A Run-in With the Police

The passage below is taken from the pages of Cover My Dreams in Ink, the story of my son Paul and his challenges, ranging from learning disabilities to a mental health diagnosis and ultimately drug addiction. This excerpt—almost at the book's halfway point—depicts an incident in the early 2000s. Paul had finished high school in a therapeutic setting and his transition to new routines wasn't easy. He struggled to find his footing in a world in which he lacked the skills to navigate and where his future prospects seemed poor. After a string of setbacks, he'd finally gotten a job he liked and things were looking up a bit. Drug use was not yet a part of the picture.  

PAUL WAS DOING well at work, and [his boss] took him under his wing, enlisting Paul to join him in projects around his house during non-working hours. Fortunately, the lumber yard was less than a mile from our house, meaning Paul could easily ride his bike to work. . . 

One evening, I could hear Paul on the phone arguing with [his girlfriend]. I went upstairs to tell him to keep his voice down and saw that he was in the shower with the cordless phone.

I did raise my voice: “Get off the phone,” I said, “or get out of the shower! NOW!”

As I turned to leave the bathroom, the phone hit me in the back—Paul had thrown it at me. I wasn’t physically hurt, but I was angry. I had had it.  

After a few minutes of collecting my thoughts, I decided to call the police. I calmly told Paul I had done so, explaining that he had crossed a line and people cannot live in a situation where they aren’t safe. He was sitting on a bench in the bathroom and started to cry, saying he was sorry. I knew he meant it. But I also knew I needed to let the police come, to send a strong and memorable message about behavior that plainly could not be tolerated.

. . . . But I regret the decision I made in the minutes that followed.

A young officer came to the house. Together we went upstairs where Paul was still sitting on the bench, hanging his head and tearful. After saying a few words to Paul, and listening to Paul’s respectful reply, the officer took me into the hallway. He looked at my back and said he could see a red mark where the phone had hit me, and he wanted to photograph it. I told him that was unnecessary, it wasn’t even sore. “I didn’t call the police because I was hurt,” I said. “I simply wanted to teach my son that his action was unacceptable.” He asked me if I wanted to press charges, and I said I did not.

“If you really want to teach your son a lesson,” the officer then said, “you will let me take him to the station. We won’t keep him there long, and you can pick him up when we call you in a couple hours.”

I said I didn’t know if that was a good idea. The officer said, “He will remember it more if he goes to the station. We will not mistreat him.” 

I reluctantly agreed.

After three hours had passed, around 10:30, I called the police station and was told that Paul had been taken to a room in the basement of the courthouse for sentencing, and there was no way to make contact with anyone there.

“Sentencing? What do you mean?” I asked pleadingly.

I was dumbfounded, and foolishly continued, making multiple statements: 

“I was told to pick him up at the police station . . .”

“He is on medication and it’s critical that he not miss a dose . . .”

“He has a job and it’s past his bedtime.” 

None of this mattered to the person on the phone.

I called my friend [and lawyer], who explained there was nothing I could do other than contact a bail bondsman.

“Bail bondsman?”—these words had never crossed my lips. I had enjoyed fifty-five years of ignorance of such things. But Paul needed his medication. And he did not need to be in jail.

By 3:00 a.m., I was meeting a total stranger in the parking lot behind the courthouse. I paid him $500 in cash in exchange for Paul, who had been arrested. There would be a court date.

A week before Paul and I had to appear in court, my mother was taken to the hospital, where my sisters and I spoke to the doctor and learned that she had a strangulated hernia. It was a condition that, as the doctor put it, “was not compatible with life.” We were told she would live no more than two days, so the three of us settled in for the duration, making sure her living will was honored and she was comfortable and knew we were there.

Each day, for what ended up being fourteen days, we thought was our mother’s last, with the day of Paul’s hearing being no exception.

Paul and I entered the courtroom and sat down. I had typed a formal letter to the judge, which I passed up to him before the proceedings began, asking if our case could be heard on the early side of those on the day’s docket, explaining that my mother was on her deathbed [in the local hospital] and I wanted to be with her. I included her name, the name of her doctor, and her hospital room number to help substantiate the information.

Then I sat there for hours, desperately wanting to be in the hospital, and without the ability to use my phone and therefore to know if my mother was still living. I felt like a caged animal. I was trapped in this courtroom, and in this state of mind, as the cases dragged on, ours being among the last to be heard. In hindsight, I guess protocol would suggest that it’s inappropriate to ask His Honor for favors—yet another world unknown to me at that time. . . 

I must say, I resented that cop who flat-out lied to me, and whose veiled agenda trumped our well-being, inflicting unnecessary harms on both Paul and me. But life goes on and I didn’t look back.

I now question why I didn't take this on. Even though nothing could have changed the events that had already transpired, I could have sought a deeper understanding or, if nothing else, registered the injustice. I guess my plate was full, juggling the things I could affect and, God knows, I wasn't looking for an additional challenge.

I realize that this incident pales in comparison to those involving police brutality and the unspeakable suffering of its victims. Such nightmare occurrences have destroyed countless lives and, tragically, continue to plague too many of our fellow citizens, targeting those who are Black and eroding our collective faith in law and order. 

Down the road, Paul would suffer more serious harms at the hands of criminal justice. But the thing is, this early experience revealed a sinister aspect of law enforcement—the tip of the iceberg—that I didn't grasp. Whether or not the police officer was motivated by an arrest quota, I still do not know. But I do know his actions were inexcusable and, looking back, I can see the damage done to Paul and its impact on future circumstances that ultimately conspired to take his life.

I was both naive and complacent. Naive because I trusted the policeman and took him at his word; and complacent because—in realizing his blatant dishonesty—I did nothing. If we expect the police to protect us, care for our well-being, set an example for good citizenship, and build trust then, as a society, we must hold them accountable. Otherwise, we drift so far from this ideal that it's obscured beyond recognition.

I am not saying that all police are the same or that there aren't positive ways in which many serve us with dedication and integrity. What I am saying is that there is too much injustice and it's high time we stood up to it. 

[Photo credit: Nikko Macaspac]