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The sun hung low over the San Gabriel Mountains, painting the sky above Pasadena in hues of bruised orange and purple—the same intense, fading light that mirrored the sudden, agonizing shift in J. Good A. Citizen's life.
At fifty-five, Good was not a man built for confrontation. His days were spent wrestling with Aramaic texts and theological paradoxes within the quiet sanctuary of Fuller Seminary. He was an M.Div. student, a man of faith, and paradoxically, a staunch believer in the necessity of law and order. Tonight, however, he was simply hungry. It was a brief break between late classes, and he was driving his sedan north on Lake Avenue, seeking a quick dinner, his mind still cycling through the complexities of Pauline eschatology.
Rush hour was a chaotic ballet of impatience. As Good approached the crucial intersection, the signal for Lake Avenue went green. He eased his foot onto the accelerator, ready to move, when a shape of metal and speed flashed violently across his path. It was a black SUV, tearing through the intersection like a cannonball, utterly running the red light—a defiant act of a driver attempting to beat the signal at the last, suicidal moment. Good slammed on his brakes. The jarring, wrenching halt was painful, but it was just enough. The two vehicles missed colliding by an agonizing breath.
The driver of the SUV, a woman named Evangalina Bustamonte, braked across the intersection, shaking but safe. Good, adrenaline surging, pulled over, anger momentarily supplanting his theological calm. This near-miss was not just careless; it was reckless and dangerous. Before he could even process the extent of his shaking, the blare of approaching sirens cut through the twilight air. Two Pasadena Police Department cruisers, already on patrol in the area, pulled up.
"Heard that one clear across the block," Officer Thomas Brown, a stocky man with a severe, unyielding expression, muttered as he approached. His partner, Officer Tim Mosman, was younger, leaner, and radiated an unsettling, hyper-alert intensity.
The narrative of injustice began right there, in the first five minutes, with the officers' fundamental blind spot: they "heard, but did not see" the infraction. They arrived to a scene of two tense drivers, and without the crucial context of the red light, they were immediately vulnerable to bias.
Officer Mosman gravitated toward Ms. Bustamonte first. The conversation was low, soothing, almost solicitous. When he turned back to Good, his posture had hardened, his jaw set. "Sir, we need to clear this up. Just acknowledge that the accident was your fault. Let's wrap this up," Mosman stated, his voice a flat, non-negotiable command.
J. Good, still reeling from the rattling experience, felt a sudden, cold clarity. "Officer, with all due respect, I will not. The other driver ran a solid red light. I had the right of way. I avoided her vehicle by inches. She caused this. I cannot accept blame for an infraction I did not commit."
It was the phrase "I cannot accept blame" that detonated the officers' professionalism. In that crowded, pulsating rush-hour street, Good's assertion of his legal rights was perceived not as civic duty, but as defiance. Officer Brown stepped forward, closer. His face was a mask of simmering fury. "You will do as we say, now. Don't make this harder than it has to be, young man."
It was here, in the deepening twilight, that the witnesses later focused on Officer Brown. His face was drawn tight, but it was his eyes that betrayed the moment. His eyeballs were visibly dilated—an unnerving physiological response that suggested not focused attention, but an adrenalized, aggressive instability, or some sort of medication making things worse, not better. It was less about enforcing the law and more about an inexplicable rush of power, a perceived act of machismo to validate the female driver and crush the dissent of the male citizen who dared to challenge their unearned authority.
The confrontation had instantly pivoted. It was no longer a traffic dispute; it was a battle for J. Good's dignity, his right to speak, and his bodily autonomy. The coercive demand to "accept responsibility" became the flashpoint for what followed.
The officers' patience, if it ever existed, vanished. The transcript confirms the violent pivot occurred in a matter of seconds. Officer Brown, seized by the manic energy in his dilated eyes, became the aggressor. He was the first to use force, drawing his baton, & thrusting it into J Good's abdomen forcefully. Instinctively, or reflexively, J. Good tried to push the baton away. The officer's wrongly interpreted this as an act of aggression rather than self-defense.
The officers inexplicably tried to "take him down" to the pavement. J. Good's fear spiked - having never been the victim of force by officers of the law; but his resistance was purely defensive, a physical manifestation of his moral refusal to submit to a false narrative. He started "yelling loudly," asserting his innocence, and when the cold steel of the handcuffs touched his wrist, he did the only thing his body could do: he "tensed his arms."
