An evening at Speakeasy Magick awaited, and Carey, Don, Dave and I had taken the train to Grand Central. As we headed to the Ace Hotel, we felt lucky to get a taxi so easily and with such an affable driver.
Muhammed was chatty and personable. We asked the usual questions: how long had he lived in New York? Where was he from? Where would he live if he could live anywhere? He’d been in the city for 10 years, hailed from Bangladesh, and would prefer to live in California, but was daunted by the cost. He was sympathetic and made some helpful suggestions when he learned Don had forgotten his phone – and the speakeasy tickets it held – in his truck.
New York’s congestion – the cars, humans, garbage, and buildings – blows me away, alien territory compared to our home in the woods, but I was tucked in the back seat with Dave and Carey, engaged in conversation and paying little attention to the crowds and bustle surrounding the taxi.
Until a police officer waved us over.
Muhammed pulled to the curb, and we assumed a large vehicle needed room to pass. But the cop gestured for Muhammed to roll down his window.
“You cut off a pedestrian back there,” said the cop, his tone curt. “Your license, please.”
“What? No, I didn’t,” Muhammed said as he dug in his pocket for his wallet.
“Yes. You did. At the corner.”
“No. I didn’t! I didn’t do anything wrong!” his voice rose, his amazement and concern evident. My own stomach tightened as I tried to make myself smaller, shrinking into my seat and sensed a collective clench as we, the formerly cheerful passengers, waited. “Did you all see anything like that?” he asked, his eyes darting from Don beside him to us in the back seat.
“No.” A chorus of nos. We’d seen nothing like that, and our protests mounted as the cop countered them then walked to the back of the cab and started scribbling in his notebook. He was joined by a female officer who adjusted her cap as they stood, a blue wall, shoulder to shoulder, blocking the back window, hemming us in.
In the taxi, Muhammed was increasingly frantic. Understandably frantic. This is not the America of a few years back. This is the America of ICE, of deportation not for criminal actions, but to meet quotas. The officer was a policeman, not a member of ICE, but due process and a Constitution to count on have been tossed, and this cop could cause Muhammed serious grief.
“I have to video you. I might need your testimony for the judge,” Muhammed said. He turned in his seat, held up his phone, and panned the four of us as we repeated our statements about his innocence.
The cop returned to Muhammed’s window, flipped a page of his pad, and said, “So. I see that you’ve been in 28 accidents and incurred numerous infractions.”
“WHAT?” Muhammed’s shock was explosive. “That’s not true! 28 accidents? What are you talking about? I’m taking YOU to court!”
“And I’m giving you a ticket,” said the cop, handing Muhammed a yellow sheet from his pad.
“You… You’re a….” Muhammed growled as we, his allies and passengers, murmured, “Shh. Shh. Don’t provoke him.”
“I’m what?” said the cop. “What? You were about to say something?”
Again, we, the car chorus, entreated, “Shhh. Say nothing. It won’t help.”
Muhammed glanced at the yellow carbon copy in his hand and did a double-take. “This is illegible! I can’t even read this!”
“Can I see it?” I asked, and he handed the sheet back to me.
It was blank. Blank but for the barest of marks. No visible words. No record for Muhammed of the accusations against him.
What must he have felt? I felt sick. Sick for him. Sick for the immigrants. Sick for people of color who face bullies - official bullies - bullies encouraged and empowered by Stephen Miller, by Trump, and by all those who remain silent.
“Driving while brown…” Dave murmured. “Odd that he hasn’t asked for your registration. That’s usually standard along with the license.”
Eventually the cop released us, allowed this supposedly reckless driver with his alleged history of accidents and infractions to continue on with his hapless passengers.
Talk in the taxi was rushed and furious, a cascade of encouragement, as we pulled away, each of us adding opinions and pointers.
“Muhammed. If he’d really found that you had a record like that, he would’ve told us to leave the car. If you had a record like that, the taxi company wouldn’t have given you a job. There's a camera on the front of your cab and on almost every street corner. You’ll be able to sort this out. Write everything down while it’s fresh.”
“I just hope I get a nice judge who will listen to me.”
“The cop’s meeting a quota,” said Dave. “He won’t bother to show up in court, and they’ll throw out the case.”
“Hopefully. But at the very least, I miss a day of work and a paycheck.”
A taste. While in a taxi on our way to a fun night in the city, we were given a taste of what we've read in the news. And we, the privileged white people, could continue on to our hotel, this unfortunate incident behind us.
But what will happen to Muhammed?
