Court Witness Training

I was sat in a hall within a police building, surrounded by nearly a hundred other police officers who I had joined with. We had come back for some training and today’s topic was crown courts. A barrister had been drafted in to explain to us what lawyers will try and do to trip police officers up when giving evidence.

Once he had explained the court set up and the underhand tricks that are used, he revealed to us that he had a pile of witness statements that we had written earlier in the week relating to robbery we had watched on a television screen. In it, a female had had her laptop bag stolen by a hooded male.

Unbeknown to us, our instructors had earlier in the week faxed them over to him and he had gone over them in minute detail. I shifted uncomfortably as he revealed that some people would be called up where he would proceed to destroy them. I began to start feeling warm and undid my top button and loosened my tie somewhat. Only five people were going to be called up and out of nearly a hundred, our individual odds were pretty good.

Slowly people were called up, taken out of the room and then when the signal was given, led back inside for the long walk to the front where a mock court had been created, complete with a jury which was made up of willing volunteers. I decided to stay rooted to my seat as I watched the back of the barrister’s head as he peered over the statement. I looked up at the witness box and saw my colleague looking rather grey.

The barrister meticulously picked apart the statement and had the officer spluttering as he fired questions at him. The atmosphere in the room was tense; nobody moved as they waited with baited breath to see if he survived this verbal attack.

He managed to find an incorrect detail within the statement and had the officer on the ropes as he bullied him into admitting it was wrong.

“I suppose that is incorrect, yes,” he stammered.

“Well officer,” he replied theatrically. “What else is incorrect in your statement?”
Suddenly the barrister looked up at the judge and said he had no more questions. The officer looked exhausted and he made his way back to his seat as we applauded before the barrister had a debrief and gave feedback.
This continued three more times until time was running dangerously low. He called what we thought would be the final witness and feeling more confident I went and sat in the seats of the jury. Now I could watch the ‘witness’ get destroyed from a different position and prepared to savour every moment.
It came to an end quite abruptly as the barrister looked at his watch.

“Now,” he said in a casual voice. “I think we have time for one more.”

He picked up a handwritten statement and my heart began beating. That handwriting looked oddly familiar.

“Bill. Bill Newman, is he here?”

“Shit,” I muttered loudly as I raised my hand from the jury seats.

“Ah good,” he beamed. “Go and get ready.”

I had left my statement under my seat in the main audience which was on the other side of the hall from the jury seats. I escaped out of the hall and wondered if I could give my evidence without it. Suddenly I was given the signal and was taken up to the box.

“Officer,” he started slowly, peering at me. “Did you have a good view of the incident.”

“Yes,” I replied, my throat now somewhat dry. “I was overlooking the road and could see it.”

“So it wasn’t the best view then?” he said sarcastically.

“It was a view,” I said.

“Yes, you didn’t answer the question. It wasn’t the best view then?”

“I was happy with it, yes,” I said.

He looked at me annoyed and continued.

“Officer, you say in your statement that the victim had a handbag stolen from her. Is that correct?”

I knew I was on shaky ground and knew what he was getting at. When we had seen the incident it had been just a few seconds long and we had to record as much as we could. At the time I had thought it was a handbag she had been wearing over her shoulder. Once our statements had been written we had been informed that it was in fact a laptop bag.

“Yes at the time I believed it was a handbag.”

“So it couldn’t have been a rucksack?”

“No, I don’t believe so.”

“So it couldn’t have been a briefcase?”

“No.”

“So it couldn’t have been a satchel?”

“It was a bag on a strap over her shoulder, I believed it was a handbag.”

I could see the audience smirking as they knew, as did I, what he was getting at. I had mistaken a laptop bag for a handbag but I was determined not to admit I was wrong. He looked back at my statement for a moment before looking directly at me.

“And officer, it couldn’t have been a laptop bag?”

He said the words ‘laptop bag’ slowly and deliberately before looking back at my statement. I could hear a few people giggling and I felt slightly amused. The audience knew I was lying and the barrister knew I was lying. He looked back up at me.

“No,” I said confidently. “I do believe it was a handbag.”

He glared at me and looked annoyed before telling me to go and sit down as people applauded. He looked over at me and asked how I felt.