Sergeant Calvin Pratt, who arrived on the scene as backup, testified that Good's resistance was limited to this passive tensing and yelling. This testimony, this concession, remains the most damning evidence against the City. J. Good was not physically assaulting them. He was not armed. He was not running. He was merely tense, verbally dissenting, and no immediate threat to the safety of any officer or the public. But the officers saw only defiance. And defiance, in the corrupt institutional culture of the Pasadena Police Department, was met with brute force.
"Take him down!" The order was followed instantly by a devastating, reckless maneuver. Good felt his body lifted, twisted, and then slammed. He went down, face-first, onto the rough, unforgiving asphalt of Lake Avenue. The impact was bone-jarring. It was not a controlled descent; it was a violent, spiteful throw. A searing, blinding pain shot through his back and neck. The world went silent, then rushed back in as a cacophony of throbbing agony. He had landed heavily, his spine protesting the sudden, brutal shock.
Even on the ground, subdued, broken, and gasping for breath, the cruelty continued. Sergeant Pratt applied a control hold—a brutal pressure point technique—to Good's arm. Good cried out that the pain was "searing." Pratt maintained the hold, refusing to release the excruciating pressure, demonstrating a callous disregard for Good's well-being that transcended professional policing.
The immediate violence gave way to prolonged humiliation. Good lay there, handcuffed, his face millimeters from the rough pavement that had just bruised his dignity and his body- his glasses bent and lying on the concrete a few inches away. The officers did not immediately call for medical assistance or move him to a squad car. Instead, he was left on the street corner, a spectacle for the passing rush-hour traffic, handcuffed and in agony for up to an hour. Unfortunately, camera phones were still a few years away. No footage of the crime (by the police) would be available for later litigation.
Forty-five minutes. Sixty minutes. The transcript's ambiguity about the precise time only underlines the indifference. For a man of 55, already grappling with the structural realities of aging, this prolonged, constrained position on the rough ground was a form of exquisite torture. The pain in his back was not fleeting; it was deep and pervasive, a constant, dull roar that intensified with every shallow breath. The City's own expert, Dr. Mulryan, would later be forced to concede the critical medical truth: that the officers' violent restraint was medically possible that the takedown aggravated a pre-existing condition. The officers had not just arrested a man; they had inflicted lasting, permanent injury, including spinal damage and aggravated Carpal Tunnel Syndrome.
The irony was crushing. A man who spent his life studying the moral framework of the Gospel, arrested and humiliated for a non-crime, by officers who themselves acted outside the bounds of any moral or legal code _ who had not even observed the incident, only heard the screeching brakes from nearby. . He was detained for nearly two hours for a simple charge of Disturbing the Peace—a charge so flimsy it was eventually dropped. but the damage was already done, to J. Good's body. He would be contending with chronic pain for the rest of his life. And the arrest was not about enforcing the law; it was pretextual, used solely as a mechanism to punish a citizen for his verbal objections and his assertion of constitutional rights.
The case of J. Good A. Citizen is a tragic reminder that institutional rot can turn protectors into aggressors. The actions of Officers Mosman, Brown, and Sergeant Pratt were not an isolated lapse in judgment; they were symptoms of a broader disease.
The historical context of the Pasadena Police Department, as documented by former officer Naum Ware in his book Roses Have Thorns, highlights a pervasive culture of corruption, internal lying, and excessive force. This history provides the chilling explanation for the officers' behavior: they were emboldened by a systemic failure in training, supervision, and discipline. They felt entitled to bypass professional standards and inflict injury because their institution had historically permitted or excused such violence. They did not see a Master of Divinity student, a law-abiding citizen, or a man of faith; they saw an obstacle to be summarily dealt with, and the resulting force was objectively unreasonable.
The argument for justice for Good A. Citizen is simple and profound:
The Threat was Zero: The officers' own testimony admits the only resistance was passive (tensing and yelling). Force must be proportional to the threat. A violent takedown against a non-assaultive citizen is the very definition of disproportionate, egregious force.
The Injury is Permanent: The City must be held accountable for the lasting physical consequences—the pain, the suffering, and the medical expenses—that stemmed directly from the officers' recklessness.
The Badge is Not a License for Abuse: This verdict must be a clear message that a police badge does not grant immunity from the rule of law. When agents of the state act with machismo and punitive malice, the city that employs them must pay the price for the resulting constitutional violation.
The Pasadena Police Department acted irresponsibly, allowing a minor incident to become a catastrophic injury through sheer, unwarranted force. This was not policing; it was an inexcusable abuse of authority. Justice demands accountability for Good A. Citizen, whose life was irrevocably altered on a simple drive up Lake Avenue.
For He shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways. (Psalm 91:11)
