Читать книгу Confessions of a Police Constable - Matt Delito - Страница 8

‘Hey, Delito,’ the sarge said to me that morning, in the daily briefing. ‘Thompson is off ill today, can you take care of the Sierra Delta gang?’

Sierra Delta – or SD – is Street Duties. It is a programme where new police officers are put through their paces, dealing with cases from beginning to end. They might do an arrest for a shoplifting, for example, and go through the whole process, from alpha to omega. Arrest, booking into custody, interview on tape, investigation, and so on and so forth: the whole process right through to court. It means that each case you deal with takes a lot of time, but you also get a full understanding of how the processes work. It’s incredibly interesting, and I recall my street-duty sessions fondly – the PC who was my mentor/instructor is still one of my best friends to this day.

‘Delito. You listening?’ Daydreaming already? Oh dear, today really was going to be a long day.

‘Sure thing, sarge, I’ll do my best,’ I replied.

At the end of the briefing, I headed over to the classroom to meet Sasha and Pete, the street duties probationers. They were coming up to the end of their street duties, and they generally had their ducks in a row.

Pete is one of those people who seem to be fuelled purely by air and love for The Job. He also has a look that – when combined with the uniform – makes women swoon when they see him. In some officers – the ones able to pretend they don’t notice, or don’t know – that can be a fantastic trait, because it makes certain quick quests for information all that much quicker. Pete knows what he’s doing, and he’s a solid police officer. If the women think ‘He can fuck me’, the men think ‘He can fuck me up’. In short, Pete spends every minute he doesn’t spend in uniform in a gym. I’ve run into him at the gym a couple of times, and he doesn’t mess around; he may very well be the fittest officer on the entire borough. He’s not particularly tall – about five foot seven – but he’s built like a row of brick-and-mortar outhouses, and inspires confidence through and through.

Sasha is not entirely unlike Pete in many ways: she’s witty, knows her laws and white notes⁶ inside out, and she’s no slouch either – she regularly runs half marathons and is apparently trying for her taekwondo black belt. She’s about as tall as Pete. Her slender build, short hair and fragile-looking glasses make her positively androgynous-looking – especially when she’s fully kitted out in her Metvest. She famously disposed of the rumours of her being a lesbian by sleeping with Pete just for long enough that everybody knew about it, before dumping him and returning to single life. The ‘everybody knew about it’ part was secured when she, early one Tuesday morning, transmitted over the radio, on the open channel, ‘Mike Delta two-two-three, do you have any johnnies?’

She got into some trouble with the brass about that one, but she gained major points with the rest of the team, and she’s now well known as someone who doesn’t mince her words – quite refreshing, really.

Once we’ve all said our hellos, we sit down briefly and talk about some questions they have, before breaking out the boot polish, giving our shoes a quick shine, and hitting the streets. Street duties involve a lot of foot patrolling, so you get a proper workout in the process, but seeing as I spend most of my time either driving around in a car or doing quick sprints after naughty little toe-rags, I usually find a walking session to be no bad thing.

It was a pretty slow morning. The radio was so dead that people occasionally ran a radio check, just to make sure their radios hadn’t stopped working. So, without anything better to do, we decided to head out on ‘reassurance patrol’.

Reassurance patrolling is usually done in areas where something bad has happened recently. Not long ago, we’d had a series of stabbings in one particular part of the borough, so we decided we’d take a stroll down the streets that had been worst affected, stop to have a chat with some of the shop owners, and just see how things were looking, on the whole.

By the time the morning had crawled to an end, we’d handed out five traffic tickets (all for mobile phone use), taken weed off some young troublemakers and issued them with a formal warning, and spent a bit of time running after a shoplifter who was unlucky enough to come across our path, before continuing his unlucky streak by running straight into a blind alley, where Sasha quickly got her arrest in. We dealt with it swiftly – both Pete and Sasha had made dozens of arrests by this point – and once we were done, we decided to pop into KFC for some lunch.

