Hey, Cops, What you going to do about us?

Hey Cops PIC

Mark Causey (L), South District Station, Raymond Martinez (R)


An Illegal Immigrant asked the black South Beach Cops

By David Arthur Walters


In May 2015, City of Miami Beach Mayor Philip Levine used his faux reform regime’s propaganda organ, the Miami Herald and its affiliate television station, to insinuate and imply that former Police Chief Raymond Martinez condoned racism, misogyny, and anti-illegal-immigrant prejudice in the Miami Beach Police Department, expressed in the form of ‘locker room’ emails and texts, and to credit Daniel Oates, the imported police chief, celebrated for his handling of the Colorado Movie Theatre Shootings, for cleaning up the department. Miami Herald reporter David Ovalle deserves credit for at least asking why Chief Oates did not fire a black police officer in plain clothes for beating up a white Good Samaritan who came to the assistance of an white inebriated woman whose purse the cop was rifling through in the lobby of a building, and for then punching and kicking her in the head after she was handcuffed behind her back. I have updated my editorial, ‘The Miami Herald Plays Racist Card for Mayor Philip Levine,’ to include the allegation that the battered woman had addressed the officer with a racist slur, with no such allegation being made against the Good Samaritan, a courageous but wimpy businessman who was no match for the brute. That would not be surprising if true, as can be seen from my firsthand account (below) of what was going on in my predominantly Hispanic Miami Beach hood just five years ago. Cops, regardless of their color, are despised by Hispanic immigrants in that erstwhile crackhood. Thanks to Raymond Martinez and his fine officers, the very neighborhood that police officers used to apologize for was cleaned up after he became chief. Captain Mark Causey, who survived the political reform of the department and is now a major, led the crackdown on criminals there and in the adjacent Entertainment District of South Beach. The policing tactic included the utilization of crime suppression units, a strategy now criticized as racist because it was used in predominantly black neighborhoods in the City of Miami. It appears to me that mainstream media loves trouble and hates cops, and plays politics and fans racism to sell the bad “news” about human nature, which is nothing new.


November 2010

Miami Beach, Florida

“What you going to do about us, niggers, arrest us?” the more belligerent of the two Honduran illegals asked the two black cops who responded to my call about drunken and disorderly conduct and child abuse at a little apartment complex of three small buildings on Euclid Avenue in “chic” South Beach, which is on the southern reach of Miami Beach.

I had called the police, in the wee hours of Monday morning just two weeks before Christmas, because of the screaming and loud music downstairs. When I came outside and looked down, I saw Juan, one of the tenants, unconscious on his back on the sidewalk in front of the downstairs apartment. A terrified little boy was running around in the dark, screaming. Another tenant, leaning against the wall of the building next door, looked up at me with arms crossed and a menacing grimace. The gentuza look, I noted.

Each of the three buildings in my complex has four studio apartments; rent: $800 month or more. The studios are sizeable. This particular apartment below me, occupied by Honduran immigrants, had been previously occupied by a Puerto Rican couple, two babies, a dog, and sometimes a mother-in-law; they had finally managed to get a two bedroom apartment on North Beach with Section 8 assistance.

As Homeland Security’s I.C.E. knows very well, South Beach is densely packed with illegal immigrants who generally serve the expensive hotels and restaurants that illegally hire them and pay them low wages. “The Italians” are said to run the trafficking operation. The paperless workers live two or more to a small room. Many of them occupy their off hours drinking beer, and smoking pot and crack when they have the cash. If they do not have the cash, they may deal drugs to get it. Do not be surprised if a couple of them rape and knife a woman or two in the alley, or if one of them knifes a wife in front of his friend, who does nothing to prevent it. That has happened recently, and far more frequently in their crime ridden countries of origin. Of course anyone who points out this phenomena will be called a racist.

I was tired and wanted to go back to sleep. It was after two in the morning. I had to be on the way to work by six. The acoustics of the premises are such that the usually loud conversations between the buildings carry to every apartment nearby. The bass thumping of Latino and Hip Hop music disrupts the peace, vibrating an entire building from within. To make matters worse, some residents love to slam their metal doors, which creates a very loud boom, as if their apartments were big drums.