“And do you think you’re appropriately dressed for court?” he sneered.

I was wearing a suit, as were many of the other males in the room. In fact, some had not even worn a suit jacket, but just a shirt and tie.

I felt confused as to what he was getting at. We had come for courtroom skills and not tips on how to dress. We would be in our best uniform at crown court, not a suit anyway.

“Erm, I’m not quite sure what you mean.”

“Just answer the question yes or no,” he spat.

I felt a little shocked at his reaction and wondered what was going on. He was still in the role-play mode and attacking me. This wasn’t meant to happen; with the other people he had talked to them kindly after they had sat down and offered them advice on giving evidence, not on their dress style.

“Yes,” I said. “I am dressed appropriately.”

“I would disagree,” he said sternly. “Your top button is undone and your jacket was open. It’s all about appearance,” he barked.

I recoiled back into my seat and sat there stunned for a moment. Granted, my top button had been undone because I had been hot, but I wouldn’t have done that in a court – in fact, I wouldn’t even be wearing a suit in court. And as for my suit jacket being done up, I had never seen people wear one all buttoned up.
I’m not quite sure why he attacked the way I was dressed but I shall now always ensure my clip on tie is firmly fastened when I venture into the witness box.

Guarding a Crime Scene

Crime scenes are an unpopular task for officers and it’s usually the probationers that are rewarded with guarding them.

Quite often you can be dumped outside a house with nothing more than a shaky promise that your colleagues will return with food and drink. Then you hear them on the radio later on getting tucked up with a job and you realise that you’re not going to be relieved for several hours. Usually it’s at night and normally always raining. I look forward to a crime scene beside the river on a warm summer’s day, with a small café nearby so that I can grab refreshments with the crime scene still in sight.

Fortunately, for my first crime scene I had the lucky advantage of having a car which I could sit in. It was a night duty and earlier that day a cannabis factory had been found inside a house down a quiet residential cul-de-sac. A mistake had been made and somehow the man who was living in the house managed to get away. It was suspected that the building had been booby-trapped and so officers were not allowed to enter until the electricity board had been down and isolated the power. That wouldn’t happen until the morning and so for now the house had to be guarded. The Vietnamese gang that had been running the factory had got away and there was a possibility they might return.

I was sat in an unmarked car across the street from the house and told to watch for anyone that may try and gain access. If they did, I was told not to approach them but to call for backup. I sat in the car and was determined not to let anyone slip by. I stared at the house intently, barely daring to blink in case I missed something. I was staring so hard that the shadows from the trees blowing in the wind began to look like people. I squinted as my heart began to race. Surely they wouldn’t dare to return to the crime scene and risk being arrested I thought to myself. I held my radio in my hand and memorised the road name in case I needed to call for assistance quickly. I could see the front door from my position and had a jolt in my stomach when it appeared the door was opening from the inside.

“I’m not getting out,” I said to myself, now rigid with fear. I had already locked the doors to the car and now sat frozen as I tried to make out what was happening. Was the door opening or was it just the shadows I could see?

My radio suddenly lit up and crackled into use.

“All units please be aware that the radios will be going down for about two minutes shortly,” our control room said.

I sat there with the nasty realisation that if anything was going to happen to me tonight, it would happen when the radios went down.

My radio light cut out and it went deathly quiet. The wind in the trees suddenly sounded like people in the nearby bushes whispering. A fox clambering over a garden fence was in my mind an intruder breaking into the house.

If the gang did return and got into the house and I was unable to call for assistance, I was not going to attempt to stop them, I had decided. But if they had spotted me and for some crazy reason suspected that I would attempt to arrest them, they might decide to try and take me out first. My throat was very dry and I sat extremely still, straining to see and hear anything that moved.
I looked in rear mirror and suddenly spotted a car gently purring down the road. My blood ran cold as I saw it had no lights on whatsoever.

Why would a driver be driving with no lights on at all? The only reason I could think of was because they didn’t want to be seen. And the only people in this road that wouldn’t want to be seen were the Vietnamese gang. I watched it pull in behind a car further up the road and then saw no movement for about 15 seconds.

Suddenly both the driver’s and the passenger’s car doors opened and I saw two figures dressed in dark clothing get out.