This particular branch of the Kentucky Fried Chicken (or Unlucky Fried Kitten, as we tend to call it round these parts) is weirdly L-shaped, and we took our seats in the short leg of the ‘L’ to chomp down our meals.

As we were idly chatting, we heard some commotion by the counter. When we’d come in, we had spotted a security guard, so I figured he’d take care of things. But no such luck: things escalated rapidly.

‘I gave you 40 pounds, you fat bitch.’ A voice broke through to our table of three, ending our genteel luncheon abruptly. Sasha and Pete looked at each other, then at me.

‘Hey, you are the cops,’ I said, grinning, as I took the last bite of my Zinger Tower meal. With a full mouth, I continued, ‘Go deal with it.’

The dashing duo rounded the corner, with me following a few steps behind.

Leaning forward with one hand on the counter was a very large man in a bright patterned shirt. When I say large, I mean very, very large indeed. Positively obese, in fact – larger than any man I had ever seen before in my life. For every movement he made with his arm, another part of his body seemed to be moving, as if it were echoing it – or perhaps protesting under its own weight.

Behind him was a shorter but no less formidable woman, who turned out to be his wife. The couple were on their honeymoon from Texas and had decided to come to London ‘because we love musicals’, they told me at some point later in the proceedings.

I recognised the man’s accent as American, but I wasn’t really sure who he had shouted at. In addition to the couple, the security guard was standing very close to them, making sounds designed – but failing – to calm them down.

‘What’s going on here?’ Sasha interrupted.

‘Ah, thank fuck for that,’ the man exclaimed. ‘This fat bitch stole my money,’ he repeated. I half expected him to point to his wife, but he nodded to the serving counter. I looked. At first glance, the counter was empty, but then I spotted a girl – not older than 20 – cowering behind one of the fryers.

‘Excuse me, could you come out,’ Pete said, waving to the girl for her to come closer, and smiling that broad, winning smile of his. ‘We just want to find out what’s been going on here.’

Pete was in front of me, so I have no idea what he was doing, but based on how the girl reacted, I can’t help but think that he must at least have winked at her. For the briefest of moments, I entertained myself with the idea that he might conceivably have blown her a kiss.

The girl – her nametag revealed her name to be Cecilie – was five feet tall at the most. She could probably do with going jogging every now and again, perhaps, but calling her ‘fat’ hardly seemed fair, especially considering the girth of both the man and his wife. As soon as Cecilie stepped out, the man went off on one again.

‘I paid you forty pounds! You gave me change for thirty! Where is my change, you dim-witted bitch?’ the man hissed.

‘Hey,’ said the security guard, wearily, ‘There’s no need for that kind of language. We have CCTV covering all the cash registers, and can easily check whether you got short-changed. If that’s the case, we’ll of course make sure you get the right change.’

The way the security guard had taken control of the situation was admirable, a perfect example of conflict resolution: admit there may have been a mistake, offer to look into it, and propose a resolution. Surely, nobody could have a problem with that?

Very, very slowly, with all the eager acceleration of an iceberg, the man turned around, and took a couple of tiny, shuffling steps towards the security guard. The only reason they weren’t nose-to-nose was that the guest’s remarkably sized stomach prevented him from getting any closer.

‘Fuck you, you fucking nigger,’ the customer sneered, followed by what seemed an eternity of silence. The security guard just stared at him. I expected him to be angry, but instead he was completely shocked. Even working as a security guard in a fast-food restaurant in a relatively gritty part of town, he didn’t experience ‘the N word’ all that often.

‘Right, that’s it,’ Sasha said. ‘I’m arresting you for offences under sections 4a and 18 of the public order act. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if, when questioned, you fail to mention something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’

‘What did he do?’ the man’s wife squealed, but her query was interrupted by her husband’s caged-animal roar.

‘What the fuck? No, you can’t arrest me. I haven’t done anything.’

He turned to me.

‘You can fuck off,’ he said.

He turned to Pete. ‘You can fuck off.’

Finally, he turned to Sasha. ‘And you, especially, can fuck off. Come on, Maggie, let’s get the fuck out of here.’

