Last Friday, March 14, I attended a conference in Jersey City sponsored by the National Press Photographers Association. There, award-winning photojournalists shared tips on how to find better stories and shoot more exciting pictures. I never expected that 24 hours later, I would be in jail for trying to follow their advice At about 12 p.m. the next day, I arrived in Washington, D.C., to photograph an anti-war protest organized by International ANSWER, a coalition dedicated to preventing war and ending racism. The Mall was filled with protesters. It was a very diverse crowd -- old people, young people, conservatively dressed people, people who looked like they had just come from a commune. But around the Washington Monument, there was a more radical element. A hundred or so people, dressed mainly in black, carried red and black flags. Most also wore bandannas or ski masks to conceal their identities. Most were young. Most white. A lot were hostile, not wanting to have their pictures taken, frequently shouting, "Don't take my fucking picture, or I'll break your camera." As a group of these kids stomped down a fence around the monument, I noticed a college-aged guy with a camera bag and a press pass also taking pictures. The people kicking down the fence threatened both of us. And that's how I met Aaron Bernstein, who was there with his friend Nick Brown. Aaron is a freshman at Indiana University, and Nick plans on attending Temple University next fall. Both are interested in photojournalism -- Aaron has freelanced for Philadelphia Daily News, The Washington Post and an Australian news agency. I should say that all three of us were there only to document the protest. We weren't wearing bandannas around our faces, we weren't carrying flags, we weren't dressed in black and we didn't shout any slogans. We were only taking pictures, and this was pretty evident. Aaron told me that most of the people dressed in black around us were affiliated with an anarchist group nicknamed the "Black Bloc," a fact that was later confirmed by the Secret Service. He had followed them at other protests and had heard rumors that they had vandalized McDonald's, Starbucks and other corporate franchises. We followed the kids in black to see if anything interesting would happen. The protest was set to start at the monument, go up around the White House and return to the monument, encircling the Mall. After two blocks of marching, most of the kids in black split off and went right, even though the route was designated to turn left. Policemen on horseback and on foot stopped them, with a SWAT team waiting in vans up ahead. As the anarchists turned back to the main route, about 25 of them were surrounded by the police. Nick, Aaron and I found ourselves in the middle of these detained protesters. While encircled, members of the main group of the Black Bloc came back to stop the police from restraining their friends. They outnumbered the police and began to pull on us, trying to break us free. Eventually they did, and a huge, mosh-pit-like scuffle broke out. Once free, I looked back and saw one of the police horses limping, obviously a result of the violence. We could then rejoin the main march. Things were pretty calm for a few blocks, and the police presence was not as heavy as it had been at first. We were still keeping ahead of the kids in black, waiting to see what they would do.
Right after the Black Bloc passed the Old Executive Office Building on 17th Street, they tried to break off down a side street, but the police stopped them. A block later, about 35-40 people broke off from the route and ran down a side street, reaching the World Bank, at 18th and H streets. A young man in a white bandanna walked up to the door and hit the intercom button. No one answered. Somebody pulled on one door, which didn't open, but a second door did. Somebody screamed, "Holy shit, we got in!" As we were photographing the scene, the group rushed through the door. Nick, Aaron and I went in with them. A couple security guards manning the lobby desk were ineffective against the stampede of protesters, but one managed to set off an alarm. A beeping noise went off, and all the doors of the building immediately locked. The kids in black began ripping down decorations and turning over tables. They were screaming, "More world, less bank." Aaron and I stayed in the lobby taking pictures, but Nick followed them. They made a few wrong turns down the halls and found the elevators, but weren't able to operate them because of the lockdown. They began to panic. A back door made of glass stood behind them, which they began kicking frantically. They took their flag poles and began beating the doors, trying to break the locks. Soon enough, they smashed two windows and escaped. They ran out of the opening and disappeared into the streets. They were in the building for less than five minutes. Right after we had entered the World Bank, a Ford Expedition pulled up outside. By the time the Black Bloc exited, many cops had gathered outside of the building. Aaron was closest to the door, I was toward the middle of the lobby and Nick was further in still. As a cop approached and shouted, "Put your hands up, don't move!" Aaron walked past him, hands in the air and indicated the press pass that hung around his neck. The policeman told him that he could leave, but a second, holding a mace can the size of a fire extinguisher, told him to "sit down, motherfucker." We and three others were the only ones the police caught. There were probably about 100 cops in all. Several different officers questioned me, some in uniform, some in civilian wear. I showed each of them my official press pass from the Philadelphia Police. On it was my name, photograph and the signature of the city police commissioner. A policeman told me that press passes were invalid if they were issued by cities farther than 100 miles away from D.C., and the rest of them repeated that line. I don't know if this is actually true. Less than 20 minutes later, a D.C. Metro-Intelligence officer with a red baseball cap dragged Nick in a pinch-hold through the lobby and sat him down next to us. A man then came up to us with a video camera. He was about 6'2", strong but with a slender build and white-blond hair. At this point, nobody had read us our rights, but he began to tape our faces. I sat there, about to crack, crying and freaking out about what the hell was going on. I put my sunglasses on, not wanting to bawl in front of all the police officers. The cameraman got in my face and said, "OK, take your sunglasses off and look at the camera." I asked, "Who are you?" And he responded, "Take them off. Do what I say." I said, "No, not unless you tell me who you are." "I'm Secret Service," he revealed, showing me his ID. I took off my shades, and he videotaped my face.
