---

The cop who pulled me over wasn't even the first.

That's what I get for still having a bumper sticker from 2004. in glitter letters that've long since chipped off. The kind of thing that makes a cop's hand twitch before they even write you a ticket.

"You're lucky I'm feeling generous today, squirt," he said. Squirt. Like I was still the kid in the pit with a safety pin through my nose, not this tired 34-year-old with a back injury from lugging amps for a band that hasn't played a show in two years. "Move along. Don't make me call backup."

I laughed. "You and what army, officer?"

Wrong move.

---
The second cop was bigger. His hands were big too. The kind of hands that like to squeeze a little tighter than necessary when they hand you back your license. "Real funny," he said. "You're gonna love the holding cell."

I watched him type something into his radio. Watched the way his fingers moved, like he was texting a buddy. *Hey man, just booked a riot grrrl. She's got a smart mouth and a 2004 sticker. Bet you five bucks she's got a zine in her car too.*

---
The holding cell smelled like bleach and regret. There was a girl in there with a nose ring and a black eye. She didn't look at me when I came in. She didn't have to. I recognized the way her shoulders tightened, the way she checked the door every time it opened.

"They're gonna charge you with resisting," she said finally. "You didn't even touch him."

"I know."

"They'll offer you a plea. You take it."

I didn't answer. I was counting the tiles on the ceiling. Trying to memorize them. In case.

---
The third cop was the one who read me my rights. He had a voice like a tired librarian. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."

I interrupted him. "What happens if I don't take the plea?"

He sighed. Like I was a slow student. "You go to trial. You lose. You do six months. You come out with a record. You never get hired anywhere again. You're done."

I said, "And if I do take the plea?"

He smiled. Just a little. "You walk out today. You pay a fine. You never do this shit again."

---
The girl with the black eye was right.

I took the plea.

---
But here's the thing--

I wasn't the first one they pulled over that night. There were three of us. The third one was a kid. A real kid. Fifteen years old. They found a switchblade in his pocket. (He'd stolen it from a thrift store. Thought it was cool.)

They charged him with everything.

The plea deal? Eight months. Probation. Mandatory counseling. A permanent record.

I got out in four hours.

---
Now I run a mutual aid fund.

We give out cash. Not food. Not supplies. Cash. So people can disappear if they need to. So they can take the bus out of town. So they can get a lawyer.

Because the system always picks the same kind of person.

And this time?

This time, we're not giving them a choice.

-- CINDER
"diy doesn't mean disorganized."
--- SBBSecho 3.37-Linux
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