A note from a young woman arrived in my in-box on Sunday morning. Her boyfriend was arrested Saturday night for “hopping the turnstile” at the Atlantic Avenue Station, but it is what happened to her that is the real story.

She writes:  “I hope sharing my story can help open some more eyes, be it through Internal Affairs, the CCRB, or the internet and I hope that the NYPD will take some initiative on insuring that women’s rights aren’t violated in the name of the law.”

“On Saturday, February 13, 2010 my boyfriend and I were entering the Atlantic Avenue train station.  I swiped my card to enter, he hopped the turnstile.  I know that his action – he committed a crime – may be incendiary.  Please understand that I am aware of this and we are dealing with it as such, I am not trying to elicit sympathy for his action.  What happened to me as a result of his action is something I find abhorring, that is what I’d like to share here.

“After K. hopped the turnstile he was approached by two cops who had been standing on the other side of the entrance.  They noticed my pause, asked if I was with him, asked me to stand further along the wall.  I complied, and stood there for about ten minutes before walking over to see what was happening.  Immediately, one of the officers – Officer W. of the 32^nd precinct – asked me to step back.  I said I just wanted to know what was happening, at which time the other officer explained they were calling in his information to see if he had any outstanding warrants.  When the other officer began talking to me Officer W.  indicated I should stand between the two officers and only address the other officer.  I complied, and while I was talking to him something came over the radio, he took out his handcuffs and cuffed my boyfriend with no explanation.

“It wasn’t until later today that I learned that in NYC you do not have to be read Miranda rights or told what you are being arrested for when you are being arrested.  This boggles my mind, but is also not the reason I am writing.

“Confused, I took a step forward to ask the officer why jumping a turnstile all of a sudden had my boyfriend in handcuffs. (The answer was that the computer was down so they were unable to see if he had any warrants out for his arrest so procedure dictated that they take him in.  Perhaps a little guilty until proven innocent, but again, not why I am writing [and not something I said to the officer, since I didn’t find any of this out until much later.])   As I stepped forward Officer W.  pushed me back – he did so by placing his hand squarely on my right breast and applying pressure.

“No one has ever touched my breasts without my consent.  It was jarring, it was uncomfortable, and I immediately felt violated by someone who had power over me by virtue of his position.  I was terrified and screamed “SEXUAL ASSAULT” to be sure there were witnesses.  I also moved back towards the wall away from the officer, as he approached me I tried to wedge myself between a pay phone and the wall to protect myself.  Writing it now it seems so illogical, but I cannot describe how frightened, how taken aback I was by the inappropriate touch.  At this point he grabbed my right breast, grabbed it as his other hand reached around the small of my back to put me in handcuffs, arresting me for a TBD crime.

“I would like to preface this by saying I have never been a negative person when it comes to police.  I’ve always had faith in them, thought they were here to protect and serve and felt safe around them.  With one action – an action no regular citizen had ever done to me, an invasion of my personal space and my sexuality committed by a police officer that view began to waiver.

“My boyfriend and I were put in a police van and driven to the 32^nd precinct in Crown Heights.  There we were detained in cells.  The holding area was three cells in a back room.  When I was brought back there were male prisoners in all three cells, they were moved to accommodate me in my own cell.  Across from the cells was a bank of desks manned by several police officers.

“My sweater and scarf were taken; I was left alone in a cell with pieces of food and litter strewn about it, cold and terrified.  At one point I could hear mice in the walls and started to cry.  The officers openly mocked me. “Why are you crying?”  “What’s wrong?”  “Can’t you keep it together?”  One of them said “Listen, it appears you are hysterical but I have an important phone call to make.  You have to keep quiet until it’s done or they won’t take me seriously.  After that you can get back to your blubbering.”

“At various times the officer who arrested my boyfriend, the other officer at the scene, would come in.  I pleaded with him – he had seen what had happened, he had known my reaction was a direct result of how the officer had handled me, where he pushed and grabbed me.  I do not know if he ever stood up for that, but I do know he reprimanded the officers who were harassing me and they didn’t say anything else to me while I was there.  He also was the officer who got me out of the cell after 30 minutes, giving me a summons for disorderly conduct.  After spending several hours in the police station after this incident and seeing no other movement from the holding area, I like to think he may have advocated on my behalf so I didn’t have to stay in there any longer.

“After I was handed my summons I asked to fill out a complaint form.  A four-page form, in duplicate, was handed to me.  I was told to take it home, fill it out, and either bring it back to any precinct or mail it to the address on the form.