We were then arrested. Right before we were shipped off to the holding cells, my arresting officer told me, "You're really lucky. Something good just happened... You guys could have had felony charges brought against you, and you're really lucky because now it's just a misdemeanor of unlawful entry and not a felony charge of burglary, which definitely would have put you in jail." The Secret Service agents told me that they had decided that we were obviously there for the pictures, and were not directly involved in vandalizing the World Bank. They handcuffed us inside the building, frisked us and then perp-walked us outside. Aaron complained to me later about having the police frisk all his crevices. I told him he should try having female cops grab his tits all day for fun. After they cuffed us, a cop covered my face with my long-sleeved shirt, to hide me from the press. Right before I was put in the van, a Secret Service agent took the shirt off my head, looked straight in my eyes and said, "You gotta relax. You gotta fucking relax." We were loaded into the van and taken to the Second District police station. Still no one had read us our rights, and the boys were never given their one phone call. Apparently those are myths from the movies. I had been there for about an hour when the Secret Service interrogation began. The same agent who had videotaped me asked me for my pictures after I told him I had some shots from inside the bank. He wanted to try to identify members of the Black Bloc. I had passed my camera bag to a friend outside the World Bank when I got arrested and told the agent I would think about it. I later decided to keep them. Bob Becker, a lawyer who does pro bono work for student journalists, came by the jail. He was going to help us get out, but not until the courts reopened on Monday morning. We were not allowed to post bail, so I would have to spend the next two nights in jail. I sat in my holding cell alone. The concrete room was small and only contained a metal bunk bed without mattresses. Twenty minutes later, the police brought an elderly man into the hallway in front of my cell and shoved him up against the wall. He was either mentally ill, on some substance or both. When asked to remove his shoes, he resisted so they attempted to do it for him. He half-heartedly swung at them, obviously not a serious threat. The two guards then flung him onto the ground and began to kick him -- in the head, in the back, in the side. One guard saw me watching through my window and yelled, "Sit the fuck down." After about five minutes of kicking him, the policemen locked him up in a cell down the hall. At 8:30 p.m., I was transferred to the jail in the Third District, which was equipped to house females overnight. I stayed two nights. For the most part, I slept. Unable to tell the time of day from my windowless cell, I often asked the guards for the time. The 36 hours seemed endless, but my boredom was interrupted with shouts, songs and the sounds of people shitting in stainless steel toilets. On Sunday morning, they gave me a cell mate. Her name was Deborah, but I like to think of her as "Stabber Girl," since she had been arrested for stabbing a fellow resident at her rehab center. We got along just fine. After two days of cheese and bologna sandwiches, no showers and close quarters, I was ready for court on Monday. A van transported 10 of us female inmates to the courthouse. I met my lawyer a few hours later and finally appeared in court at 12:25 p.m. After a minute-long hearing on "The United States vs. Caroline New," the judge dropped the charges, and we were free to go. I returned to Philadelphia Monday evening. The next afternoon, I was down in Center City taking pictures of yet another protest.
