When the cops closed in on us, the little English teacher wasn’t talking politics—not to the police. There were demonstrators dressed as clowns, and guys wearing homemade miters—mock versions of the high hats (those tall headdresses) worn by Catholic bishops. A very handsome Jesus was walking around; he had a crown of thorns and the right beard, but we could see the cops were tired of the carnival atmosphere. The two cops who came up to us now were the ones we’d tried to talk to before. This time, they had handcuffs, or they’d always had them, only now they were carrying the cuffs where we could see them.

“Hello, again—we’re the ones who have a friend who doesn’t speak,” the snowshoer said, holding out her wrists to be cuffed.

“We know,” the older, clean-shaven cop replied, not cuffing her; he was pleasant, even smiling a little.

“We just want you to come with us—we need to know more about your friend who doesn’t speak,” the younger policeman told us. He had a mustache that overran his upper lip; I couldn’t tell if he was smiling or not.

“You don’t have to handcuff us—we’ll go peacefully, wherever you take us. We hope you’ll arrest us and take us where you’re holding our friend—she just doesn’t speak; she’s not trying to make trouble,” Mr. Barlow was babbling.

“We won’t handcuff you—we aren’t arresting you,” the older, clean-shaven cop said tiredly.

“We just want you to come with us—we need to know more about your friend who doesn’t speak,” the younger policeman with the mustache repeated. The two cops held their hands close to us—both to indicate where they wanted us to go, and to guide us through the crowd, to the police side of the barricades—but they barely touched us, or they touched us only incidentally. There were no strong-arm tactics.

We would later learn there were 4,500 protesters at the Stop the Church protest. The police arrested only 111 demonstrators, from inside and outside the cathedral. Those arrested faced minor charges; they were released without trial, that same night, and sentenced to community service. A small number of protesters were later tried for refusing their community service; no one would serve any jail time.

In the case of Elliot Barlow and myself, our two cops treated us well. We went with them along Fifth Avenue to Fiftieth Street, where the demonstration had started. We were making our way west on Fiftieth—we were almost to the Avenue of the Americas—when the snowshoer asked our police escorts if they were taking us to Radio City Music Hall. She wasn’t kidding, but our good-natured cops both laughed; they thought the pretty Mr. Barlow had been joking. “I just imagined you might be holding the other prisoners in the music hall,” the little English teacher told them seriously.

“You’re not prisoners, you’re not under arrest—we’re just trying to get to the bottom of your friend’s business with the cardinal,” the older, clean-shaven cop said.