He extended a hand towards his wife, meaning for her to take it, but Sasha was quick. She whipped her handcuffs out of her holder, and slapped one side of the cuffs on his wrist.

‘You didn’t seem to hear me, sir, but I am arresting you for intending to cause alarm and distress, and for using a racial slur against this gentleman here,’ Sasha said.

It’s admirable that Sasha was able to get a cuff on him so quickly. I’ve seen her deal with prisoners very elegantly before – but there was no way she was going to be able to hold this ample-sized, gelatinous mess of misplaced anger by herself.

‘Pete, get some backup and a caged van,’ I said. He took half a step back to get outside of the angry man’s range, and reached for his radio immediately. The man pointed at me.

‘Are you in charge here? What happened to my rights, eh? I know my fucking rights. You can’t arrest me. You don’t have a fucking warrant. This is fucking kidnapping.’

As he was jabbing his finger half-heartedly in the direction of my eyes, I saw my chance. Keeping eye contact, I snuck my right hand to my handcuffs, took them out of the holster, and attached them to the hand that was pointing into my face.

We use Hiatt Speedcuffs, which are handcuffs with bars between the two cuffs, instead of a chain. They’re bulkier than the cuffs you tend to see police officers in cop shows carry around, but they do have a huge advantage: once you have one cuff attached to your prisoner, you can use the cuffs for leverage. Dubbed ‘pain compliance’ by the training team at Hendon, with these cuffs if it looks as though you’re liable to lose control of a prisoner, you can use the stiff bar to manipulate them to do what you want.

‘Place your hands behind your back, sir, and I will explain everything to you.’

‘Fuck you,’ he said once again, without showing any inclination to pay heed to my suggestion.

‘Sir, you do understand that swearing at me isn’t going to do you any good, right?’ I said.

‘What the fuck are you going to do? Isn’t this a fucking free country? I know my rights, and you’ve got no fucking reason for fucking kidnapping me! Now let me get the fuck out of these hand-fucking-cuffs, before I fuck you up.’ Clearly my strategy to get him to swear less was less than efficient.

‘Sir, are you threatening me?’ I asked, as light-heartedly as I could.

‘Fucking right I am. I’ll fuck you up, you little bastard. What are you gonna do? Shout at me a little? You’re not the police. You haven’t even got a fucking gun, you gutless pussy.’

‘My friend, you see this little badge here?’ I said, and pointed at the name badge on my Metvest. ‘You see where it says Police Constable? And here’s my identification.’ I whipped out my warrant card with one hand, as I was still holding on to the cuff that was holding his right hand. ‘Can you see the bit where it says “Warrant”? That’s all the warrant I need to arrest you. I assure you all three of us are police officers. You’re going to get arrested now, and we’ll have a chat about all of this at the station.’

Unappeased, the man suddenly moved both his hands up at high speed. I only just managed to hold on to the cuff on my side, but Sasha’s slipped out of her hand. The spare metal cuff glanced her across her face, and sent her glasses flying. She yelped in pain, but recomposed herself quickly. She took one step on to one of the chairs behind the man, then another to get on to the table. Through her swift climbing-on-the-table action, she was suddenly tall enough to reach the cuff. She jumped, grabbed the cuff, and came crashing back to the ground, taking the man’s arm with her.

‘Place your arms behind your back now,’ I said. As the word ‘now’ passed my lips, I twisted the cuffs towards his back. In training, this is a move we practise on each other all the time – you’ll have to take my word for this; a sharply twisted set of handcuffs is powerful tool for persuasion.

During this, Pete had finished his radio call, and approached the man’s wife. Flashing her a charm-buster of a smile, he had firmly guided her away from the struggle in progress.

Sasha and I somehow managed to get the man’s hands behind his back at the same time, and we connected the two empty cuffs together behind his back. With Sasha’s cuff holding his left hand, my cuff holding his right, and both sets of cuffs attached to each other, we finally had the man under control.

