Thread by @ShayanaKadidal

Miraculously, I have one photo of the Range Rover’s rear plate. This is it. Note that six letters are visible, but there is a piece of what looks like window tint tape obscuring half of the last letter.(From what I can see there are only four options for the last letter: B,D,P,R.

Rookie cop: “This is only a partial plate. I’m not going to run a partial plate [thru our system to identify the driver].”

Me: “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, it’s just one letter! … I *have to* file a police report, I have a Top Secret security clearance...” Rookie, interjecting: “Do you have proof of that?” [and we have a winner for idiotic question of the day!]

At this point I vaguely recall screaming “THIS. IS. AN. EIGHT. THOUSAND. DOLLAR. BIKE!”, “Is this how you treat all crime victims!?,” the line about my four year old son again, and a lot of other incensed bullshit. (Extreme agitation: concussion symptom?)

As I struggled to return to forming coherent sentences in response to rookie cop’s last question, the older male cop mercifully takes over: “I will do the paperwork. But you’ll have to wait here for a minute.”

(Meanwhile three Italian tourist women who’ve lost a passport a few days ago in a cab come over to ask the cops what they can do; they receive immediate attention. Eventually all of us are trying to help them out.)

Rookie cop finishes the paperwork, hands me back my license and a receipt with which I can claim a full police report at the precinct later, and adds a masterstroke: “You’re free to go.” (Me: “I know I am.”)

I let him know the way the officers from the 26th responded was a “disgrace to the uniform.” Rookie: “I disagree.” He stalks off. I shake the older cop’s hand. They drive away.

I limp over to the excellent Larry’s Freewheeling half a block up 110th. They fix the bike for free out of sympathy. “They drive like savages out there.” I agree.

That night I have a splitting headache. Usually I spot check the math on my taxes in my head; this night, I cannot. Several times I get up to get something from the kitchen and forget what I was doing along the way.

My helmet did not hit the ground, it hasn’t got a scratch on it, but I suspect my head has gotten shaken up. Not the worst crash I’ve had by a long shot, but being 51 years old now probably doesn’t help. I can’t fall asleep until 2:30am.

I stay home from work on Monday. First thing that morning I report the incident to the Department of Justice Litigation Security Office in DC. I tell them I assume the driver was a drug dealer. “You did the right thing by calling us. Keep us posted and email us the police report"

My next call is going to be to Adam White, a lawyer I know because we both were founding members of Transportation Alternatives’ legal committee in the mid-2000’s. But before I call, I go thru all the photos on my iPhone one more time.

Here’s the first photo (now contrast enhanced) I took after the accident. Look at what’s behind the Range Rover’s windshield: a police parking placard. The driver who hit me—and fled the scene--was a cop.

Now it all makes sense. I couldn’t figure out why he would stop at all in the first place if he were some wealthy criminal.

I was surprised he knew what a security clearance was, or that he was put off by the prospect of speaking to the FBI.

I was shocked (and appalled) at how badly the 26th Precinct cops wanted me to shut up and go away. Now I assume the driver called his union or his precinct right after the collision, and word got to the responding cops in the ten minutes that elapsed before they got to the scene

(Indeed, I assume there is no way the responding cops from the 26th couldn’t see me when 911 called me back to ask which corner of the intersection I was at. It’s a wide open intersection in terms of visibility.)

Apparently police officers frequently obscure or deface their plates, in part in order to keep civilians from reporting them for repeated parking infractions. (h/t @BikeNYCLaw)

For this reason, even if the second group of cops didn’t know the driver who hit me was a cop when they first rolled up, I assume that when they saw the obscured license plate they instantly figured it out.

Possibly this is why rookie cop was so insistent that they would never run a partial plate thru the system to try to identify it – not even where they were missing just one letter, not even with such a rare vehicle as a $90,000 Range Rover.

BTW, one more thing I learned from this: KRS-1 was wrong; they do “get paid a whole lot”! (And no, my position is not that African-Americans or public servants should not own $90,000 cars, but that NO ONE should have $90,000 cars. Cars suck; so does massive income inequality.)

Finally, being a cop explains why he thought he could pull a massively illegal U turn across five lanes and a double yellow line thru a red light on a crowded Manhattan street and not get busted for it.

Or flee the scene – a crime even for civilians – with impunity.

I will of course now try to track him down through our cumbersome legal system. I expect it will take way too long and probably be unsatisfying in the end. But if someone in my position can’t be bothered to pursue accountability, who will?

Until then, this remains an object lesson to those of you who expect your privilege to protect you from the cops: I have a Yale Law degree, a security clearance, I live in Manhattan, and on and on. (Unfortunately, I also was riding a bike.)

That's my story. Be careful out there, people. @brooklynspoke @bikesnobnyc @streetsblognyc @subtle116 @BikeNYCLaw @DaveRankinNYC

The sad epilogue: I walk in after work and look at my pretty fork hanging on the wall (pleeeease let this be just a paint crack!)

I guess I will get to make a first trip to @BicycleHabitat 's new Chelsea digs for a medical exam on the frame tmrw