I had become sick and tired of being awakened so often in the middle of the night by noisy neighbors and their visitors, and by vagrants, drug users, and strangers from the clubs who use the premises as a toilet and as a place to fornicate. The generally absent landlord refused to fix the locks on the gates. He rents to anyone who has some money, preferably cash, no questions asked.

Yes, one can always move, and maybe buy some peace and quiet elsewhere, say, for $1,000 a month, if you are lucky. But then you may move and wind up having the same or worse experience elsewhere, so sometimes you figure it is best to take a stand. When I signed the lease, I thought the place was a move up for me, from previous prostitute-ridden, crack-head and drug-dealer infested quarters owned by prominent developer Russell Galbut and operated by his relative David Muhlrad, directly across from the Delano Hotel on Collins Avenue [now the upscale Gale Regent Hotel]. The landlord assured me that the premises were a quiet place to live. Little did I know that the apartment complex had been a public nuisance for over a decade.

Now it so happened that Juan, who spoke no English at all, had managed to get to his feet from the sidewalk below my apartment after he had passed out. The cops had arrived. He was swaying back and forth outside the apartment door, leering at them in a drunken stupor. The two-year old boy in the two immigrants’ care was inside the downstairs apartment now, still screaming bloody murder.

“Where’s the mother of the baby?” one cop asked.

“What? You going to arrest us, nigger?”

“Hey, listen up. I asked you, where is the mother of the baby?”

“You gonna arrest us nigger? What you going to do? Fuck you, nigger. You going to arrest us, huh?” the belligerent man rambled on, and then began to walk away.

“Come back here!” one cop ordered. He sat the man down on the sidewalk and cuffed him, where the man continued to insult him.

“Shut the fuck up!” the cop commanded. “Where is the mother of the baby?”

The other officer had gone into the apartment through the open door, where the little boy was crying hysterically. I could hear every word. He spoke in Spanish with Juan, who identified himself as the father of the boy.

“The mother is working at a laundry over on Alton Road,” the officer soon informed his partner outside. “I’ll get someone to go over there,” he said, and communicated the address to the dispatcher. Some time passed, and he said, “A car went over there. There is no laundry.”

One cop came upstairs and knocked on my door. “Well,” I said to myself, “now I am identified. But so what, people should come forward instead of hiding like cowards.”

The officer asked me what I knew. I complimented him on his restraint, and told him what I had observed. And I told him I had seen the landlord rent the apartment to Juan, give him mailbox keys, and that I had told Juan in terrible Spanish that I did not care what my neighbors did as long as they did not disturb the peace, and if they did that I would call the police.

The officer informed me that there were drugs and beer in the downstairs apartment, and no food at all for the baby. The poor child was plainly terrified. The mother could not be found. The brass had been called, and the two men would probably be arrested. They appeared to be illegal immigrants, and might be deported, but that was up to the judge. It was not long before the brass showed up; the two men and child were taken away.

It was after 4 am by then, and I laid down hoping to get an hour’s sleep before getting ready for work. I heard some shouting ten minutes later. A half dozen men and women from the illegal immigrant apartment hotel next door had showed up downstairs. They were evidently family and friends of the arrestees. I told them the two had been arrested, and asked them to please quiet down.

Two residents of the front building, Guillermo and his consort, Uhma, came out. Uhma, an immigrant from Pakistan, had gotten stoned on crack and wine one recent night, and announced that every man had a penis, but she only cared about the ones who had “bump” i.e. crack, and she laid out how she sold drugs for Guillermo at the hotel where she worked.

“Look!” said Guillermo, pointing me out to the relatives. “He called the police, got them arrested!”

“He is evil!” screeched Uhma, pointing at me.

“And what are you?” I thought, “but a coke whore!” I felt like saying but did not, as I do my best to refrain from insulting women with vile language.

“You called the cops! The cop came to see you! I saw the whole thing,” Guillermo declared.

“If you care about them so much, why did you hide in your apartment and look out the window at it instead of coming to their aid?”

He did not respond, but he got the relatives in his car and drove them to the police station.

I did have some remorse about the arrests. After all, it was nearly Christmas, and it appeared that I had broken up a family.

“Don’t feel bad,” my neighbor, Danny, said. “You probably saved that child’s life. He was born in this country and is a citizen, so he will be put in a home somewhere and be better off in the United States.