As I watched them, my eyes nearly popped out of my head when I saw what they did. They both crouched down low and began creeping up towards the vehicle I was in. I was now in between them and the house and was certain that they had seen me and were going to silence me. A bead of sweat ran down my face as I debated whether I should stay in the car where I would be a sitting target or get out and face them with my baton and CS spray.

The figures grew gradually closer and I realised that I would now not have time to get out. I sat there, praying they would just walk past. They approached the back of the car and then went out of sight. I sat there motionless, barely breathing, waiting for them to crawl past the car. I looked in the mirror but could see nothing. In my side mirror it just showed an empty road. I needed to lean over to the passenger side and look in that mirror.

I shifted in the leather seats slowly as the material creaked and leant over the handbrake to see into the side mirror. I carefully raised my head, my heart now racing. The mirror looked empty.

Suddenly a figure I had not seen in the mirror leapt up behind the window and a man glared at me just inches from my face through the glass.

I went to scream but nothing came out.

Anyway, he looked oddly familiar. And why was he now laughing? I realised it was a guy from my team. He was now rolling around on the pavement laughing as his partner did the same. I opened the door and got out.

“Bastards,” I muttered. “I knew it was you,” I said casually, relief now searing through my body.

Secretly I was overjoyed that it had been them and not some real gang members. But I shall certainly never forget my first crime scene experience.

Issuing an FPN...

I was sat parked up with my driver Alan, tucked down a long driveway which came off a main road.

The early morning shift was dragging slowly and the radio was unusually quiet. Hidden from the view of motorists, we sat to eat our lunch while watching for any drivers, unaware of our presence, to give us an excuse to stop them.

Seatbelts, using mobile phones and even speeding would be our green light to shoot after them and pull them over.

“We’re the petty police today really,” Alan said amusingly as he studied the wrapper of a chocolate bar he’d just consumed.

“Do you know how many E numbers this thing has,” he asked me in a tone that told me I was about to find out. “That’s unbelievable,” he added, still staring intently at the small writing.

I saw a car shoot past along the 30mph road travelling at least 50mph.
“That flew past us,” I said.

“All the food I’ve eaten has got weird stuff in it,” he continued, picking up the empty crisp packet on his lap.

“Al, did you see that car that flew past,” I tried again.

“Mono… monosodium glutamate,” he stumbled. “What the hell is that? Wheat Malto… maltodextrin? That sounds like a poison.”

A blue Micra with four young lads in drove slowly past, the occupants looking at nearby houses.

“Wonder what they’re up to,” I said more to myself than anyone else.
“There’s garlic powder in my peperami,” Alan said, sounded disgusted. “Why would they put that in there, that’s just wrong?”

As I looked up, I saw a young male speed past while holding a mobile phone up against his right ear.

“He was on the phone,” I said.

Alan’s head darted up so quickly I thought his neck my snap and within a split second the car keys were being turned in the ignition.

“That’s just taking the piss,” Alan snarled, spinning the car around and catching up to the offender. “I hate mobile phones.”

We shot after the car and pulled it over a short distance up the road.

“Do you have any idea why we’ve pulled you over,” I said to the young driver who was now standing beside me on the pavement.

“Mobile,” he said sheepishly.

“Correct. That’s three points for using your mobile. It’ll push your insurance up and cost you more money,” I warned. “That’s a good result though for you,” I added. He looked at me confused.

“The bad result happens when you’re talking on your phone and don’t see something and end up killing someone and then go to prison. And I guarantee you won’t kill yourself, it’ll be an innocent person. The fact you didn’t see us behind shows you weren’t aware of what was going on around you.”

“Sorry”, he mumbled apologetically.

“On this occasion, take it as words of advice, but you were very close to getting a ticket there,” I said sternly.

He got back into his car and drove off slowly, probably thankful we had let him off. I’d never had an intention to stick him on for the offence; he’d been honest, was polite and I didn’t feel like ruining his day.

Moments later we were behind another car whose driver was idly chatting away on his phone.

“Give him a tug, he’s got no idea we’re here,” I said somewhat annoyed.
Standing next to the offender on the pavement, I began my usual routine.
“Why do you think we’ve pulled you over?”

