by Jeff Marinelli


::: At the time of this tale, I was 46 years old and had never been arrested.

Around three in the morning on June 11, 2003, my wife sat up in bed and turned her light on, waking me up. "Someone's yelling outside", she said. She peeked through the blinds and could see someone staggering around on Garden Street.

We got up and went downstairs while she called the police. They asked her if she wanted to file a report. "No", she said, "Can you just have someone drive by and tell the person to go home?"

We headed back upstairs as I saw a police cruiser’s taillights pass the front window. We climbed back into bed and turned the lights out. Fifteen minutes or so later, my wife turns the light on again. "Someone's trying to break in," she tells me. She is frightened.

We wake up our oldest son. He is wearing only a pair of boxers. I pull on my jeans but am barechested. We run down the stairs. A dull thump thump thump is coming from outside. My golden retriever is barking and growling, all her teeth showing. My son and I grab a baseball bat and run outside.

In my driveway are two men and a woman. The two men are drunk. They see us coming and turn to run. I can smell the beer on them. One man draws a gun and points it at my son's chest. In the gloom, I see a flash of chrome and a black O at the end of the barrel. Time stands still for an instant and my heart stops. The gun is jammed. He pulls the trigger and nothing happens. My son is enraged and begins to thrash the two fellows. We chase them off our property as my son follows them across the street. It turns out to be a paintball gun, which the fellow had been using on the side of my house, which is what had been making the noise. The other guy had thrown a can of beer at my house and busted a shutter.

I stand in the middle of the street holding the baseball bat in my hand. My son is duking it out with the two guys in the parking lot across the street. My wife comes to me in the middle of the street and says: "I've called 911. The cops are on their way."

My adrenaline is still pumping but there's nothing left for me to do.

My first thought is to see if I can tell what these guys have done to my house. There is a streetlight at the intersection in front of my house, but a large pin oak blocks the light. It is very dark in my side yard. I'm standing holding the bat loosely, pointed toward the ground as I try to make out how much damage there is.

The street fills with cop cars. The call had gone out as a burglary in progress. Two Sheriffs and two State Troopers have responded, too. I'm about 25 feet from the sidewalk. I'm conscious of a sudden light in my eyes... someone is shining a flashlight in my face. I can't hear well. My latest hearing test shows the bulk of my hearing loss to be severe, just above profoundly deaf... it's not just that everything is quiet for me, but it's distorted, too. I can't read lips in the dark. The person asks me what I think is: "Are there more of them around?" I answer "no".

I feel the bat start to be pulled out of my hand. I instinctively grab on to it. The light is still blinding me. I am struck from behind, whether by a flashlight or a baton or something else, I don't know. I am forced to the ground and have my hands cuffed behind my back. I am under arrest.

My wife and son are about 12 feet away and have been shouting at the officers: "He can't hear what you're telling him to do". As my wife testified under oath, the City police officer's response to her was "Shut the fuck up and get back on the porch".

The other three people have been arrested, too. They will be charged with criminal mischief, trespass and discharge of a firearm. I am led to the back of a police car and get inside. My wife and son look at me through the window, shocked at what has just happened.

The officer climbs in the front seat and takes off. He is not using his lights or siren but runs a stop sign getting me to the police station. Two male officers and a female officer are in the parking lot and watch as I'm escorted into the building. We go downstairs. The booking area and holding cells are in the basement of the police station. One of the prisoners is sitting on a bench facing the door as I'm led in. He's still handcuffed, and his face and arm are bloody. Two of the officers are liberally covered with mud. The prisoner is shouting and carrying on. As I walk in, he is whisked out of sight down the hall.

I'm led to a holding cell. It's about 6 by 9 feet, I guess. There's a small barred window set high up near the ceiling. A stainless steel toilet/sink combination is bolted to one wall. There is a wooden bunk with no mattress or blanket. I look around. The officer is motioning me to come over to the door. He asks: "Can you hear me OK now?" I tell him I'll read his lips. He says he's going to remove the handcuffs. I turn around so he can reach my wrists through the bars. The handcuffs have been put on too tightly and have gouged a v-shaped furrow in my right wrist. (click to see) A curlicue of skin like a wood shaving hangs from the cut. I pull it off. He tells me to give him my belt and my shoes. I have to kick the shoes out onto the hall.