I found a subpoena from the State Attorney’s office tacked on my door. I showed up for the pre-trial interview, where I related what happened. The interviewer informed me that several felony charges had been made. Juan, the father, had violated an injunction to stay away from the mother and child. Apparently the mother was working and giving money to him to watch the kid, which he spent on beer and drugs. Other charges were felony drug possession, and felony child abuse. Juan’s cohort was on felony bond for burglarizing apartments, she said.

“They both might be deported, but that is up to the judge,” she said, looking over the papers in front of her. “They’re both in jail now. No, wait a minute, only Juan is in jail, the other guy, the one who was out on felony bond, he got another bond and is out of jail now. It looks like this one fellow, the father, was hanging out with the wrong company, and got himself into trouble.”

“That was my impression too,” I said. “His friend was very hostile, looked like trouble when I first laid eyes on him.

Child Services called me on my cell phone a few days later, wanting to know where the mother and child were.

“They are back in the apartment, and the boy seems just fine now, happy now that he is away from the out-of-control drunks. He is very endearing. Sometimes I worry about him because he plays in the yard where the landlord allows a lot of dog waste to pile up, and the other day I had to keep him from putting his fingers into the air conditioning fans outside.”

“But where is the child right now? We went by the apartment and they were not there.”

“She leaves the child with Uhma in the front building when she goes to work. Uhma was a crack whore but she got off drugs and booze because she is pregnant by somebody, and she treats the boy well. Uhma’s friend Guillermo speaks Spanish so he is trying to help the mother get the kid’s father out of jail.”

Child Services personnel came around several times after that, until the landlord ordered the mother out – apparently the men had taken all her money so she could not pay rent. The landlord, a tolerant Cuban Hebrew immigrant, made one of his rare appearances a few days later.

“You called the police. You should not discriminate against illegals,” he told me.

“What? Hey, I called the police not because they were immigrants but because they were disturbing the peace and a child was terrified in the middle of the night. Now they are charged with several felonies.”

“Don’t tell me that. That is just what someone says, what you say. I don’t believe it.”

“That is what the State Attorney says. Really, you should check these people out before you rent to them. You must have lost plenty of rent when the drug dealers in two of the back apartments were arrested. You should get background and credit checks before renting to guys like Juan.”

“I didn’t rent the apartment to him.”

“Oh? I saw you negotiating with him and then giving him the keys.”

“Let me tell you something. I came to this country with nothing, and rental signs said ‘No Spics’ back then.”

“You were Cuban. You got special treatment.”

“Look, if it were not for these people, oranges would cost $2 each.”

“If oranges were selling for $2 each, I would be picking and selling them. I don’t give a damn what illegals do as long as they do not disturb the peace and wake me up in the middle of the night.”

After the landlord departed, my neighbor Mike appeared.

“I was sleeping, but I woke up and heard you talking to the landlord. You should have told him that if he loves illegals so much then he should come and live with them.”

“Really. But you know most illegals are respectful, and for obvious reasons. I don’t know what is up with these Hondurans. Maybe it’s a gang. Right after this guy moved in with the woman, there were dozens of them hanging out at all hours around the apartment, drinking and smoking marijuana.”

“I see them when I come home late,” Mike said.

“It’s scary when all this is going on right outside your door. The property is a damn nuisance. I think it should be seized. All the landlord cares about is money, the cash he gets off them. I saw rolls of it handed over when the Bloods gang was living in back.”

“He will lose all his tenants.”

“What gets me is how these idiots can be so disrespectful to the police. I hear Honduras is very violent and cops are despised there, so I guess it’s the culture.”

The very next week, after the two Hondurans were arrested, a Cuban woman who lives in the back building told me she had overheard The landlord telling the mother to vacate the apartment, and when she asked for the deposit, he told her she could not have it, and said that if she complained about it, he would call Immigration and have her deported. The last I heard, the mother had been deported. I don’t know what happened to the child.

Other Hondurans have taken over the apartment. That is another story, involving a great deal of traffic, gay hustlers, orgies, visiting families “from Texas,” a rotating extended family from Michigan Avenue and so on. For the life of me, I do not understand how so many people stay up all night partying and make a living too. Maybe they are receiving public assistance or dealing drugs, maybe both.