He looked at me blankly, and shook his head.

“You’ve no idea whatsoever why we might have pulled you over?” I asked in disbelief. He was talking himself into a ticket nicely. “Just be honest with me.”
He again shook his head, so I helped him out.

“Mobile phone perhaps?” I said.

“Nope,” he said defiantly.

“There’s no point in lying mate, we followed you for about a quarter of a mile and you were completely unaware we were behind you.”

“I wasn’t on the phone, check it,” he said pointing at his car. Alan leant into his vehicle and retrieved the phone and brought it over.

“It says you last received a call five minutes ago,” Alan said cheerfully.
“I wasn’t on the phone,” he said once more.

A genuine apology and politeness and he’d have driven off with no more than a ticking off, providing our routine checks had all been okay. Instead, he’d talked himself into three points and a fine.

“Have a seat in the back of our car,” I said mischievously. “We’ll sort it out in there.”

Once I had filled out the ticket, our man was still defending himself.
“You can either pay the fine and accept the points,” I said. “Or challenge it and take it to court, and we’ll all have a nice day out, it really doesn’t bother me,” I said.

“I’ll see you in court then mate,” he said before walking off.

He knew we’d caught him in the act, we knew we’d caught him in the act, but for some reason he’d insisted to play the silly game that ended up in him getting points. On the whole I dislike giving tickets out to motorists because the majority of them are decent people who’ve never committed a crime. I would suggest that every driver has at once stage committed traffic offences, and I am fully aware of that. But getting caught and then deciding to lie to the police is a silly way in getting an easy ticket.

“What an idiot,” I said. “If he hadn’t have lied I wouldn’t have bothered giving him a ticket.”

I looked up to see Alan studying the back of my sandwich packet with a deep frown.

“Disgusting,” he muttered.

If You Stand Still, The Dog Shouldn't Bite

I was kneeling in ankle high grass which was wet from a heavy down-pour that had occurred only moments earlier.

Feeling uncomfortable from the length of time I had remained in the same position, I shifted my weight onto my other leg and popped my head above the fence I was shielded behind. I could hear a dog on the other side of the fence in a garden, sniffing strongly and moving about. I looked behind me at the live electrical railway line which was just a number of feet away from me.

Its low humming got louder as a train in the distance approached me. Feeling slightly concerned that I might be spotted from the train and mistaken for a trespasser, I pulled my coat back in the hope that any sharp eyed passengers would see my handcuffs. I also grabbed my radio and pretended to listen into it, hoping that if the handcuffs didn’t reassure anyone that I was a genuine police officer, the radio might. As the train passed me, I couldn’t hear anything coming from the garden and decided to take a peak through the crack of the fence.

Looking through I came face to face with an eye looking back at me. I frowned, wondering how long someone had been staring at me without saying something and stood up to look at them. As I did so the eye disappeared and was replaced with ferocious barking, and a shaking fence as the dog tried to scramble over to reach me. I stood up fully hoping that the police dog would recognise my uniform as that of a police officer. It seemed that it did not, and continued to try to get to me, its teeth flashing just yards in front of me as it reared it’s head. I had an angry dog in front of me and 25,000 volts behind. And I couldn’t remember covering this role-play at training school.

I was working a pretty mundane early shift which had produced a couple of calls but nothing major when we heard a colleague come out on the radio. It’s easy to tell when a colleague is stressed or in trouble because of the tone of their voice, often they’re shouting or sound panicky. In this instance, a female officer had been driving down a residential road when two young men who had been walking down the street spotted her car and began running. One of them was detained by her, while her colleague chased after the second man. The female officer directed other units in using the radio and we arrived at a street where her colleague had last been seen chasing the suspect. We tried to contact him on the radio but got no reply.

“I think they’ve gone into the train station,” the female officer shouted across the street at us while she dealt with the man she had managed to catch.

Myself and a colleague went down onto the platform to look for our colleague.

Passengers stood waiting for an imminent train looked at us with surprise but none offered any insight into the whereabouts of our colleague.

“They can’t have come down here,” I said to my mate. “They would have told us which way they’d gone.”

As soon as I had said the words, we spotted him walking down the side of the railway line with his baton out which he was using to search bushes.

