Here Comes Trouble - Michael Moore [106]
“Are there other motions?” President Alger barked.
“Yes,” I said, not down yet for the count. “I’d like to move that we name Central Elementary School ‘Martin Luther King Jr. Elementary School.’ I think this will send a positive message to the students and to the rest of Genesee County that Davison is indeed the place that you just described.”
“Michael,” said board member Patrick McAvinchey, the only one who was still friendly to me. “You don’t have to keep proving your point. Everyone gets it. Let’s move on.”
There was no second for that motion. The local paper covered my idea in a way that inflamed the local residents. I decided I needed to have a record of what I actually said at these meetings.
I walked into the next meeting and set my little Sears Silvertone tape recorder down on the table.
Mrs. Ude, the board secretary, asked me what that was for.
“It’s so I can record our public meeting. Just for my use.” I then hit the record button.
She looked over to President Alger with a Stop him, PLEASE! look of horror. Alger got up, reached over, and turned my recorder off, the way a parent would turn off the TV when you refused to go to bed. I put my finger out and hit Record again. This time the dentist on the board, Dr. McArthur, reached across the table and turned it off.
“You’re not taping these meetings,” he said. “Don’t make us take this from you.”
I have seen gangs on the street and, granted, they can look threatening at times. To have a gang of elected officials—adults who are at least thirty years older than you—threatening you like this, well, that took a minute to process.
“Listen,” I said, “you should not see this as anything other than what it is—a chance for me to have a record of what is said here, especially what I say. This is a public meeting. This should not be a problem.”
“Mr. President,” board member Mr. Greiner said, “I’d like to make a motion to disallow any recording devices of any kind to be used during our meetings.”
“Second,” said Dr. McArthur.
“All in favor?” the president asked.
The vote was 6 to 1. I was ordered to turn it off or they would end the meeting.
I told them to have their sergeant in arms turn it off. As they didn’t have a “sergeant in arms,” the dentist turned it off.
The next day, the reporter from the Flint Journal who was present at the meeting wrote a story about what had happened. It caused quite a stir among the journalists in the area—and of course with those ACLU types. At the next meeting, they, and a few citizens, showed up and placed their tape recorders on the school board table.
I noticed they were letting people record without having to ask permission. I asked them if they were going to enforce their policy.
“We are not going to allow any recordings of these meetings,” President Alger bellowed. “Turn them all off now and take them off our table.”
“You do realize that Michigan has passed an Open Meetings Law,” the reporter from the Journal piped in.
“You’re out of order. Remove your device.”
Nobody moved. The board members all looked at me: YOU did this to us! YOU ARE FINISHED!
The meeting was abruptly adjourned. Angry voices filled the room.
The next day I called the county prosecutor, Robert Leonard, to see if he could help me. For a D.A., Leonard was a pretty liberal guy. He had established the first Consumer Protection office in the state. One day, while speaking at an antiwar demonstration, he stood on the stage and pointed out to the crowd the FBI undercover agent standing among them.
“There he is, spying on you for exercising your constitutional rights!” Leonard shouted into the microphone. This did not endear him to the FBI.
Prosecutor Leonard was more than happy to help me. He had his deputy prosecutor inform the board that they were breaking the law by not allowing the public or the press to tape the meetings. For such a clean-cut law-and-order group of elected officials to be dressed down by law enforcement in such a public way was a humiliation that went beyond anything I’m sure they had ever experienced. It would