The officer has a clipboard and needs to ask me some questions. We do the basic stuff, name, address, age, and occupation. He asks: "Have you ever been arrested?" I tell him: "No. I've never even had a traffic ticket." He wants to know if I'm on any medication. I look at the clipboard and see there's only two lines there for that information. I answer: "There's not enough room on the sheet to list all the medicine I take." He inquires if I'm an elected official or hold a position of public responsibility. I tell him no. He says: "I need to ask you this question: Do you see any hope for the future?" As someone who has struggled with severe, profound depression over the last several years, I know exactly why he's asking. I tell him: "There is no hope for the future".

He tells me he needs to talk to his sergeant. He leaves and comes back shortly. He gives me my belt and shoes back. I'm led out into the booking room for my fingerprints and mugshot. A conversation is ensuing between two of the officers and one or both of the prisoners. The prisoners are out of sight in a holding cell. A prisoner has just said something. (Inaudible) I see the first officer stand on the balls of his feet and jab his finger toward the doorway. He's seriously angry. The veins stand out in his neck. "You shut up in there," he yells. (Inaudible reply). Both cops laugh. The first cop grabs his crotch and jiggles his genitals. "Suck THIS!" he shouts. The other cop joins in. "Ahh, you'll be in there with your ball buddies!" he hollers.

In contrast to this behavior, the officer handling my arrest has become a consummate model of professionalism. He addresses me as Mr. Marinelli. I in turn defer to with him respect and courtesy. He tells me to stand with my back to the wall. He hands me a little number board to hold up while he takes my picture. I ask him if he needs a profile shot, too. He says no, just the one. He takes my hands one at a time and rolls my fingers on the ink blotter then presses my fingertips to the fingerprint card. My prints are now part of the FBI Database of criminals. He hands me some towellettes to clean the ink off. I question him about something he had said earlier: "Look," I ask, "please don't think I have an attitude or something, but I'm curious... you asked me if I was an elected official or had a position of public responsibility. Do those people get special treatment?" He gives me a knowing look and says, "No, they don't. But someone like that might feel they have more to lose."

He says, "We're going to let you go home". He leads me upstairs to the front door of the police station. He hands me an appearance ticket with a court date on it. I'm charged with menacing a Police Officer with a Weapon. He holds the door open for me. "Your wife's waiting for you", he says.

I walk home shirtless at 5 am.

The lights are on at my house. My wife and son are anxiously talking at the table as I walk in. I tell them what I'm charged with. My son is very angry. My leg begins to hurt where I was hit. My doctor documents a huge hematoma. I'm lame for weeks and use a cane to walk. Word begins to go out, both by my efforts and by those efforts of my friends. The second day after my arrest, the Daily Messenger prints it in Police Beat. Phone calls and e-mails begin to pour in from people who all want to know: "What the hell is going on?" I begin my search for an attorney. I keep my own counsel and do not usually ask for advice, but everyone says the same thing: "Don't use a local lawyer."

I go to my first court date with just my wife. The judge calls my name and we approach the bench. He says for the benefit of the court: "Mr. Marinelli is charged with menacing a Police Officer with a weapon." He looks at the charge and says it very slowly as if he's not sure whether there might be some mistake. He asks me how I plead. I do not look at the judge but instead at the DA handling my case and tell him: "I am NOT guilty." I tell the judge and the DA that I want a trial by jury (as is my right). I get my case adjourned so I can find a lawyer.

A friend gives me a referral to an attorney in Rochester. He comes to my house to talk to me. He has extensive experience, having worked for George Bush, Sr., and the ACLU. We hit it off pretty well. After I finish telling him what happened, he says: "The Canandaigua City Police Department has quite a reputation." He does not elaborate on what kind of reputation they have.

My first reaction is one of rage. However, I have counseled many people to avoid acting in anger. It's tough to follow my own advice, but I do it. Word is really starting to get around. The producer of The Brother Wease Morning Circus calls. Wease wants to go live with me the next day. (Disability issues are important to Wease) The Messenger calls for a story, too. I ask my lawyer if I can go ahead. He says: "Let me do what I have to do first." Boy, it was tough to obey him... as a communications guy, naturally I'm interested in getting my side of the story out.