A small crowd had gathered around us, which Pete was in the middle of placating.

‘Let’s just step over this way,’ Sasha said, and pointed towards the awkwardly-shaped short leg of the L in an attempt to at least get this guy a little bit out of the way, away from the other guests in the restaurant.

To my surprise, the American went along with the command, but of course not without making a protest.

‘I have my First Amendment rights,’ the man shouted. ‘You can’t tell me what I can say and what I can’t say! You’ll hear from my embassy, you fucking Nazis! This is the last time I’ll visit your stinking little island! Fuck you, get off me,’ he screamed, as he struggled against the two sets of handcuffs.

It wasn’t a pretty sight.

‘I have the right to free speech! I didn’t punch anybody; I didn’t steal anything. Why the fuck am I wearing these handcuffs?’ he said, before reiterating, like a tediously skipping record, that he knew his rights.

‘Right, let me explain this to you,’ I started. ‘Your First Amendment doesn’t apply here—’

‘Fuck you. Like hell my First Amendment doesn’t apply,’ he shouted at the top of his considerable lung capacity and vocal volume. ‘Have you ever heard of the fucking Constitution? I want my lawyer. Why didn’t you offer me a lawyer? That’s one of my fucking rights, you know!’

‘Mate, I don’t care what you think your rights are,’ I exploded. I had had it with this guy; nothing pisses me off more than people who ‘know their rights’ after having watched one too many American cop shows. ‘You have the right to a solicitor, but not until we make it back to the police station. In the meantime, do you remember the bit Sasha here told you about “you do not have to say anything”? That’s basically the same as “your right to remain silent”, and I suggest you use it.’

He half-grunted, half-snorted, which I choose to interpret as: ‘My good sir, I do apologise for causing you such an inconvenience, and I would relish in silently listening to you for the foreseeable future.’

‘So, your First Amendment is part of the Bill of Rights. I appreciate that piece of legislation, but you are in the UK, and the First Amendment – along with the rest of the US Constitution – is part of US law. It does not apply here.’

‘But I’m an American citizen—’

‘When I am in the US, I have to adhere to US law,’ I interjected. ‘When I’m here, I have to stick to local laws. The same goes for you, when you’re in England you’re bound by English law. I don’t know how you normally speak to people in the US, but in the UK, we’ve got a piece of legislation known as the Public Order Act.

‘The POA is a set of laws that was designed to make England a nicer place. At its most serious, in section 1, it covers riots. At its least serious, it covers people wandering around in the streets yelling obscenities.

‘Do you recall what you said to the security guard earlier? A word starting with an N?’ I enquired.

‘Yeah. When someone is being a fucking nigger, I’ll call them a nigger,’ the man grunted.

‘Well, there’s a problem with that: your freedom of speech does not extend to swearing at random strangers, especially if you use racial slurs,’ I explained. ‘That’s a pretty serious matter, and I won’t stand for it. It’s bad enough that you were swearing at me and my colleagues, but swearing at the cashier and calling the security guy, who was only trying to help sort things out, what you did is not appropriate.’

I was about to explain in further depth exactly how much trouble he was in, when I spotted Pete waving at me to come over. I looked over at Sasha. She shrugged. ‘I got this,’ she said, and took a firmer grip of the man’s handcuff.

I believed her, and walked over to Pete.

‘Just got off the radio,’ he started. ‘Something’s kicked off in the next borough, and they’ve sent a load of support from our shift over there.’

‘Keep an eye on our American friend over here,’ I told Pete, and I walked over to the security guard.

‘Hey, have you had a chance to look at the security tape?’ I asked him.

‘Yeah, he clearly handed over a tenner and a twenty. I guess he’s just not used to the money over here,’ he said, with a shrug. He didn’t seem particularly upset.

‘We’ve got a bit of a problem. I don’t feel comfortable transporting this fellow on foot, and all the support is tied up on another incident in the next borough at the moment.’ The security guard nodded; he understood where this was going. ‘If I encourage him to calm down and apologise, would that be okay?’

