A little less than two years ago, I was riding in the back seat of a small car through downtown Brooklyn—Court St., I want to say. Kirsten, the man on the right, was driving and another guy, I forget his name, was riding shotgun. (All three of us were working to elect this man.) In the middle of the road, Kirsten suddenly stopped. I peered up. By the time I realized that there was a man sprawled a good ten feet in front of us, perched aggressively atop a woman wailing her arms and voice, both Kirsten and the passenger guy were out of the car and halfway to the couple. I debated the usefulness of a shorter, less muscular white dude also getting out of the car, and stayed put. The two swiftly, non-threateningly, pulled the man off and defused the situation, with ease. The man walked to the left, the woman right, each throwing curses and threats. My car mates returned, nodding slowly, and drove off.
Nothing significant there. But that’s the best story that sticks out in my memory.
If the NYPD was to decide, “Sure, let’s go ahead and arrest two black men,” a young, ambitious City Councilman and the man who was once—and probably still is—the right-hand man of Al Sharpton would probably be on the bottom of their list.