On Aug. 9 a Blade journalist was dragged out of their car, attacked and arrested by Asheville police. This is their story

Above: The author, just after their release from jail, showing some of their injuries

Back in June, with anti-racist protests growing in strength, Veronica Coit started working with the Blade as a journalist and videographer. Coit is a respected and brave community member with real skill with social media and monitoring the powers that be. We were happy to work with them. Since that time they’ve helped document the events going on in our city.

Last weekend saw a vicious crackdown by Asheville police in response to two protests. Locals, including medics and press, were attacked and arrested on minor charges in clear retaliation for their efforts to defund the APD, break the malign influence of wealthy hoteliers and start dismantling this city’s racist status quo.

While covering the events of Aug. 9, a day when the APD had publicly threatened another crackdown, Coit was attacked, dragged from their car and arrested while shouting that they were press. They were detained far longer than other arrestees that night while facing the same vague, minor charges. This was clearly retribution, both for Coit countering the APD’s spin about a recent, tragic shooting and because the Blade as a whole refuses to echo the police’s lies.

The following story is graphic and harsh. The brutality here is just the tip of the iceberg, something faced not just by protesters but by whole communities, especially Black communities. These evils will continue until the day the APD is finally abolished.

— David Forbes, editor

Before I talk about my arrest, a little background is needed. On Wednesday, Aug. 5, Kanize Jackson was murdered. I found out later that he was born in the house across the street. This neighborhood was his home.

I heard the shots a little after 7 p.m., and headed outside to check on Kanzie. Police were called, then arrived, and proceeded to look like newborn deer in headlights. They stumbled, tripped, couldn’t find things and dropped other things, as I yelled questions and gave him CPR. Quickly the narrow street was covered in cop cruisers. Their cars had blocked a side street and effectively turned the street into a one-way road.

As they stood around and quite literally kicked at the dirt on the ground. EMTs couldn’t park close to Kanzie, and it took a full slow three-point turn to leave and head to the hospital after several minutes (that felt like an eternity) all due to the amount of cop cars. The cops puttered around, so useless they even failed to follow up on a clear description of the murderer given them by community members.

Later I saw the inaccurate narrative being painted by Asheville police, they were using this young man’s death to somehow vindicate the “good job” they’d done lately. I confronted that narrative on both Twitter and Facebook.

Back towards the end of May, when protests started, I took a small freelance gig with one of my favorite local news sources, the Asheville Blade. I’d admired them so much, I was absolutely honored to do anything I could to help document the police brutality I was witnessing. Since then I’ve regularly been to protests as a community journalist.

On the morning of Aug. 9 I started seeing videos from the previous night, I knew there had been a demonstration for Elliot Neville (murdered by sheriffs in a Forsyth county jail) and that the APD responded violently after protesters showed up at the Renaissance hotel in response to workers raising the alarm about unsafe health conditions there. I instantly recognized the agitator from the Saturday protest, Rondell Lance, local Fraternal Order of Police president. I watched him assault multiple people on several videos, dragging people, even being pushed away by a few police before they closed ranks to shelter him.

I could recognize that man, his pasty limp pinkish pale skin. I could see the hate and vitriol in his eyes during every interview I’d watched. Word quickly spread, more videos and photos came to light. I decided that even though I could probably use another night for rest, I needed to be out, and I needed to watch for him.

I arrived at the night’s demonstration around 6 p.m. Things were calm. It was a really great crowd. About an hour later, after some speakers and music, it was time to march.

Back at the beginning of June there were a lot of marches, I’d come home each night with my legs swollen from my medical condition. To keep up I’d take short cuts and pick back up with the marchers, it worked for the most part. After Saturday’s events, I knew I couldn’t let my body make me miss a moment, I opted for my car instead.

The march left the amphitheater, and I hopped in my car to follow. The multiracial crowd headed up college street, stopping here & there to chant. My favorite is the chant “fire, fire, gentrifier”, it’s personal, and I sit with it every time I hear it, as a white person who lives in a historically Black neighborhood. There’s also “Black people used to live here”, another along the same lines, but in my mind I remember Black Wall Street and Central Park, along with neighborhoods like Hill Street and East End closer to home.

I followed closely as the march made it up to the Haywood/College intersection. I took note of the large white truck that had crept up behind me, and the motorcycles that pulled up to rev their engines. In those moments I think about Heather Heyer’s murder, and the daily threats of violence against protesters I see online, “run them over”, and other more violent threats.

The march stayed at the intersection for a few minutes, then started their way up Haywood Street. I followed the procession, with my hazard lights flashing the whole time.

At one point, I remember hearing a little like a siren kind of “toot toot” at everyone, I thought it was odd, but just figured it was a “hey, I’m back here”. If their idea had been to ask me to move, my first question was “how?” and my second “where?” There was a large crowd in front of me, parked cars on the street, and other cars beside me too, I couldn’t exactly go anywhere at that moment.

I was moving, but slowly. The next thing I see is a cop at my passenger door, ripping it open with no warning. He yelled too, but I have hearing loss and there was a lot of noise, so I couldn’t quite make it out, next my driver’s door was opened. I was screaming, telling them I was press, my press verification right there on the rear view mirror [Editor’s note: I know Coit has such a document because I gave it to them in early June when City Hall declared a curfew — D.F.]

One of the cops reached in, put my car in park, another, I think, turned off my car. I screamed as they pulled me out, screamed to tell them I was press, to tell passers-by that I was a journalist. I didn’t know it then, but I was being recorded and within moments my spouse would be on his way.

