Chevy stop across from the alley and recognizes the men inside as a jump-out squad. Indeed, as he walks out of the alley while the officers watch, he realizes that he has seen one of them, Vincent Witkowski, at rallies where Bullock has spoken protesting police corruption. “So now in the back of my mind I’m saying I’m going to get messed with,” he testifies later. Bullock works in an organization led by his father called Cease Fire: Don’t Smoke the Brothers, which teaches street law and preaches against violence and police brutality.
He closes the hood, gets into his car, and is careful to fasten his seat belt, having been stopped once before for not buckling up. Aware of the jump-out squad behind, he drives along Mt. Olivet, enters the intersection on a green light, waits for oncoming traffic to clear, and swings left onto West Virginia as the light turns yellow. The siren sounds. “When I realized that they were stopping me,” he later tells the judge, “I was saying, Here we go again.”
He does not bend over or move side to side. He follows the procedures he has taught to young people in his program: sit still, put the car in park, turn off the engine, and place your hands on the wheel “where they can see them [because] you don’t want to excite the police.”
Witkowski, approaching the driver’s side, tells him to produce his license and registration. Bullock asks why he’s been pulled over. Witkowski repeats his demand for the documents. Bullock asks again, and the officer says he ran a red light. Bullock denies it and gives his version of events in the intersection. As he tries to explain, he senses that “the testosterone level was kind of going up,” as he later testifies. Witkowski asks a third time for his license and registration, so Bullock reaches for the glove compartment, where he keeps his registration, but Witkowski stops him with a command: “Get the fuck out of the car.”
Walking him to the rear of the vehicle, Witkowski remarks, “I know who the fuck you are, I know who your father [is], I know the work that you do.” Another officer then searches him by pulling everything out of his pockets—his extra keys, his cell phone, his money—a far more intrusive search than the external pat-down allowed
Similar Books
![Grogoch [Bedtime Stories 2]](https://fs.ageofbook.com/617307/thumbs/152x264/grogoch-bedtime-stories-2.jpg)