The new crowd of Hondurans in the apartment are somewhat quieter despite lots of traffic all night long, except when one portly woman stays over with several men. Her English includes many foul words to be heard a half block away when the windows are open. Rather than calling the cops, I asked her to please keep the noise down last week.

“Fucking Americanos! Fucking Americanos!” she shouted over and over. The men laughed, and turned up the stereo.




Joe the Plumber’s Magic Money Machine



The Counterfeiting Monopoly

Business was down for Joe the Plumber. So far down that he had to lay off three of his Mexicans. Alas, if things did not get way better soon, which was highly unlikely, it appeared that he would be making somewhat less than $250,000 in 2009, so he decided that he and his wife Jenny must vote for Barrack Obama because the suave candidate had promised he would cut taxes for everyone making less than that handsome sum. As for the $250,000 Joe the Plumber had stashed away in his basement hiding place, being his earnings net of the funds he had deposited in his bank to pay expenses, he decided he would do the patriotic thing and report it and whatever else he might net until the end of the year on his 2008 tax return.

Furthermore, Joe the Plumber would put the cash in his old, green toolbox Monday morning and take the money to the bank and deposit it. At least the whole amount would now be safe in the bank, he thought. Thanks to the Bailout, the FDIC now insured deposits up to $250,000, which happened to be the annual income that divided the poor from the rich in the United States, whereas he would have lost $150,000 of it if it had been in the bank a month ago, as the insurance only covered $100,000 back then. He had gotten down on his knees with Jenny and the kids and thanked God that he had not put all the money in the bank before, as the Great State Bank had failed and had been duly federalized and renamed the Federal Great State Bank. So now his bank, backed by no less than Uncle Sam and In God We Trust, was sound, and his deposits would be safe from bank failures if not from tax collectors.

Joe the Plumber would not lose any sleep over the fact that he had evaded at least a half-million dollars in taxes over the past few years as an unlicensed plumber. It was just a fluke that the I.R.S. had nailed him for three years with a random audit, and would not have him prosecuted if he paid up in ten days. He really did not believe he had done anything morally wrong even though tax evasion was illegal. First of all, he was a democratic Republican, one who believed in majority rule through elected representatives hand-picked by party bosses; at least he was a Republican when the Republicans were in control of Congress and the White House; and everyone knew that the majority more or less cheated on their taxes, many of them fraudulently taking charitable deductions on Schedule A for their compassionate conservatism. Moreover, Big Government was wrong simply because of its size, so Joe the Plumber was not being selfish for withholding supplies from it until it was reformed, trimmed down to expend its limited revenue to achieve sovereignty’s most legitimate form, the mightiest police and military force in the world, greater than the sum of the next three largest forces on the globe.

Now Joe the Plumber had taken some interest in banking due to the banking crisis. As a plumber, he was especially fascinated by the talk about the credit and liquidity crises and cash flows, and how the banks had shut the valves even when they had plenty of liquid, because of the confidence crisis. The economists said there was a difference between money and credit, inasmuch as money is what you buy groceries with, while credit pays for groceries with money borrowed from someone else whom you will pay back, but Joe the Plumber thought the difference was essentially between paper and plastic, the two being virtually convertible at the check-out counter. And then he did some Internet research and found out that banks are money machines that have a monopoly on creating money out of money by ideally loaning out a total of ten times the amount of money deposited with a bank. His mouth watered when he read the juicy paper, ‘Reserve Requirements’, published by the Federal Reserve Bank of New York:

“If the reserve requirement is 10%, for example, a bank that receives a $100 deposit may lend out $90 of that deposit. If the borrower then writes a check to someone who deposits the $90, the bank receiving that deposit can lend out $81. As the process continues, the banking system can expand the initial deposit of $100 into a maximum of $1,000 of money ($100 + $90 + $81 + $72.90 + … = $1,000).”

