Years ago I rented a room in an old house in Koreatown. One day I went out to check the mailbox and there were two men pointing pistols at me as soon as I stepped out onto the front porch of the house. Their guns were identical, which was the only clue I had that they were police. "Don't shoot me, please!" was all I could think to say. One of them grabbed me by my neck and then both of them pressed their guns against my head. They pulled me off the porch and my hands were then cuffed behind my back and one of the cops pushed me forward while the other tripped me so I landed on my face. One of them stepped on the back of my head and pressed my face into the dirt. They addressed me as "fucking punk," and shouted questions about who else was in the house. This went on for a few minutes and then some uniformed cops pulled up and went into the house and came back out and eventually I was able to inform them that I lived there. I had no way of proving it though and they didn't seem inclined to believe me.
Then my landlord, John, arrived. He watched from across the street for a moment, unsure whether or not to approach. Finally he decided to intervene on my behalf. He was a coke addict who shot-up in his arms, legs, and hands, so he rolled his sleeves down to his wrists to cover his track marks, shoved his hands into his pockets, and asked one of the cops what was going on.
The cop explained that they'd gotten a call that there were "a bunch of robbers" in this house, and they'd caught this guy, me, coming out. John told him that it was his house and I rented a room there.
After a while they uncuffed me. One of the cops said, "I guess this was just a misunderstanding." Then all the cops left.
Over the years I've received similar treatment from the LAPD on many occasions. It's just one of those things you have to expect when you live in Los Angeles. It never occurred to me to make a lifestyle out of complaining about it, but then, I don't have the benefit of a race-card.
