Confessions of a Police Constable (3 page)

‘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.