We go to court where my lawyer enters a plea of 'not guilty' for me. He does not permit me to speak. The DA wishes to portray me as a bad guy. (Just doing his job as an adversary) My lawyer (Just doing his job as an advocate) screams at the judge: "The officer told my client's wife to shut the fuck up and get back on the porch!" To say that there was shocked silence in the courtroom would be an understatement. I feel like laughing out loud, but I don't. The DA's office offers me a deal. If I plead to disorderly conduct, I'll get a fine and have to do community service. I tell my lawyer to tell them to forget it. He smiles and says he never would have let me accept the deal anyway. I'm indignant at such a suggestion. I've already done lots of community service.

Things become a waiting game. For me, anyway... for those who work in the service of the law, this is normal time. Things seem to take forever. The DA's office answers my lawyer's inquiry: The Canandaigua City Police Department has no policy, written or otherwise, on dealing with disabled people. Interestingly enough, a few years back I went to see our Police Chief and the Undersheriff (#2 man at the sheriff's dept) about some concerns of mine. Both men told me in response to my question: Our law enforcement officers get 6 hours of training a year in dealing with people with disabilities. I don't think it's enough.

An interesting fact turns up: The City of Canandaigua carries no malpractice or liability insurance on anything its police officers do, opting for self-insurance instead. This means that the City pays for any judgements against the Police Department. Self-insurance is sometimes a reaction to exorbitant premiums. I don't know what it is here.

Finally a date gets set for a hearing. My lawyer says if it comes down to it, we should go for a bench trial. He says he wants my wife to testify, but not me. He hires a sign language interpreter for me in the courtroom. The hearing doesn't take all that long. The prosecutor examines the arresting officer, who states that I made him fear for his safety and that he needed another officer to get me to stop resisting. If that were so, why wasn't I charged with resisting arrest? The prosecutor says if the judge finds me innocent, it'll send a message to people that it's acceptable to use weapons against police officers. My lawyer asks my wife to recount the police officer's profanity to her. She does. The prosecutor doesn't even go there.

We're done with the hearing. I ask my lawyer what happens next. He says the judge wants to take some time to review the case. (He has 60 days to do so) He can issue a ruling, or we'll have to go to trial. More waiting.

The Police Department's lawyer schedules a deposition for me to testify under oath. This gets cancelled and rescheduled. My lawyer has to cancel the next one because he gets called for jury duty. I wait. The deposition gets rescheduled again.

I call my lawyer on the 59th day and ask him if he's heard anything. He says he should know by tomorrow.

He calls me at night at home the next day. He savors the moment, which is ok. It's his victory. The judge has ordered all charges against me dropped in the interest of justice. I ask: "What does this mean?" He says: "It means you won." The judge’s decision is mailed to me. I find it very interesting. He makes it plain that his power to order charges dropped in the interest of justice is a power that has to be used sparingly and only in a case where it would truly be an injustice to prosecute someone. By law, there are 10 criteria that the judge must consider before he can dismiss the charges. My case meets 9 of the 10.

The third scheduled deposition is mysteriously cancelled within 24 hours after I announce that I intend to write this story on The Ordinary Citizen. It has not been rescheduled. I want my finger print card returned, along with my mugshot. I want my baseball bat back. I want the charges against me expunged, which means that they won't show up if a background check is run on me.

I'd never claim to be a more solid citizen than anyone else, but I've done the things I could think of to make Canandaigua a better place. I have 13 years as an adult leader in the Boy Scouts of America. (I'm retired now) My wife and I started the first Neighborhood Watch program in the City of Canandaigua. I donated the logo for the Sheriff’s Department SWAT team. I donated all the work to the City Police Department for their 'Click it or Ticket' seat belt campaign. Additionally, I've been listed in Who's Who in the East and was honored by NYS Governor Mario Cuomo as New York State's Entrepreneur of the Year for Individuals with Disabilities. I do not deserve to be treated this way.

Epilogue: At the time of the posting of this story, all issues are still unresolved, more than a year later. My wife and I got a letter from the Ontario County Probation Department. The man with the paintball gun has been ordered by the judge to pay us 50 dollars for defacing our house. The next morning my wife goes to get our paper. She comes back with a worried expression and tells me to take a look.

My front door has been decorated with paintballs. I call the man's probation officer. She agrees with me that it would certainly be an amazing coincidence if the letter and the paintballs were unrelated. I tell her if it happens again my next call will be to the judge. She tells me she'll most certainly relay the message when she sees him later that day.

She asks me if we've called the police to report it. "No." I say. "We have not."

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