Well, as you know from January’s only entry, I got my autograph of Emma Watson on October 21st, 2005. There was also something else that happened on that day.

As I approached, from the south, the stop sign at 100 East and Tabernacle, and while waiting for cross-traffic to proceed, St. George City Policeman Gordon McCracken of the Mountain Bike Patrol pulled up next to me on my left and another unidentified bicycle policeman stopped behind me.

McCracken greeted me with “Hello Wesley”. (He had harassed me on several occasions previously) He then informed me that he noticed I did not have a “light” on my bicycle. He asked if I knew I was supposed to have one. I responded “no”. He then asked how long I had been riding in St. George. I told him over a year and half. Then he asked “And nobody’s ever told you’re supposed to have a light on your bike?” Again, I answered “no”.

At this point, he asked, “What’s your full name?” I answered, and asked him, “What, are you going to write me a little ticket?” He said, “I don’t know yet”, and asked for my date of birth. I told him.

Then he asked, “do you have any ID?” I told him “no”. He asked, “you don’t have a driver’s license?”, I said “no”. Then he asked if I had an ID from any other state, again, I answered “no”.

At this point, I asked McCracken, “why don’t you call the Sheriff?”, at which point he became visibly angry and pointed his finger at me, stating “we don’t play that game!” He then turned to the other bicycle policeman and asked for the ticket book. The other policeman handed him the ticket book, and he began to write in it.

After a moment of silence while McCracken wrote, he asked me, “what’s your social security number?” I answered, “I don’t have one”. He became angry again and started to yell at me. He yelled, “yes you do, everyone has one, you just don’t want to tell me!” I said, “no, I do not have one.” He continued to yell at me, saying, “you either don’t want to tell me, or you can’t remember what it is!”

At this point, I began to dismount my bicycle to face the idiot. He was still yelling violently towards me something about how everyone receives a social security number at birth. I interrupted him, while I dismounting, saying, “dude, I know more about this subject than you will ever know.”

This made him more angry. With his finger jabbing violently in the air towards me, he yelled, “never call me dude! You call me mister, sir, officer or sergeant, but you never call me dude! You know, I don’t want to hear another word out of your mouth! Do you understand me!” I did not respond verbally, nor did I look away from him. He yelled again, “do you understand me!” Again I said nothing.

He resumed his writing. After another moment of silence he told me, “here’s the thing, if you don’t have any ID, how do I know you are who you say you are? Do you see the predicament?” I indicated no, by shaking my head left and right. He asked, “do you see the predicament you are in?” Again, I indicated no, in the same manner.

Again he returned his attention to the ticket book. After another moment, he asked, “what’s your address?” I told him, “I do not have one.”

Upon hearing my voice, McCracken thrusts the ticket book and the pen, or pencil, down and proceeds to walk around his bicycle towards me. He instructed me to put my hands on my head and spread my legs apart. He then handcuffed me and led me across the sidewalk to the side of the nearby building. He then emptied my pockets and told me to lean against a short landscaping wall and radioed for transport.

As I waited in silence, the second policeman rummaged through my wallet and McCracken proceeded to look through my backpack.

When the third policeman arrived, McCracken led me to the patrol car and instructed me how to sit comfortably, where I sat in silence while my bicycle was loaded into the trunk. The transport policeman took me first to the Mountain Bike Patrol truck located at the Ben Franklin parking lot where he unloaded my bicycle, then onto the Washington County jail.

At no point did McCracken, or any other policeman, inform me that I was under arrest, or why I had been handcuffed and my possessions searched. Although it was clear that I was being “transported” I had assumed I was to be taken to the St. George City Police Station where the policemen would verify my identification through thumb-print and then release me.

Upon arrival at the Washington County Jail, I asked the transport policeman and a jail house worker (possibly a deputy) why I had been arrested. Neither one knew, and they both seemed to be struggling over the confusion as to why I was being booked. I spent the entire weekend in jail not knowing why, or what the charges were against me.

But that’s not all. After the judge released me on my own recognizance, the Purgatory staff forgot about me. My court had been done through video at sometime around 10:00 AM and 1:00 PM. I didn’t get released until 9:00 PM after I buzzed them on the two intercom system the jail implores at 7:00 PM.

I had to walk 20 miles to get home. It was 2:00 AM when I finally did. My bicycle was in ‘evidence’ along with my backpack. I stopped by the police station in town on the way home, but was told I had to get my things during the daytime hours. When I tried to do that, I was told that McCracken had not completed the paperwork to check-in the evidence, so it could not be released to me.

After a couple of days without my bike, and backpack (and everything in it, namely my computer, and cell phone), I e-mailed the chief of police and was finally able to retrieve my things the following day.

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