#37 Carted Off

            Maureen and I had locked down to the bulldozer early in the morning, long before the bulldozer driver arrived around 6 am at the Willits bypass “destruction site” (see Blog Post #36). Around 7 am, two police cars arrived. An officer emerged from a cruiser and approached us, all amiability. I will spare revealing his name, along with those of others, to preserve their anonymity. I wouldn’t want to trespass on their privacy. I do have some boundaries.

            That first officer was the “negotiator.”  He approached us with a smile, even as we smiled back in the friendly way we were taught to conduct our non-violent protest. “Good morning, ladies,” he offered. He didn’t even need to ask, “What have we here?” He’d been the one negotiating with the protestors locked down to another machine only a week before.

            He did ask what our purpose was there, though that could be rather obvious. I gave him my spiel about how I could not stand to see this machine ripping into this hillside for one more day for a project detrimental to the valley, despite the power of Caltrans to convince the public otherwise. Maureen said, “We’re here for Mother Earth, to protect her from this ravaging.”

            We pointed at the hill across the highway from us where Warbler’s tree used to be in the midst of what had been a whole forest, now mowed down for the “southern interchange,” the off and on ramps and what will be fast food restaurants if the pro-bypass folks have their way (from the pictures, it surely looks like they will have their way, with as much “progress” as Caltrans has made). “This destruction breaks our hearts,” we each said in our own way.

            “You know,” the officer replied rather gently, “I’ve seen a lot of protests in my day, and whether I agree or not with your purpose or methods, my job is to serve the public and to protect everyone, including you. So I’d like to be sure you aren’t harmed in this process and that we can get you out of there with as little damage as possible.” And as little cost and trouble as possible, he did not have to say.            

 He asked us our names, which we gave willingly. Then he returned to his car to research us on the police blotter, I presume, as well as to confer with the other police officer who had sauntered over to pass the time with him in his car.

            A half hour later, the negotiator returned. He explained that the previous protestors who had similarly locked their arms around equipment and into iron pipes had decided to release themselves from the equipment by the middle of the day, after having effectively stopped Caltrans work with that machine for the day—a small contribution to preventing the dragon from burning down one more village while the villagers escaped. Also, by self-releasing, the protestors did not force the police to go through the expensive and time-consuming process of “grinding” down the iron to get at the pin and our clasps inside, which would force us out of the lockdown.

            “How long do you ladies think you want to be here?” he asked, in effect.

            In no uncertain terms, Maureen replied, “We want to be sure that this machine will be stopped for the day.”

            He smiled with some irony, his hands waving back and forth. “So—when would that be?”

            We shrugged, not ready to show our cards yet. It was a poker game. We would ultimately lose. Willits will ultimately lose in many respects. But we weren’t ready to give up yet.

            He sauntered off, returning to his buddy in the car, prepared to wait us out. Maureen and I enjoyed the irony of the two pairs of partners waiting each other out.

            The negotiator returned two or three times more over the next five hours. Once he came over and suggested that his higher-up would arrive and not likely be as amiable as he was in offering a “deal” for us to let ourselves out. I wasn’t really sure what could be worse—we already knew we were going to jail—and I recognized the veiled threat of the “bad cop” against his good cop. We smiled.

  

          Along with the rather negative attention of the construction workers and the cops, we had a few positive visitors and drive-by responses. Several photographers were there to document what was happening and to be observers in case there was any abuse from police or from the construction workers (I never felt in any danger). A friend and physician’s assistant, Kate Black, came to check on the condition of the protestors as we were now standing out in the hot sun for several hours. She arrived with two anti-protest activists and supporters.

Steve's arrest

            Our negotiating officer told any “visitor” that they were also in danger of being arrested if they did not immediately leave the site. Only Steve stayed, and he was in fact arrested, for he too was protesting the impact of the unnecessary destruction caused by the bypass in construction.

            Meanwhile, earlier in the morning, a small crowd of people were rallying at a nearly intersection just north of where Maureen and I were hunkered down at the bulldozer. Some of those protestors intermittently drove by throughout the morning, honking and waving their hands in support. Later in the morning, random people who saw us standing there by the road also honked and waved.

            A few drove by and shouted slurs: “F#ng hippies, go to hell!” It’s hard to believe that I could have ruined their day as much as they have supported the ruin of this valley. Just sayin’.

