Dramatization of scene at police station

With newfound determination, I ran to the Champaign Police Station, an intimidating concrete structure. It was connected to the city council and mayor’s office: the Champaign City Building, an ornate six story tower domed with copper, rusted to a turquoise blue. At night, the whole complex took on the aura of a forbidding grey castle of stone.

With my adrenalin going, I walked into the police station. With the Crystal Room of the Inman Hotel at my back, I imagined an invisible force pushing me inside. The old wall clock read two fifteen in the morning. It was Sunday, October 31st and the city was lifeless. I walked up to the counter, noticing the peeling green paint on the walls and the musty smell of an old police station.

Nothing could shake my confidence. I was on a mission; in the space of a half-hour, it had become my raison d'etre. "I'm here to find out about some arrests you made tonight."

"Which ones would that be," said a middle-aged cop, a sergeant, sipping coffee at a desk several feet beyond the counter.

"Three drag queens at a party on Springfield Avenue," I replied.

"Oh those girls," laughed the desk sergeant. "They violated an ordinance of the City of Champaign. It's illegal to dress in the clothes of the opposite gender."

"We don't think it should be," I replied.

"Who’s we?" added the sergeant, glancing around for somebody else.

"We, the Gay Liberation Front of Champaign-Urbana."

"I don't care what we think," asserted the cop. "They broke the law, they'll face the judge. Bail will be set on Monday. It's as simple as that." He went back to sipping his coffee and reading a beat-up old magazine. Irate friends of the accused were clearly nothing new.

I did my best Seth Heller smile—sometimes looking like a cross between the Marquis De Sade and Joseph Stalin can be a plus—and noticed a slight unease in my adversary behind the desk. "Do you have change for a dollar?" I asked, more as a statement than a question. "I must make some phone calls."

The sergeant grumbled, glanced at the clock, went to a drawer and got out ten dimes for my dollar. I nodded, said nothing, and went to the pay phone. I let the phone ring at Winston's for a good four minutes. No answer. "Damn that Winston," I said to myself.

I hesitated before calling Gloria McMaster, but figured she would come, if only to somehow use the arrest to add weight to her own views. She answered the phone on the third ring. "This is Dave Rosen,” I blurted out. “The police arrested three drag queens at the Halloween party tonight. They're being held in the Champaign City Jail. Get down here and call as many people as you can." Although I was very confident confronting the desk sergeant, now I felt anxiety. Gloria must have heard panic in my voice.

"Just calm down," she said. "We're having a get-together of movement people at the house. Don't do anything stupid. We'll come right down." I was so excited I overlooked her insult.

I continued to call as many members of the GLF as came to mind. Luckily, directory assistance was free. After several no-answers and a hang-up, I managed to reach Steve Hancock.

“Hello,” said a sleepy Steve.

"Steve, they arrested Tina Twat and some other drag queens at Marty Monroe's Halloween party. I need you down here at the Champaign Police Station."

"What time is it?" replied Steve yawning.

"Take a cab. I'll pay for it and I'll treat you to lunch."

"Yeah, yeah, I’ll come, but you owe me for this one."

Gloria McMaster came with five others, presumably ‘movement people’, of all shapes and sizes. They were strangers to me. Steve arrived in a cab. Doc Willow and a friend—a pair right out of the Doonsbury comic strip—followed shortly.

Gloria went to the front desk and had a brief conversation with the desk sergeant then marched up to me. "You didn't tell me they weren’t going to set bail until Monday," she whispered angrily.

"Sorry," I replied, feigning guilt. "But right now it's important to maintain a strong show of support,” I said, and then added sheepishly, “Maybe we could have a Stonewall," referring to the famous riot which gave birth to the gay liberation movement.

"Are you nuts? These fascist pigs would throw us all in jail! They might even arrest us just for standing here." Gloria glared down at me through her thick glasses.

"Excuse me, officer," I called out. "Are you going to arrest us just for standing here?" Gloria slapped her forehead. The cop just snickered.

Seven of our supporters were leaning on the counter, most of them taking in the ambience of the musty old station at three in the morning, wondering what, for the life of them, they were doing there. Steve was sitting in a wooden chair next to the counter, watching the Dave and Gloria feud play out several feet away.

"Are all you people together?" asked the cop who rose from the desk and adjusted his pants.

"We're here to see the three people you unjustly arrested tonight set free," I proclaimed. Steve and two of the people at the counter applauded.

