#BipolarLivesMatter
I was Beaten and Tortured by the Minneapolis Police While Manic
The incident that made me an activist
My first manic episode with psychosis was in three weeks in February 2003, when I was 37. I was born in 1965 and was first diagnosed in 2003 at age 38. During those 38 years, I graduated Stanford Law School with distinction, was a member of the State Bars of California and New Mexico and developed a major plaintiff class action practice.
Wednesday, February 5, 2003, started uneventfully — I flew to Minneapolis, Minnesota and checked in to the Hilton. On February 6 and 7, 2003, there was a scheduled class certification hearing in the Minneapolis federal court. I became a part of the action the previous summer, when I filed suit. I was appointed, pursuant to Pretrial Order №50, as co-liaison counsel for third party payor union funds. This was a normal business trip like any other.
On February 7, 2003, my life changed. The hearing continued through lunch on class certification. I changed out of my suit, and put on a red XXL Ernesto “Che” Guevara t-shirt under an over-shirt. I wore no jacket because I traversed the skyways. I returned to my hotel bar after taking a long walk around the “skyway” to window shop and return phone calls. At approximately 6:00 p.m., I had a few beers and met a couple at the bar — she an attorney, and he a benefits coordinator.
Displaying famous “Minnesota nice” hospitality, they invited me to their house to play pinball with the husband. We arranged for the next day to do a small ice fishing trip with the husband before I was to fly back to New Mexico at 3:40 p.m. on February 8.
At the Cabooze
That never happened. At 9:30 p.m., I invited the husband to join me at The Cabooze, 915 Cedar, in Minneapolis, but he politely declined. I had seen in the alternative press that a two-night reggae concert in honor of Bob Marley’s birthday was taking place at the Cabooze.
At approximately 1:45 a.m., I went to the front bar, and asked for a taxi to the hotel, handing a female employee the card from the cab that I had taken to the bar. A snotty employee of the bar then said, to the best of my recollection, “Why did you wait 45 minutes after last call to call a cab? We want to go home and drink already!”
I mentioned my earlier efforts to ask for a cab, and explained that I was talking with the back bartender, Jac. At that point, the snotty bastard told me to wait for the cab outside. Again, I was wearing a t-shirt, and a red “Cherokee” brand canvas shirt from Target. It was well below zero outside in the early morning hours of February 8. I had not bothered taking my jacket from the hotel to the couple’s house, or into the hot club.
I asked politely to remain inside for 5 minutes until the cab arrived outside. I was told to leave immediately. I informed all present that I was a lawyer, and if I were to become frostbitten, I would sue. At that point, I was grabbed by several bouncers and physically was picked up. I shouted, “Unhand me! I am a lawyer. This is battery!” At that point, the Cabooze employees and presumably the owner became angry, and threw me down in the icy parking lot, and slammed the door.
I went around the building to a pay phone. I called 911 and calmly requested a patrol car immediately, in order to report an assault and battery at the Cabooze. The operator refused to send either a police car or a cab. Freezing, I called 911 again and spoke with a different operator, and was told the same thing. Then, the taxi arrived, fortunately before the sub-zero temperatures harmed me.
At the Hennepin County Medical Center (HCMC)
Upon my return to the Hilton, I went to my room, and phoned 911, again to get a police officer to file a report. The call was transferred to the Third Precinct (MPD), and the operator informed me that only 911 could dispatch a police officer. I was now beginning to think that The Cabooze has paid off the corrupt police in Minneapolis. Nevertheless, I went downstairs and called hotel security over to the front desk. By this time, I was holding a legal pad, taking names and ID’s of the police operators, and everyone else who was not cooperating or not acting in a professional manner.
Perhaps because I was now just wearing a Che T-shirt, the hotel security guards — who, although they have Hilton arm patches, work for a private, non-union contractor — refused to call the police. In a huff, I went back to my room.
