Table Of Content

A SURVIVAL GUIDE How NOT to get KILLED by the POLICE PART I Table of Contents Introduction ………………….……………………………………….…1 Dedication ….………………………………………………………….…8 The Brethren ……………………………………………………….....10 Getting Pulled Over – How To Behave When You See Those Flashing Lights In Your Rear-View Mirror ……...12 Getting Stopped on the Street – How to Behave When You’re Approached by the Police …………………………..…19 Another Story …………………….…………………………………...24 When the Police Knock on Your Door at Home …….…...27 Conclusion ………………………………………………………...……30 Who is M. Quentin B.L. Williams? ……….………………..…..31 Introduction “I want you to turn around, place your hands behind your back and get up against the cruiser. You’re under arrest.” Click . . . Click . . . went the sound of being handcuffed. On a beautiful evening during the summer of 1994 in Newport, Rhode Island, I was profiled by the police department as the black guy who allegedly approached a white man several hours earlier that day and, with a 9 mm pistol in hand, pointed it at him and said “What you gonna do now, white boy?” But there was just one problem. Okay, maybe more than just one problem. I had arrived in Newport less than 30 minutes prior to my encounter with the police that evening. Earlier in the day, when the threatening act allegedly occurred—at approximately 3 p.m.—I was in Bridgeport, Connecticut, debriefing my Special-Agent-in-Charge, or SAC, about a civil rights case we had just closed out. That’s right; you heard me correctly, my Special Agent- in-Charge. I was an FBI Agent at the time, working out of the New Haven Field Office and stationed in Bridgeport. 1 We closed out the civil rights case after a year- long investigation into the alleged execution-style killing of a black youngster by police officers in Norwalk, Connecticut. At the end of the investigation, we concluded that the police did not kill this young man. The United States Attorney, along with one of his top prosecutors and I, investigated this case together, crossing every “t” and dotting every “i”. This information is all in the public record. That Friday morning during the summer of ‘94, the U.S. Attorney and I drove down to Norwalk and broke the news to the family of the young man who was killed. Due to a lack of evidence in the case, we were not going to pursue charges against the police officers. The evidence—both forensic and eyewitness—clearly displayed that the fatal gunshot wound was self-inflicted. With over fifty family and community members in the living room of the youngster’s mother, the in-person reaction to our news was intense; full of frustration, outrage, anger and despair. But when the U.S. Attorney and I were done speaking to the family, there was an incredible amount of respect and cordiality expressed toward us by everyone in the room, although the heartbreak and disappointment was obviously overwhelming to the dead boy’s loved ones. It was a difficult experience for everyone in the room that summer morning, to say the least. 2 I offer this background to you because after my debriefing meeting back at the office with the SAC that day, I left Bridgeport at about 4:30 p.m. It was a lovely Friday afternoon, and I headed up the coast, arriving in Newport at approximately 7 p.m. By the time I dropped off my bags and changed into a pair of jeans, it was about 7:30 p.m. and I jetted out to meet some friends at a party on Main Street. The encounter with the Newport PD occurred at roughly 7:40 p.m., some 30 minutes before dusk. When I was ordered to turn around and place my hands behind my back, I immediately complied. At that moment, I had no idea what was happening. It even crossed my mind that this might be a joke. Perhaps the local PD knew I was a law enforcement officer and one of my Bureau friends coaxed them into playing a practical joke on me? But just in case, I didn’t take any chances. So when the officer told me to turn around, I didn’t question it. “May I ask what this is about?” I said. “Shut up and get up against the car!” said the Police Officer. Unbeknownst to me, a police car had pulled up behind me. “Okay,” I said to myself. 