At One Police Plaza, we protesters had been the only occupants of our cell. We’d had a great time. We sang songs; one particularly energetic protester, Austin, led us in a stunning rendition of Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody.” We did joke versions of our chants. “This is what a condiment looks like!” we’d chanted, when someone got mustard to put on a cheese sandwich. And when an officer delivered us some toilet paper (this was a cleaner cell), Austin tried to start the “This is what anal hygiene looks like!” chant, though that one failed. When arrested female protesters were led by our large holding cell, we hooted and cheered and banged on the plastic wall, to let them know we supported them.
Now we were in a very different environment. There was probably room enough for us on the benches but we didn’t feel confident enough to claim any of it. We sat down on the floor, quietly. On our way in, we’d been given the standard-issue sandwiches, plus a milk, and now an extremely tall man—he must have been around seven feet—came over and asked Stephen for his milk. Stephen was not attached to his milk, and quickly gave it up; the man took it and sat back down. It wasn’t clear if this was a power play on his part, to show who was boss, or whether he just really liked milk, which is why he had grown so tall. We continued to talk quietly among ourselves about the protest.
—News Desk: Central Booking : The New Yorker by Keith Gessen