Another cop, quite husky and fatter than the desk sergeant, came out of the back asking "What's going on out here?" The sergeant went over and spoke to him quietly in the corner. Two young cops wearing jackets, appearing to be partners just back from a patrol, came in, looked around and chatted quietly with the bigger cop.

Gloria took out a tiny notebook from her pocket and rushed to the pay phone. She cursed me under her breath, but it was audible, nonetheless. She dialed.

"I understand your concern," said the desk sergeant, returning to the counter, "but nothing's going to get accomplished here tonight. Why don't you go home and come back to court on Monday, where I'm sure the judge will set a reasonable bail."

I went to the counter. "Every weekend, right across the street at the Crystal Room…" Doc Willow kicked me in the shin and glared. Ignoring Doc, I continued. "We have plenty of drag queens going in and out. You never bother them. You never arrest them. Why now, on Halloween of all nights, do you arrest them?"

Gloria McMaster, talking on the phone, but still paying close attention to the conversation in the room, pinched at her face and I heard her say: "Now it looks like he's encouraging the cops to raid the bars, too."

"Sure, we know about the Crystal Room," said the cop. "No sense in bothering you people when you're keeping to yourself. We can keep an eye on things, across the street. But this happened in a respectable neighborhood and there were some complaints from the neighbors."

"They complained about drag queens?" I asked. "How would they even know?"

"No, smart ass," said the sergeant. "They complained about the noise." The reluctant group of supporters was starting to enjoy the drama.

"Officer," said Doc. "Is there any chance you could release them with a citation or just drop the charges? People here want to go to bed."

I started a chant, "Gay rights, gay power, free the drag queens now!" I was joined by Steve and two women at the counter. We managed to get out seven or eight rounds before the chanting fizzled.

Gloria McMaster hung up the phone and made an announcement in her best whine: "Harold McClintock is coming here to talk with all of us." She glared at me. "He's a pro bono lawyer for the movement and I think we should take his advice. Right now, let's sit back, remain quiet and wait for him to arrive."

"Oh that’s no fun," said Steve from his chair. "Why don't we all get dressed up in drag, right here in the station? It would be outrageous. We could put on a show for the desk sergeant. The lesbians would all wear suits and smoke cigars, while…"

"You know," I said, "I think you hit on something. Not for tonight, but tomorrow, while they’re still being unjustly imprisoned." I said that last phrase loud enough to ensure the cops heard. It wasn't necessary since everyone in the room was keying in on every word. "Tomorrow we could get thirty or forty people, right here in the lobby of the police station, in full drag, putting on a show."

"Oh, Fenton will be so excited," exclaimed Steve. "I can see him putting everything on hold in the music store, just to be here."

Gloria and Doc looked at each other exasperated and reminded me of Patty and Cathy on the Patty Duke Show:

Still, they're cousins, Identical cousins and you'll find, They laugh alike, they walk alike, At times they even talk alike --

"Let's just wait for Harold quietly," said Gloria, firmly. "We can meet at my house afterward to discuss any possible responses." She ran her fingers through her frizzy hair and I swear I heard crackling static electricity.

I chose to interpret Gloria’s statement as an endorsement of a response, perhaps as an endorsement of the drag show. "Right on," I yelled, playing to the room. It worked. When people saw me cheering Gloria McMaster, they figured we were united on something and joined in with shouts and whistles.

"Gay rights, gay power, free the drag queens now!" I shouted.

Most everyone chimed in, until Doc yelled "Quiet!" and the room went silent. "Gloria and I have experience with these things," he said. "Everybody be quiet until Harold McClintock arrives."

By then, noise from the impromptu demonstration had already reached the back rooms of the police station. We quieted and sat a few minutes in silence. The only noise came from Steve, who giggled when I made an occasional face at Doc or Gloria, behind their back. The others seemed to fall half-asleep where they stood.

The big cop came back in and whispered something to the desk sergeant. The sergeant got up, cleared his throat and all eyes looked his way. "OK folks, we found ourselves a judge who, lucky for you, was burning the midnight oil. Your friends are going to be ROR." Everyone looked puzzled and concerned until the sergeant clarified. "That's released on recognizance." Just then, Tina, in the lead, and the other two came out through the back, sans wigs, but otherwise looking none the worse for wear. We broke into whistles and applause. I gave Steve a thumbs-up as a man with round rimless glasses and tiny features rushed through the police station door. It was the lawyer, Harold McClintock.