“Do you want a hand James?” we shouted. He looked up and nodded and gestured for us to come down.

“Should we walk down the side of the line?” I asked gingerly. “If the bloke running wants to get electrocuted then we should just let him.”

“It’ll be fine,” was the reply I got. “Just keep an eye out for where you’re standing and don’t go anywhere near any of the lines.”

We reached our colleague further down the track and I could see that either side of the line backed onto people’s gardens.

“He went over that fence,” he said. “I’m certain he went in there. I’m going to go in and have a look.”

“I’ll come with you,” my driver said. He turned to me with some instructions.

“Stay here and keep a look at down the line in case he pops out of another garden and carries on running.”

“Yep, no problem,” I replied, knowing full well that there would be a problem if he did re-emerge. No way was I going to get into a roll around with a bloke inches from a railway line. For all I cared he could run, I wasn’t going to go after him.
I watched the two disappear into the long garden and began to feel slightly lonely when I could no longer hear their voices.

My radio was in constant use as other units were directed around the area in the hunt for this mystery man. I wondered if he could be hiding somewhere near me. He might even be watching me and take his chances; the odds were better with just me to fight rather than three of us. I tried to show a facial expression that would indicate to him if he was watching that I was quite casual about this job and would let him go without a fight.

Suddenly my radio began ringing and I saw it was my driver private calling me.
“Bill, just so you know, stay out of the garden, they’re letting the dog in.”
With that he was gone and I was left wondering if the mutt might flush the hiding man out. Suddenly I realised that I was standing where my colleagues had told the dog handler the man had disappeared from. The dog would catch my scent and could potentially come after me.

I crouched down to remain out of sight while I wondered what to do. I thought about making my way back along the track to the platform but decided not to in case the dog ran after me. I was sure I had been told that running from a dog would make matters worse. What if I walked backwards so it didn’t think I was trying to escape? I didn’t fancy that idea, on the basis that I would be inches from the live rail. I looked at my radio and tried to private call my driver back for some advice. As I switched channel, I could hear another radio from the garden. I looked over the fence and saw the handler coming in with a huge German shepherd which was off its lead. I thought about calling out before realising that the dog would also hear me so quickly crouched down again, sweat now running down my forehead.

It was at this point that the train came past me and I decided to have another look through the fence, coming face to face with the dog as I did so.
Standing up, the dog became even more excited and I saw the surprised expression on the handler before she started shouting at her dog.
“Get back,” she screamed at him, unable to quite reach him herself as he scrambled to get to me.

I stood still, from fear rather than instruction.

“Get back here now,” she shouted at the dog again. He finally crept back enough that the handler could clip him back onto his lead, giving me the opportunity to climb over the fence.

“That gave me a bit of a scare,” I said to her as I walked back through the garden warily, as the dog kept staring at me.

“To be totally honest,” she said, “you gave me a bit of a fright. I thought you were our man.”

“Sorry about that,” I said sheepishly.

“If ever that happens, the best thing is to just stand still and the dogs shouldn’t bite,” she said casually. “Although this one is a bit disobedient at the moment,” she added in a strained voice, as she pulled the dog back on the lead once more to stop him going for me one last time.

Why Do Some Prisoners Always Fight?

“Be careful when you do your checks on him. He flashes violent, weapons and drugs and has really hurt some people in the past.”

I was posted in custody as the gaoler looking after the prisoners and the words of advice were from my sergeant. My duties were to assist the custody sergeant in basically keeping the prisoners alive; I was a glorified babysitter. In between that, I would keep them fed and watered, let them out for phone calls and interviews and fetch them other items such as blankets or magazines.

A young lad called Pete had just been brought in for a violent assault on somebody which had left them unconscious in hospital. Pete was well known in custody – he was always in and out and for a 17-year-old he had an impressively long criminal record.

He was placed in his cell and I went to see him in case he needed anything.

“Pete, do you want anything to eat or drink?” I asked him through the wicket.

“Would it be possible to get a cup of tea please mate?” he asked politely.

“Yep, no problem, anything to eat?”

“Yeh, can I have the chilli con carne please mate?”

I went and prepared the food and returned with it, opening the cell door and taking it to him.

