Cow Palace Blues (2 of 2)

When they finally got back, bets were placed, and dogs were washed and faced and everybody settled in for a good fight – unaware that an undercover operation was about to explode in their faces.

The most heavily favored dog leapt with fangs bared; suddenly there were screams and yells that the cops were there and then people were running and shouting and trying to cram through a narrow hallway that couldn’t hold them all. Wallets, guns and money were thrown into garbage cans or any place handy, to get rid of incriminating evidence. The SWAT teams moved even faster and swarmed into the pit, ordering everybody to lie down. Those that didn’t lie down were kicked in the butt or clubbed until they did lie down. Cops stood on peoples’ backs and swatted those who didn’t move fast enough or didn’t put their hands behind their backs. Some of the guys were crying out because the plastic ties were turning their hands purple. Some of the cops were saying out loud that the goddamn dog fighters should feel some of the same pain that they inflicted on their dogs.

The Humane Society was right in there with them. These were people who had more interest in animals than people, who cared more about how pigs become bacon than about how kids become crooks; there were probably at least half a dozen violent crimes that took place while these jokers were playing morality games. Yeah, I know dog fighting is illegal; but give me a break. Their time and money would have been better spent patrolling Hunter’s Point or the Tenderloin.

A shot was heard. One of the dogs, that had growled a little too vigorously at the police, had been shot. A moment later, one Asian cop confided to several of us that he thought the whole thing was ridiculous, and that they all should just be given tickets instead of being treated like major criminals. Unfortunately, he was not in charge, and we were thrown into paddy wagons a few minutes later.

You could smell the fear on some of the younger cops (I imagine even a SWAT team might be intimidated by a roomful of pit bulls and guys with guns), but that didn’t prevent them from confiscating what some of the players later indicated was in the vicinity of $100,000 dollars, declaring only half the amount actually confiscated and pocketing the rest of it for themselves without reporting the full take. I had $400 worth of betting money; my declaration slip showed only $200 – nothing like justice in action.

We could hardly breathe in the paddy wagon, as there were so many of us stuffed inside. We were surprised when the trip was over in about two minutes; none of us had realized how close the warehouse was to the county lockup.

Forty of us were jammed into cells designed to hold only 10 people, and we were thrown in with all sorts of other criminals. Yes, that is what we were now – criminals, for betting on the dogs.

One of the black guys in the cell was beaten by other inmates for not washing his feet; the police in turn beat the guys who beat him. My, my, I thought, this is going to be a picnic.

The next thing I knew, we are being dragged off to another, bigger cell for about two hours; this process was repeated over a period of about 24 hours. We were moved around as we were booked and photographed and made to fill out whatever other paperwork was needed for the machinery of justice. Some inmates cooed at us and indicated to us that they needed fresh meat. Others approved of our status as dog fighters. All in all, I think we provided a diversion from the everyday, for inmates and cops alike.

Later that morning we were all taken out in chains, just like a cartoon of convicts on a work detail. Brought before the magistrate, most of us got off with fines and community service.

At one point, some of the guys were blubbering about how unfair it was to them and their families. I was so disgusted that I shouted out in the courtroom: "Hold your heads up. You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of – show some pride." There was dead silence; even the magistrate couldn’t believe his ears, but he kept right on handing out sentences and ignored my outburst.

The bigger wheels have cases that are still pending a year later. The owner of the warehouse pleaded ignorance or some such, but he was probably lying.

The Humane Society destroyed all the dogs found at the fight.

Later, and after paying a hefty fine, I drove through Golden Gate Park. I watched a man hunting for cigarette butts near the Polo Grounds, and I couldn’t help but think that maybe I was lucky to get off on a technicality. Maybe this was the man-upstairs’ way of telling me that I was doing wrong, that all life needs to be protected and that maybe, just maybe some of the things that I personally like might really be wrong. San Francisco is like that though: it makes you think.

Sean O’Reilly is Editor at-Large for San Francisco publishing firm Travelers’ Tales.