3 But I felt compelled to tell the officer something else. “I’m an FBI Agent and I have a weapon on me.” My 9 mm FBI-issued pistol was strapped in a fanny pack around my waist. As an FBI Agent, I never went anyplace without it. The officer removed the fanny pack, which also held my FBI credentials, or “creds” as we called them, and put me in the back of the cruiser—again, with the handcuffs tightly fastened around my wrists. While detained in the cruiser, I just had to ask the police officers again why I was sitting in the back of a police car with handcuffs on me. “I’m an FBI Agent and I would like to know what is going on.” You could almost hear the laughter inside their heads. It’s as if I could read their minds . . . “Sure you’re an FBI Agent! Whatever loser!” And then they saw my creds. When the officer first examined this fairly rare form of identification, it was as though he believed they were fake. His eyes said it all. Again, reading his mind, I’m sure he thought “Yeah, right. These can’t be real!” 4 The officer looked at my creds from every angle— even turning them upside down and viewing them from that perspective. A lot of law enforcement officers don’t know what authentic FBI creds look like, so how was he to know if these were real or not? But the look of concern crept over his face as the sudden onslaught of self-doubt began to penetrate his otherwise confident disposition. After I spent about 30 minutes in the backseat of the cruiser, they called their lieutenant to the scene. He examined my creds and then told me why I was arrested. I let them know that when this alleged threatening act occurred I was in Bridgeport with my SAC in a debriefing session about a civil rights case involving a young black man who was allegedly executed by police officers in Norwalk. As you can imagine, the irony of this situation was not lost on me while seated in the backseat of the cruiser. I told the lieutenant that it would be my pleasure to call the Connecticut FBI office, ask the office to patch us through to my SAC at his home, and have him tell the officers where I was at 3 p.m. that day, the time when the alleged act took place. As a matter of fact, I insisted that we call the FBI office right then and there. I was still in handcuffs, by the way. A look of terror rushed across the faces of the officers. They couldn’t believe that this scenario was playing out in this way. After all, they were certain that 5 they got their guy. But it just goes to show you that nothing in life is guaranteed. After some additional debate, and a re- examination of my creds for what seemed like the hundredth time, they told me that they were going to remove the handcuffs and allow me to get out of the cruiser, but that I had to sit on the sidewalk next to the police car while they further investigated. Of course, I complied. On a busy Friday evening, bustling with thousands of tourists and weekend partygoers, there I was sitting on the sidewalk on Main Street—the most trafficked road in Newport—with two dozen police officers and several police cruisers with flashing lights surrounding me. And everyone was watching. It was intensely embarrassing because the assumption by folks in the heavily populated downtown area was that I had done something terribly wrong. By the time I was allowed to sit on the sidewalk without handcuffs, there was a swarm of police officers and cruisers encircling me. There was quite a commotion and, although I was fully confident in the eventual outcome—that is, that I would be released—this incident shone a light on me in a most negative way. The concerned looks by passersby said it all. I was a criminal. Why would they think anything different? 6 As I expected, after 90 plus minutes, the police officers handed me my fanny pack, containing my pistol and creds, and said “I hope you understand,” then sent me on my merry way. Thank God I was an FBI Agent with a verifiable alibi. If not, I’m sure I would’ve seen the inside of a jail cell that night and, perhaps, for more than just one night. 7 Dedication I’m writing this guidebook for many reasons. But allow me to say this as a preface . . . I have the greatest respect for law enforcement. Thank God for that industry’s dedicated officers and the committed members of their support staffs. Our society depends on these committed men and women, and I’m proud to be a lifetime member of their brethren. I consider them to be members of my extended family forever. I am also sick and tired of reading about the senseless killing of people (e.g., Oscar Grant in the Bay Area, Jonathan Ferrell in Charlotte, Trayvon Martin and Israel Hernandez in Florida, and Robert Cameron Redus in Texas) by rogue law enforcement officers or individuals who are acting under the color of law. For years, my wife has encouraged me to provide my perspective on these issues—for if one young man or woman can be saved by some of the knowledge and experience I’ve acquired, it would have served its purpose. She’s told me that I have a duty to write this guidebook, and she’s right. This guidebook is her idea, and for this I am eternally grateful. I am also a new father to a little boy and a little girl. They are everything to my wife and me. Our greatest job is to protect them, and I dedicate this book to them with the hope that they never have to experience a 8