‘I’m not happy, man,’ he said, and handed me Sasha’s glasses; they came off during the struggle, and he must have picked them up.

‘Thanks,’ I said, inspecting the glasses. They seemed to be more or less in one piece.

‘But yeah, if he apologises and gets the hell out of my shop, I’m happy. I’m not here to be abused, but I haven’t got time for shit like this neither.’

‘Yeah, I completely understand. I’m sorry about the lack of support, but our prisoner transport vans are deployed elsewhere. I’d much rather have taken him in, but apparently something serious is taking place, and I don’t really know what it is.’ I shrugged apologetically.

‘No worries, I understand,’ he said.

I went back to the American.

‘Right, buddy, there’s two ways we can do this. We can either sit here and wait for a van to arrive, check you into custody, interview you, and deal with you properly, or we can send you on your way. What would you prefer?’ I asked.

‘I get to choose?’ he asked, clearly thinking I was trying to catch him out with some sort of practical joke.

‘Well, yes. But if you just want to walk away, you’re going to need to do some serious apologising, starting with my colleagues here, then with me and then the staff here,’ I said.

‘Could you please take these handcuffs off me,’ he said. ‘I would like to shake everyone’s hands, and apologise properly.’

I wasn’t too sure what to do about that particular request. If I am being honest, I knew it was more luck than skill that enabled us to get him in cuffs in the first place, and I wasn’t sure we were going to be able to pull off the same stunt twice.

I conferred with Pete and Sasha. They were both sitting just behind the American. First I spotted Sasha; her face was completely red. Glancing over at Pete, I realised they were both shaking with laughter. Both of them were trying their best to keep the giggles under control, and I was getting pissed off. What the hell was going on?

‘Are you okay to take the cuffs off?’ I asked them. Pete opened his mouth, but didn’t trust his voice not to break into all-out laughter, and so simply nodded, produced his handcuff keys and let the giant free from his captivity.

‘So, about those apologies …’ I said.

‘Erm, yes. Of course, sir,’ he said. As if struck with a magic wand, his behaviour had completely changed. He was as polite as they come.

Turning to Sasha first: ‘I let anger get the better of me, ma’am. I am so very sorry. Please forgive me.’

Next to Pete, then to me with slight variations on the same apologetic theme.

With that out of the way, he bounded out to the main part of the restaurant, much faster than I would have expected from a man his size. I ran after him, but needn’t have panicked; he was the very picture of grace and politeness. He tried to tip both of the restaurant staff £20 for their trouble and the offence caused. They refused to take his money, although they were happy to accept a spectacularly well-performed grovel of an apology.

Finally, he turned to me again, apologised once more, and whisked himself and his wife out of the restaurant.

I immediately rang in to cancel the van, and was asked by the operator to return to Mike Delta (the station identifier for our home police station).

‘Yes, yes, received. We’ll take the bus!’ I radioed back.

‘What the hell happened back there?’ I asked, as I turned back into the area beside the counter to find Pete and Sasha collapsed on the floor, howling with laughter.

‘He …’ Sasha began, but had to abort her explanation attempt in favour of gasping for breath

‘She …’ Pete said, before being similarly overcome with giggles.

‘Jesus,’ I said, getting annoyed.

I decided to leave them to their fits of debilitating laughter, and I joined the restaurant staff to get confirmation in writing that they were happy that the case was resolved by the American apologising.

When we finally left the restaurant, my two colleagues had gathered their wits a little. A little, at least.

‘What the …?’ I asked.

‘Well, when you went to speak to the security guard,’ Pete said, ‘the wife walked up to her husband, and said that if they had to stay here for another five minutes he wouldn’t get any blow-jobs for the rest of the year.’ The last part of his sentence was barely audible, as both he and Sasha were in fits of laughter again.

‘Jeez,’ I said, fighting to stop my inner eye from envisioning any sort of sexual encounter between the two of them. ‘You are buying the beers at the end of this shift, Pete. I’m definitely going to need some mental bleach to get that picture out of my mind.’