“Why can’t I fill it out here?”

“It needs to be typewritten.”

“I don’t have a typewriter.”

“You can write it by hand and drop it off at any precinct or mail it in.  They’ll type it for you and give you the typewritten copy.”

“I am at a precinct, I want to fill it out here.”

“You’ve been hysterical maam.  We can’t have a hysterical woman in the precinct around our officers.”

“I took a deep breath and composed myself fully, looking the Lieutenant straight in the eye.

“I am composed and I would like to fill out the form now while the incident is fresh.”  I took it and sat at a desk in the waiting area.

“I thought my complaint was starting to be heard when the Lieutenant (who had been manning the front desk when I was brought in, and would for the rest of my time there) called Internal Affairs.  I could hear his hushed conversation on the phone.  I finished my complaint and handed it in to be typed.  While I was waiting for the typed copy I got a phone call from Internal Affairs.  The time was 2:15.  The officer told me he was coming to the precinct to interview me.  At 5:00 he came over and introduced himself, bringing me to the juvenile room to do the interview.

“There were two men in the interview room.  I was introduced to the man from Internal Affairs but never the other man.  In a different situation I probably would have found this odd and questioned who he was, but if I’d learned anything from my 7 hours with the police it was that they held all of the power; I was trying hard to be heard and didn’t want to rock the boat.

“I sat down, the Internal Affairs officer across from me, the other man standing behind him, arms crossed, half looking at me half out the window.  The man from Internal Affairs asked me what happened and I began my account.

“Did he intentionally touch your breast, or did he push you and just happen to push your breast?”

“Was the first question as soon as I began.  He had pushed me directly on my breast.  At this point the man standing at the window interjected

“An officer doesn’t care where he touches you, he’s just trying to get the situation under control.  He has a right to touch you anywhere he can.”

“I had thought this was my opportunity to share my story without judgment, without punishment, yet this man repeatedly, when I questioned why the officer wouldn’t touch my arm, my shoulder, some non-sexualized part of my body was reprimanded with a reminder that if he felt it necessary an officer could touch me anywhere he wanted.  I was reduced to tears again.  At this point the officer from Internal Affairs said he would start the interview and turned on his tape recorder.  He asked me to repeat what I just said.  I looked at the two men glaring at me and shook my head.  I asked to have a female in the room.  Said that two male officers did not understand the invasion of privacy, the invasion to my body that had been suffered.  I’d rather not do the interview if there couldn’t be a female present.

“I was escorted out to the waiting area.  The officer from Internal Affairs was talking to the Lieutenant at the desk.  His supervisor would kill him if he was gone from the office for two hours and didn’t even get the interview.  Did he have a female officer he could spare?  There were no female officers, but a quiet, unassuming male officer volunteered.  Wanting my story to be heard, I took a deep breath and went back to the room.

“The second interview was much less abrasive.  The Internal Affairs officer asked me if I thought the officer had touched my breast to “cop a feel” – a more apt term could hardly be found.  The cop stood in the back of the room, listening, not saying anything, but not glaring either.  I told my story and was escorted out of the police station.

“Doing a little research, I understand that the NYPD offers no sexual harassment, no proper touch training at all.  The understanding is that a cop can touch you however he sees fit to get this situation under control.  The irony is that, had Officer Walkes touched my arm or shoulder rather than my breast – both located equidistant to the breast and completely open when he chose to push me – I don’t think the situation would have gotten as out of control as it had.  My “disorderly conduct” was screaming “SEXUAL ASSAULT” at a train station; a direct result of the policeman who issued me a summons touching me in a non-consensual sexual way.

“How many women are groped by cops every year and don’t ask for the complaint form?  How many get led out of the station without filling it out, to have it lost in the paperwork of another precinct, of the CCRB without Internal Affairs ever being contacted?  How many cops get in as many feels as they can never being told it’s inappropriate, it’s violating, it’s demoralizing, it’s horrifying and it’s abuse of power and of a person?

“What happened to me today horrifies me, the sense memory of that officer’s hand squeezing my breast has stayed with me for over 12 hours – I feel violated and don’t know when that will go away. In spite of the harsh realities of the day I am grateful for the experience because it has opened my eyes in so many ways.  I hope sharing my story can help open some more eyes, be it through Internal Affairs, the CCRB, or the internet and I hope that the NYPD will take some initiative on insuring that women’s rights aren’t violated in the name of the law.”