At about 2:30 a.m. on February 8, 2003, I phoned a dear friend who advised me that since I could afford to sleep in, I should proceed immediately to the Hennepin County Medical Center (HCMC), located less than a mile from the hotel, downtown. This way, I could go to the emergency room to report and have a doctor document the injuries, and then the next day, I could go to the police precinct and file a police report against the Caboozes.
That sounded entirely reasonable to me, just not in hindsight. By this point, at 3:00 a.m., anger at the hotel not calling me a cab, and adrenaline with a heaping helping of manic energy caused me to run out of the hotel, turning right down Marquette, in the direction of the HCMC, wearing only black jeans, and my t-shirt. I was flailing my arms trying to get any cab or car to stop and give me a lift to the HCMC. If there were any effects to earlier consumption of alcohol and marijuana, they were very mild at all. Several cabs drove by empty. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was in a full blown manic episode.
Finally someone from out of town stopped and picked me up, and we drove around lost, and he let me out about ¼ block from a door where an ambulance was parked, letting a stretcher in to the HCMC. Knowing it was open 24 hours, Jes drove off, leaving me by what we thought was the door to the ER.
The Police Get Off On Beating Me and Toturing Me Psychologically During My First Major Manic Episode
I walked up to the nearest door. Several ambulances and police cars were parked there. As I walked up, a stretcher was being wheeled in. I tried to enter that door. Officer Nelson, Badge №143 (from memory), told me to stop, and asked where I was going. I politely informed him that I was presenting myself for treatment by a doctor on the advice of my lawyer, because I had suffered injuries at a bar earlier, and was unable to get assistance from the police. He then said “sorry, we’re closed.” I said something to the effect that “my lawyer told me it was open 24 hours, so if this was the wrong door, would you please direct me to the 24-hour emergency room.” He then said, “You look drunk. Why don’t you just turn around and go back to your hotel.” I said I just came from there, and that after I saw the doctor, I would wait for a taxi back to the hotel. Moreover, I pointed out, “even if I were drunk, which I was not, why would that preclude me from seeing a doctor?”
He then jumped me, along with 3 or 4 other officers. I noticed that one officer, an African-American female, stood by and watched. (As I watched the footage of the MN police killing George Floyd by stepping on his neck while others looked on, I had PTSD. I believe that only because I am white am I alive. Non-fatal police brutality directed toward the mentally ill is also inexcusable.) Other paramedics and EMT’s were in the area. I was handcuffed, and placed sideways, knees first, into the squad car. At this point, I had never been verbally, let alone physically, abusive with the police, or I presumably would have been charged with assault on an officer. Also, since I was not allowed a phone call until some time around 10:00 a.m. the next morning, I could not have phoned in a bomb threat to the Hilton as one of the police reports states. I was never read my Miranda rights nor told — at that time — why I was being arrested.
I asked what I was being charged with. Answer: trespass (apparently disobeying an order to “move on.”) and disorderly conduct. I again asked if I was free to go. Officer Nelson then parked at the jail, and I waited for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably 10 minutes, in shock and in pain.
Officer Nelson opened the door. “Get out!” He yelled! “I can’t! Please take the handcuffs off just so that I can get out of the car” Officer Nelson and about 3 or 4 other officers then dragged me out onto my hands and in cuffs. I was pulled backwards, so that the weight of my body landed on my cuffed hands, causing a gash in my right wrist, and severe bruising. I screamed in agony.
I was led into a solitary cell. They told me to lie on the floor, which I could not do. I knelt and they uncuffed me and locked the door. I continued to communicate with various faceless voices of police officers over the intercom in the room. A spirited discussion of my Constitutional rights ensued.
“I am a lawyer,” I pleaded. The answer: “No you’re not.” (Obviously they did not comprehend ‘Arshawsky Law Firm’ in my answers, and on my business cards.) “Yes, for the past couple of days I was in federal court before Judge Davis.” The answer: “Chili Davis?” “Am I free to go?” I asked. The answer: “No.” “What am I being charged with?” “Trespassing and disorderly conduct.” “I would like to speak with the FBI.” “We called the FBI, and they are not interested in your case.” “I am not interested in talking with the FBI about my case, but about the fact that you gratuitously beat me up.”