“Cheers mate for that,” he said again. “I’ll have this and then probably get some sleep, can you dim the lights?”

I knew that I would be unable to because of a fault and told him so.

“Ah go on,” he pleaded with me.

“I’m not being difficult,” I said, “it genuinely doesn’t work.”

“But I won’t be able to sleep.”

I disappeared and had a chat with my skipper before returning to Pete’s cell.

“Right, the skipper has said I can move you to another cell with a light that does dim,” I told him. His face lit up into a smile.

“Ah cheers mate, that’s great,” he beamed. He picked up his food and blanket and trotted off down the corridor into his new cell.

“Mate I really appreciate this, thank you so much,” he said as I shut the door.

I began making my way back to the custody desk and saw that another male about 35 years old was being booked in for a public order offence.

“I don’t give a f*** who you are,” he slurred loudly at the skipper booking him in. “Do you not have a f****** clue who I am? I own a multi-million pound company.”

He was over six foot tall and well built, wearing expensive looking clothes and was leaning over the counter glaring at the sergeant.

“Sir, I’m going to ask you some questions that I ask everyone…”

“Oh f*** off,” he replied.

The sergeant attempted again to run through the risk assessment questions before he was interrupted again.

“I pay you’re f****** wages don’t forget, so just remember that,” he shouted angrily. “I’m an innocent person and I’m going to complain about all of this.”

“Sir, you’ve been arrested to…”

“Oh f*** off, Im quite clever” he slurred at the sergeant again. I winced, wondering how much patience the sergeant had left.

“Take him to a cell,” my skipper sighed.

The arresting officer tried to lead him to a cell, when the male began struggling.

Other officers became involved and moments later I was also on the floor struggling with the man.

It turned out he was indeed the owner of a multi-million pound company. He was well educated, completed university and was now living in a decent part of town. He had only been in trouble with the police once before for a public order offence a few years back and on paper should have been easy to look after. Yet he was determined to argue and fight with us.

Then there was Pete who has a huge criminal record, is violent, conceals weapons and can put people in hospital. Yet whenever he is in custody he is as good as gold. He knows the score and realises that being rude won’t help him. He is polite and civil and so is treated with respect. He knows that treating us properly means his life is more comfortable and he is more likely to get out quicker. I think I know who the clever one is.

Police Also Have High Pressure Targets

Watching the news last week I found it amusing to see a report on traffic wardens who give tickets to motorists simply because they have targets to hit.

People were outraged that fines were being issued instead of a bit of discretion, purely on the basis that the wardens had figures they were aiming for. Sitting in the police canteen at work, I raised an eyebrow. Sadly the police is not too dissimilar in that we also have high pressure targets to hit.

Although results are a way in which the police can be measured, unfortunately I see it every day having a negative effect on the genuine victims of crime. When an incident happens, the first police unit should head for the victim, make sure they are okay, obtain as much information as possible and circulate it to the other units. The officers could spend a lengthy period of their shift depending on what they’re dealing with, consoling the victim, taking statements and looking after their wellbeing. While this is happening, another officer could breeze in, arrest the suspect and get the points which go towards their personal target. Suddenly, going to help the victim doesn’t seem so appealing anymore, when everyone knows it won’t help them hit their quotas.

The other day a call came out that a shop had been robbed by a number of males who were armed with weapons. The surrounding area was flooded with patrol cars searching for the suspects who had been seen nearby. As vehicles began sweeping roads and officers on foot patrol started checking front gardens, calls continually came in from other informants stating they had seen suspicious males jump through their garden. Each time one of these calls came in, pandemonium would occur with cars passing each other in a desperate bid to collar the crooks.

I happened to be in one of these cars and had my belt off, ready to get out sprinting after anyone that I happened to see hiding somewhere. Twenty minutes had passed since the original call came out and we needed more information.

“Officers with the victim,” I said into my radio. “Do you have any more descriptions on the suspects?”

The radio went quiet so I tried again. Suddenly our control room crackled over the airwaves informing us that they had no reports that anyone had gone to the victim. On hearing that at least one suspect had been arrested by a nearby unit, we dashed to the victim and found them alone and upset.