Bulldozers preparing the "Southern Exchange"
 for the bypass route through Little Lake Valley

            All through the hours of that morning, Maureen and I mused on what we saw and felt, watching from our spot further  Caltrans work across the road on what would be—will be?—the southern ramp for the bypass where it will veer off into the farmlands and wetlands of the valley, the forest now chopped to hell. Surely, I thought, the guy who couldn’t drive this bulldozer this morning has found other work on the site for a day since a small army has been deployed along the six miles of the “bootprint” for the bypass. With their enormous machines and a small paramilitary force of police to protect their work (for the most part), Caltrans has made huge headway in their plan to ram their bypass through, whether folks in Willits like it or not.

            That question is still a mystery—how many people in Willits actually want this bypass, how many people actively don’t want it, how many people wish it weren’t happening but feel powerless to stop it—especially after Caltrans has destroyed so much terrain in so little time. “There’s nothing we can do now,” I hear over and over. “Why fight it?”

             I keep ruminating on the Warsaw Uprising of the few Jews left in the Warsaw ghetto after the Nazis took the majority off to concentration camps, and to their deaths. Why should so few resistance fighters keep attacking the far better armed Polish military when the end was clearly in sight? Hmmm.

            In our own small campaign, with Maureen and I still standing at the treads of the bulldozer, by noon it was clear we had stopped the Caltrans Machine for most of the day, though the driver might still return. We were ready to give in, if not give up. We unclipped from our iron pipe and headed towards the police.

            Our negotiating officer then turned us over to the arresting officer. We were patted down; all our remaining items in our pockets were taken and placed in plastic bags. More gently than could be expected, they twisted our wrists behind our backs and handcuffed us—not those easy plastic ties; metal. Into the back of the police car we were tucked, there to sit for another hour while they drew up paper work. Maureen was somewhat claustrophobic in the narrow space in the back and the cuffs bruised her hands. We made the best of it, as we had all along. After all, we’d broken the law—we had no desire to shirk that fact or its consequences.

            Before we were driven off, I asked to say good bye to our negotiating officer whose good humor and kindness in a difficult situation matched ours and will make me think kindly of him forever.

            Probably the most interesting part of the “arresting episode” was the conversation with our arresting officer. Ever seeking to understand what others believe and why they do what they do, I asked him if he believes in global warming, as a means for talking about our protest against a construction project that will clearly contribute to global climate change (at least “clearly” so for anyone studying science and how global climate change happens).

            “No,” he responded. He went on to say that he believes God created Man to be the steward of the earth, and therefore, we are able to do what we want with the earth, within some reason. He also asserted that God also commanded us to obey our government, again within reason, that we should essentially give unto Caesar what is Caesar’s (as said Jesus, more or less). Our arresting officer acknowledged that not all government provides correct laws, as was the case with slavery.

            I agreed, saying that governments in the South legalized segregation, and it was only civil disobedience that challenged laws that forced African Americans to sit in the back of the bus and undergo other heinous legal deprivations and humiliations. Our officer responded that God will be the ultimate judge, and we will each have to face God when the time comes regarding whether we have done right or wrong.

            Personally, I feel that our having to meet up with God at some undesignated time in the future means that a whole lot of malfeasance can be permitted to occur on earth in the meantime, with no claim to rational interference. But in my handcuffs in the back of the police cruiser, I was not exactly free to push my point.

            “Do you really think you’re going to change anything now?” he then asked. “I mean, the bypass is going to happen. Look at how far they’ve gotten.”

            “That may be,” I countered. “But that doesn’t make it right.”

            He did thank us for conducting ourselves in a peaceful way, unlike one now infamous protestor earlier in our ranks. I insisted that we are generally abiding by a non-violent code, and that one incident was abhorred by all of us. He was glad to hear it.

            I was left with much food for thought in meeting a global-climate-change denier, devout in his faith, righteous in his ideals, surely a good man, a good father to his many children. I couldn’t help but wonder what life will be like for the Seventh Generation issuing from him. In the year 2160, about 150 years from now, will his great-great-great-great-great-great-grandchildren experience drought in this valley, the burning of huge swathes of land as disease hits desiccated forest, people fighting over scarce property as the coasts are inundated with water from artic melt? He doesn’t have to—or want to—care, even as such scenarios are already being enacted. You can’t go more than two days without hearing about environmental disaster affecting some place in the world—unless you aren’t paying attention. How glorious not to pay attention! Having faith in God’s will is far easier to live with, I guess. I don’t know. I am trying to pay attention, and to understand.

            We soon arrived at the Mendocino County Jail, an even more intriguing tale for another time….