It then got nastier. At one point, an officer said: “You are not welcome in Minnesota.” I said “Believe me, I won’t be coming here again unless I have to.” One female officer said “You have no penis.” At one point, an officer was peering at me through the window and wiggling his eyebrows. I asked if he was gay, and he did not reply, so I said “that’s all right, I won’t ask, and you don’t tell.” I said, “I have the right to remain silent.” They said “Where did you learn that from, TV?”
Finally, after several hours (also without food given my diabetes), I imprudently said, “What the fuck is it going to take to get the FBI down here, is it going to take me telling you that there is a bomb in my luggage at the Hilton?” “Is there a bomb at the Hilton?” “No, you morons, my question was what will it take to get the FBI down here.” Apparently, the bomb squad was dispatched to my room at the Hilton, where the most dangerous object found was my dirty underwear. I later was to learn that my watch and my calendar book were taken, as were some of my frequent flyer cards.
I finally decided to “play dead” until the morning. I should have done that from the beginning, but I was out of my mind, literally.
At the Hennepin County Jail I Wake Up to Felony Terroristic Threat Charges and $100,000 Bond and Completely Lose My Mind
In the morning, I was finally booked, and allowed one phone call to my lawyer, and one to my wife who divorced me after this. Right before the call, I was told that I was being held without bond for “probable cause terrorist threats.” I was booked into the Hennepin County Sheriff’s Office Adult Detention Center (“ADC”). Half a dozen of the inmates in my dormitory, 4A, were also gratuitously beaten by the police. As we know from the news in 2020, policing in Minneapolis has not improved in minority relations. I support defunding the police, tearing it down, and building it back up again.
On Saturday morning, February 8, I got to meet with a lawyer who photographed my bruises. He also referred me to Tom Lehmann of Lehmann & Lutter, P.A., Eagan, MN, as my criminal counsel. I have a receipt reflecting that on February 8, the ADC received avapro (blood pressure), glucotrol (diabetes), buspirone (anti-anxiety), and “misc packet,” i.e., vitamins. I spent the rest of Saturday being held without bail. Medical attention was minimal. I had not received another dose of my generic Buspar (anti-anxietal) since Friday morning. Fortunately, there was a prison library program. Aside from singing and conversing with fellow inmates, I kept myself occupied by reading.
On Sunday morning at about 4:30 a.m., I had a massive panic attack. I pressed the buzzer repeatedly. By 10:00 a.m. on Monday I was finally given a dose of Buspar by the nurse. On Sunday afternoon, we were given bail slips. As to both me and Mike, the other alleged terrorist, the prosecutor sought $25,000 bond. Judge Zimmerman upped the bail to $100,000. I drafted a pro se petition for a Writ of Habeas Corpus. I demanded that it be presented to the United States Magistrate Judge on duty. The Sheriffs refused, but offered to mail it to the courthouse. They said they had no way of transporting me to the federal courthouse located across the street. By that point, the Sheriffs realized that I was a lawyer. Mike called his mother and broke down weeping. I called Goldberg’s bail bonds.
I ultimately bonded out after sunset on Sunday night. One of the employees at Goldberg said “Don’t tell anyone, but before you got here the police called and asked if you were really a lawyer, and I said of course. They said ‘uh oh.’”
Years later to turn my trauma into something positive, I formed Bipolar Lives Matter Inc., a Massachusetts nonprofit and grassroots organization looking to reduce police violence against the mentally ill solely because they are mentally ill. I set up a website where we share stories and ideas. Please check it out if you are interested.
Are you inspired to write your own story as a mentally ill person who had a negative experience with law enforcement personnel?
#BipolarLivesMatter℠ would love for you to send your story to joe@bipolarlivesmatter.org. We need some information to know that you are a real person. Let us know how you would like to be listed (full name, first name and initial, just initial, just first name, etc.) on our website.