I then spent the next four hours gaining information and writing a painstakingly detailed statement from the victim which I had no problem with doing. I knew that my behaviour would have a direct impact on how the victim felt and how they portrayed the police. What I did not get however, is any recognition of my work and more importantly in the eyes of the management team, any points for the arrest which could make me appear a lazy officer.

I have seen cases where units deliberately take a longer route to get to the scene of a crime in order that they are not first on scene and so do not have to deal with the victim – instead cracking on with their hunt for the valuable points.

I think it is sad that officers are now under so much pressure to get results that they will avoid dealing with the victim in order that they can get an arrest instead and therefore get the management team off their back. It’s a shame that senior officers become politicians and forget about real policing. But if better statistics is what they want rather than best policing practices, then that is what they shall get.

It Sounded Like An Interesting Call

One of the reasons I joined the job was to help genuine innocent victims of crime and to make sure that justice was served on the crooks that make people’s lives a misery.

A large percentage of the time though is wasted by people who misuse the police to score cheap points or to get something done.

The other day a call came out that the informant’s neighbour was in the street armed with a machete. It sounded like an interesting call and we took it. As we raced along busy streets my mind thought to what would greet us when we arrived on scene. Either it would be a machete-wielding maniac that could need CS spray or use of batons to comply with our instructions, or it would be all quiet on our arrival.

In typical fashion, it was the latter so decided to approach the door of the house where the neighbour with the alleged machete lived. Holding my baton covertly in my hand, I was surprised to see an elderly woman answer the door.

“I’m just unlocking the door,” she shouted through the glass pane as I heard the noise of a key clicking into the lock.

I took a step back from the door in the unlikely event that she would suddenly spring out armed with some sort of weaponry and was almost disappointed when I realised she wouldn’t. She looked confused to see us and I explained why we had been called.

“My neighbour came to my door threatening me,” she said. “But I never unlocked it and I most certainly was not waving a machete about,” she added almost indignantly.

I began making my way next door when the door flung open and a young man, about 22 years old age appeared looking quite excited.

“I called you,” he said as he pointed at the elderly female my colleague was talking to. “She’s crazy, let me show you what she’s done.”

He began walking down the side of his house into his back garden and I followed somewhat confused.

“What I need to do is find out why you’ve called us,” I started to say.

“Yes, I’m showing you,” he snapped.

He took me into the back garden where I could see there was no fence between their adjoining gardens.

“I put up a line of string across the length of our garden to mark out where a new fence would go and look it at,” he pointed, almost disbelievingly.

I looked across and saw a limp bit of string attached to one stick. I looked back at the man confused.

“Sorry, what seems to be the problem?” I asked politely.

“She’s cut my piece of string,” he said glaring at me. “Can’t you see? That’s criminal damage, I want her arrested and charged please, it cost me £7 to buy that ball of string.”

I nearly laughed out loud from frustration. Whenever a police officer responds to an emergency call, there are always risks involved. Driving through the streets with blue lights and sirens can be somewhat dangerous, to us and to other members of the public. I accept that everything is done to minimise the risks, but there is still a risk and sadly sometimes people do get hurt when mistakes are made. I don’t mind risking my safety to help a genuine victim in an emergency. But what I cannot stand is timewasters who risk lives by abusing the 999 system.
“You called 999 because she’s cut your string,” I said slowly.

“Not just that,” he said annoying. I was beginning to dislike him more by the second. “She’s cut it three times now. I want her arrested.”

“She’s an 80-year-old woman,” I said.

“And?” he said, his tone of voice getting higher in pitch as he became more agitated.

“You said she had a knife…”

“It was a machete.”

“Ok machete. But she didn’t open her front door, she hasn’t committed any offences.”

“I see,” he said angrily. “You’re not going to do anything. Well thank you very much for your help,” he said sarcastically.

“What I advise you do is don’t put any more string up if it’s winding her up and let the council do it when they plan where the boundaries are.”

“Fine, I’ll take your shoulder numbers and report you.”

I left the property feeling confused and frustrated. Technically I could have arrested her. But there was no way I was going to arrest an 80-year-old woman for a bit of string. It most certainly was not in the public interest and I like to think I applied common sense. Whether or not I now get a complain out of it remains to be seen, but I await it with humorous anticipation.