Joe the Plumber knew that depositors may lose confidence in banks and want their money back at the same time, make a run on banks, wiping out the reserves and driving even sound banks into bankruptcy. Besides the reserve requirement on deposit liabilities, banks have capital requirements requiring them to have capital, the difference between assets and liabilities, as a cushion amounting to a certain percentage of their assets such as cash, government securities, and loans. Steve Forbes explained to Joe the Plumber that an “asinine” accounting rule called FAS157 required banks to write down or “mark-to-market” the value of their loans to a minimal level when there was virtually no market for them, hence the banks lost assets and capital at the stroke of a pen, and could no longer lend out money. So the government stepped in to buy stock. The “liquidity infusion” of the government’s head plumber greatly improved the bank capital, putting the banks in a position to make loans and thereby create money again.

Yet, learned Joe the Plumber, banks might have plenty of cash to lend out but refuse to do so because they lose confidence in one another, aggravating the credit crisis. One reason for the diffidence might be the amounts due from gambling on the fluctuating value of loans outstanding, placing bets called insurance premiums via “credit default swaps.” Anyone can play, even if she has no interest in the loan bet on. Credit default swaps were being retailed by Lehman on fancy paper in Germany as if they were as good as money. The U.S. Congress exempted the unregulated betting from state gambling laws. Joe the Plumber learned that maybe $70 trillion of those so-called insurance policies are out there; netted out, they might amount to $5 trillion due and payable, and for all one bank knows, another bank might be bankrupted over night – it is the custom to seize banks in the middle of the night while everyone is fast asleep.

Anyway, Joe the Plumber supposed that if extending credit makes money because the amount of the loan is deposited in a bank and 90% of it is loaned out again and deposited again to create more money, and so on, then there is not much difference between money and credit. Indeed, he noticed that the bills he had on hand were clearly marked, “Federal Reserve Note.” They did not amount to a promise to pay so much gold to the bearer on demand; the promise amounts to acceptance as legal tender. There exists an implicit promise that people will deliver goods and services on presentation of this printed money, which is only a small portion, at least half of it in foreign countries, of transaction money; the most of transaction money is demand deposit or checking account money, which is useful to both the depositor and the bank, while paper money is only immediately useful to the bearer.

Money, Joe the Plumber concluded after thinking about it for awhile, is both an asset and a liability, a sort of system of mutual claims, and the debt mounts when the supply of money is inflated by credit expansions. If people cannot pay that debt by producing what is owed when it comes due, the money will lose purchasing power. Be that as it may, he was disturbed to hear from the White House that the banks were not loaning out the taxpayer money used to buy stock in the banks. They were sitting on the money or using it to gobble up other banks. When fast-talking White House Press Secretary Dana Perino came out to the podium and speedily said, “What we’re trying to do is get banks to do what they are supposed to do, which is support the system that we have in America. And banks exist to lend money,” Joe the Plumber was livid. So they were holding out! Lending the money out should have been part of the scheme! “The way that banks make money,” she said, “is by lending money. And so, they have every incentive to move forward and start using this money.”

“Damn right! That’s how they make money, and in more ways than one, so they had better start doling it out!” Joe the Plumber affirmed out loud to the television, and yelled out to Jenny to bring him another Bud from the kitchen. Surely the banks would heed the White House now and ramp up lending, he thought. He figured he would help the cause with his $250,000 Monday morning. Why, the banking system, if functioning efficiently, might turn his money into $2,500,000! Heck, after he paid off the I.R.S. for back taxes and paid some estimated taxes, he might borrow some money from the bank himself.

Another reason he had for wanting to deposit his money in the bank instead of keeping it in the basement was not so patriotic. He was concerned, for example, that he would make the I.R.S. suspicious if he tried to immediately pay the $42,594 back taxes and penalties and interest he owed in hard cash at the I.R.S. office downtown – a check drawn on the bank would be the best way to go.

Having resolved to do what he had to do, he turned his thoughts to the troubling thought that he might not be a $250,000 man again until the economy recovered from the impending Great Recession. So he and Jenny would have to vote for Barrack Obama to save money in taxes. Hopefully, things would be looking up in four years, in which case he and Jenny would have to vote for Sarah Palin. Indeed, he would do what any enterprising economic animal would do. Still he was mad as hell at the whole scene. What aggravated him the most about all these promising politicians is that they were bribing taxpayers with taxpayer’s money. However, he managed to calm down a bit by meditating on the magic of making money. Maybe man can live on loans alone after all.