I was handcuffed at my home and driven to a processing station at the county “Justice Center.” Officers stood me against the wall and patted me down for contraband, checking my pockets, stripping off my socks, pulling out the insoles of my shoes. Other officers emptied my bag and wallet of their belongings, took my ring and hairclip from me, and wrestled my tennis shoes free from their laces, putting everything they had collected into a sealed plastic bag. Occasionally they asked me about this or that they had found among my things: looking at my business cards, “Do you know anyone famous?”, or at the Kerry and Obama stickers that adorn my little makeshift Metro card case, “Are you a Democrat or a Republican? Because if you’re a Republican, I can take you to see the commissioner right away.” They were joking and generally amused. I was sobbing and shaking. This was the worst day of my life but just another work day in theirs, just another tawdry soap opera of thousands they