An arrest is in progress at the Jay St. subway station when I exit the F train to transfer to the C. Two police officers are putting a Black man in handcuffs. He protests loudly, ‘I didn’t take any money!’ He repeats this denial several times, first to the police, then to the crowd of bystanders. Then I notice that this is all taking place next to a subway busker – a woman I’ve seen numerous times on my commute, who sings a handful of R&B songs (with great gusto and a very loud sound system). I stand some distance away and observe: one of the police officers is taking information from her, the other searches the suspect’s pockets. The suspect continues to maintain his innocence. The busker too sticks to her accusation: that the man was taking money (or attempting to take money) from her donation box. The female police officer who has been patting the suspect down speaks to him calmly, trying to keep things on an even keel – a situation like this, it seems, could easily get out of hand. Is it his word against the singer’s? Are there other witnesses? Eventually more plainclothes police show up and the suspect is led away. My train comes, and I realize, with a strong surge of guilt, that I’m in some small way grateful for this disruption, since it means I haven’t have to listen to the R&B singer’s standard 3-song repertoire during my long wait.