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.





Death by Muck for Elder Abuse


Death by Muck

by David Arthur Walters

Proposed penalty for abusing ALF residents in swampy Florida

For People Who Neglect Poor Elderly and Mentally Challenged ALF Residents

Editorial by

David Arthur Walters THE MIAMI MIRROR

MIAMI BEACH—My heart was already racing from my second cup of coffee when I read the Miami Herald’s lead story on the front page this morning. By the time I had finished ‘Grand jury probes troubled ALFs’ the latest article in the rag’s “NEGLECTED TO DEATH,” I was infuriated, fit to indict, try and execute anyone at all involved in the abuse of poor elderly and mentally incapacitated persons wasting away in assisted living facilities in the swampy State of Florida.

Presuming that the Herald has gotten the facts right that led to the official investigation, the neglectful ALFs are chambers of horror into which poor helpless people are dumped. Those who resist are tied down and left to die of blood clots from the restraints, just for example. I felt my skin crawl at the thought of bloodthirsty bedbugs, and of rats scurrying across the floors, not to mention frustrated angels of death. I imagined Salpetriere, long before Princess Diana died there, when it was the dumping ground for Paris’ elderly and insane, a holding pen for prostitutes, and for criminals awaiting deportation to North America, before Dr. Phillippe Pierre stepped in with humanitarian reforms. I remember how the hospital was stormed during the Revolution, and compared the mob to Tallahassee politicians; 134 prostitutes were released, but 25 mentally ill women were dragged out into the streets in their chains and murdered.

Presuming the Herald’s horrendous accounts to be true, which I would fain do even though I have found a portion of a previous award-winning muckraking series to be untrue and probably libelous, I would first of all give the newspaper journalists, starting with investigative editor Mike Sallah, the highest possible award for muckraking, the Mucky-Muck Medal.

And then, still in a fit of rage, I would throw the caretakers, supervisors, executives, owners, regulators, legislators, and top officials, anyone for that matter who neglected or allowed the neglect to continue, into the foulest muck, having in mind the practice of ancient Chinese dynasts, who amputated the arms and legs of royal traitors and tossed them into latrines.

Yes, the penalty I would have imposed in all my fury, neglecting my liberal ideological religion, was certainly draconian: death by muck: eat the muck or not, the offenders shall die in the muck. Everyone is equally liable for the deaths in ALF. The charges would include both kinds of involuntary manslaughter: criminal negligence and constructive homicide, and aiding and abetting the same. As for those persons abused but not killed, the charge would be attempted manslaughter, with the same penalty upon conviction: death by muck.

Draconian indeed; let the punishment be a warning to voluntary murderers and abusers! The defense, “We accidentally put these persons to sleep forever because they wanted to take a nap,” shall only compound the crime wherever celebrities and propofol are not involved.

Now that I have calmed down somewhat, my liberal principles are coming to the fore. Let the matter be handled as it should be according to the current letter of the law, provided that the grand jury is supplied with Cuban coffee and runs amuck. As for the facts, whether or not they are true, everyone had better check on their elderly and mentally disturbed relatives confined to institutions; if you have none, go to an ELF, say you have an elderly relative, take a tour of the facility, post the infractions on the Internet and report them to the authorities.

If you are poor and getting old, and still have some wits about you, you might consider doing some research, leaving Florida in the muck if you can find a place where the elderly are treated better. Some parents in primitive times had their children stone them to death after thanking them for coming over to do the merciful deed, but that is illegal in this so-called civilized state.

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