I was yanked and pulled and cuffed with a thick zip tie. I’m 5’1″ and like mentioned above, I’ve got bad knees. The door for the “paddy wagon” started at about my knees. I found out later there was another step they could have pulled up. My mask had been down during this whole time, I don’t remember if the cops were wearing masks. As they put me in the car, I had to tell them to put on my mask, I wear two — a cloth reusable & a paper throw away — and you would have thought I gave them a complicated puzzle, but they were finally on, and I was in the wagon. It was about 8:30 p.m. Over the next 20 minutes, give or take, four other people joined me.

Looking out the front, we could see we’d arrived at the jail around 9 p.m. There’s no air in that vehicle so we were sweating pretty intensely, and my hands slipped out of the zip tie (my shoulders were already on fire, they’re another joint that gives me trouble). Others on the wagon were starting to get dizzy from heat and claustrophobia.

The cop who yanked me out of the wagon was visibly angered that the zip tie had come off, and as soon as I was out, he put regular cuffs on me, so tight it pinned my shoulders back. We’d been in the wagon, me specifically, for close to an hour, but getting out is when I completely lose track of time.

This is also where the cop who was mad at me for the zip ties coming off began to aggressively pat me down. I remember the moment I realized it was a male cop, it’s right when his head was so close to my ass I became aware his hands aggressively slid over my vagina and my ass. I looked over at a female cop and asked why a male officer was touching my ass and vagina, she finished my pat down. I could hear him complain, saying if I had anything on me, he didn’t care, if I still had it when I got inside, it would be a felony.

Just before being taken inside, I said again that I was a member of the press, this time to a man identified as a detective, he asked with who and where my pass was, I told him, he stepped away to make a call, but nothing changed.

We sat outside the jail for some time, I don’t quite know why, then the first two of us were escorted inside. When the cuffs came off we were instructed to put our hands above our heads on the wall, my hands moved slow, inside it felt like my shoulders were being ripped apart. The cop that looked very similar to the one who put his hands on my body outside, grabbed my left arm to put it on the wall, I screamed in pain, he went for the other, and the same. My shoulders were on fire.

We got patted down again. I was told to remove all my jewelry, I said the only thing I had was a rubber band, my Justice for Jerry bracelet. I could still barely move my arms, but I took it off, he said to give it to him, and I tossed it in his direction, he said something, and I said “what, my hands are supposed to be on the wall”, he told me to watch my “attitude”, and I said same. For those of you that live in chronic pain, when someone specifically does something to make it worse, you’re not exactly going to be super pleasant with them moving forward. I’d just screamed in pain, and he didn’t even ask what was wrong, just went to my right side for the same treatment.

Then I got moved into a cell alone, I was told to sit on my knees, but there was no physical way that would happen, so I was told to lay down. My socks, shoes, & the Bobby pins in my hair were removed. As was my cloth mask. The door for the window was open for a bit. I was able to see the others I’d come in with, I had no idea what time it was any more, I asked a few times, none of the cops acknowledged that question.

I stood at the door watching, at one point a cop came over and told me “you’re not making this easy on yourself.” I hadn’t spoken, just stood there and watched. I did tell him, again, that I was press. At one point the cop who’d yanked my arms came over, he looked so much like the cop who’d assaulted me earlier, I thought it was him. I was wrong, and he accused me of lying and slammed the window door closed.

A couple times as I was sitting there, a cop would open the window, I’d ask if I could make a call, they said “not right now”, and something else to the same effect. Now is when I knew I was being denied any semblance of rights. I couldn’t hear anyone outside and I started to catastrophize. I worried I’d been left, forgotten. I knocked on the door a lot, I don’t know for how long, I kept saying “hello” and “is anyone out there”, a couple times the window would open for a second. I would ask for a call again, to be denied again.

After who knows how long, I was ordered to the back of the cell, re-cuffed, and told I was going down the hall. When we arrived there, I was told if I would be quiet for “a few hours” they might let me out, I told him “fine, you proved your point.” He grinned.

I found out later that paperwork was already done, the cop just wanted to detain me longer to prove to me he was in control and I wasn’t.

I sat there alone, god knows what was happening, or how long I’d been there. I heard a woman down the hall struggling to breath with a dry heavy cough. I pulled my shirt up so it sat over my mouth and nose.

After some time, a female cop came and asked if I was “going to behave”, I shrugged, I knew how long they could hold me without charging me. I said “sure”, she replied that she’d be back in a few moments.

I was out about 30 minutes later. They took my picture. My official charges are “fail to disperse on command” and “impede steady flow of traffic”. After I finished with the magistrate, the male cop pointed to the phone, asked if I wanted to make a call, but the female cop had told me my spouse was in the waiting area, so I responded that the only person I was going to call was already there.

It was over. My spouse was there, it was around 1 a.m. Five hours. Everyone arrested at the same time was long since gone. There was no reason to keep me there, except power.
Cops will do that. They’ll hurt you, just to remind you that they’re in control, they’re in charge, and you’re not. Even when what they’re doing is wrong and illegal.

I thought a lot, in that time alone, about the color of my skin, how much easier I know it made my experience. I know in my bones that if I had more melanin I could have died that night. It is that knowledge that will keep pushing me. I will continue to be a part of showing the rest of the country and the world that this isn’t right, and we won’t tolerate it any longer.

—

Veronica Coit is birth giver to two, mother to a few and grandma to one. They are a hair stylist by trade; cat rescuer and advocate by passion. Veronica is an award-winning community volunteer who founded Asheville Cat Weirdos and the ACW Emergency Fund, both with the goal of improving the lives of companion animals and their humans in WNC.

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