On the 30th of December, 2013, I was alone and tired and a little sad. I lost my job that day due to a failure on my part to keep my alcoholism in check a few days before; I had gone into the chiller at work and stolen two bottles of wine right in front of the Sous Chef and lied to his face that I’d cleared it with “upstairs.” He didn’t believe me so he checked.
I was drunk and feeling down, worrying about how I’m going to pay my rent, worrying about what I’m going to do about my alcoholism so that things like this never happen again. Naturally, I had thoughts of suicide – and they weren’t exactly fleeting, I didn’t know what I was going to do. I called my mother to talk, to ask her for help… and she refused. She told me that helping me “wouldn’t be helping” and that I’d have to figure it out for myself. Fair enough, I suppose, except that all I was asking for was accommodation for a short time. Anyway, I then told her that I’d been thinking of suicide. I wanted her to understand that I wasn’t asking for help lightly and that I really needed it. She thought instead that I was going to kill myself right there and then, and then she thought, rather than call the hospital where they have a specialized team on-call 24/7 for mental health issues, that she would call the police. So she did.
I hung up on my mother to end the conversation because, as usual, talking to her about anything related to my illnesses ended in my feeling patronised, ignored and totally misunderstood. I assume that’s when she called the police, because it wasn’t too long after that that they arrived. I was pretty drunk at the time, and angry and not thinking clearly, so I don’t remember a lot of the details. I shut them out but they didn’t leave. I called my mother and yelled at her for calling the police because, as drunk as I was, I pretty quickly figured out how they knew to come. I asked her to tell them to leave me alone, but she told them the opposite. She told them to detain me. “You’re under arrest,” they said. “What for?” I asked. “Because you’re a danger to yourself,” they replied. Stunned, I tried to tell them they “can’t do this”, but all they said was “we can do this the easy way or the hard way”. And they were quite prepared to take me as I was, in nothing but my boxer shorts, if I “made them”. So I got dressed. Thank the Goddess I had that much sense about me.
I went quietly, assuming when we got to the station that I would be able to just explain myself, get them to talk to my mother and then they’d let me go home. Instead my mother, convinced I was in trouble, just told me to let them hold me. I was furious, and then frightened. They were going to put me in a cell where they put real live criminals. For the rest of the night. I’d have tried to fight the police officers though if I had known just how horrifying my experience was about to become.
They took all of my belongings, including my glasses, and forced me down the hallway into a cell – a suicide cell – and slammed the door. Still furious, I bashed on the door for who knows how long – my knuckles are still sore. Eventually I wore myself out and sat down, and it really began to sink in. I was told to “just have a sleep” because I wasn’t “going anywhere”. It was then that I asked for the light to be turned off so that I could sleep, and I was told that I was “at risk” and that they couldn’t turn the light off. When I complained, I was thrown an extra blanket and told to put it over my head. Unfortunately, the blankets I was given were rip-proof and therefore extremely uncomfortable and totally useless for blocking out any kind of fluorescent light.
Most of the rest of the night and following morning are a blur. I was sobering up, crying, panicking, terrified, unable to sleep. Even the moments where I was nearly on the edge of sleep were terrifying. I didn’t know what might happen to me if I closed my eyes. And when I was close to sleep, the heavy metal door at the end of the hall would slam and echo through the place, wrenching me wide awake again. They were coming to check on me. And by check on me I mean look at me for half a second through the reinforced glass window to make sure I didn’t look dead. And this happened over and over and over again for the entire night and early morning.
Sometimes, when they came to check on me, I’d ask for water because what the fuck else do you do when all you have is bright white lights and walls to stare at. Sometimes they’d get me water right away, sometimes they’d make me wait. Sometimes I’d ask what time it was, and I was always surprised by the answer. It was always hours earlier than I thought it might be. The cells don’t have windows, by the way – not even reinforced glass ones – so I couldn’t see or hear outside to try and gauge the time, I had to guess. At 4AM, I asked an officer how long I would have to be there, having been in the cell for at least six hours already. “I don’t know. Another five hours mate, at least,” he told me. If only it would have been that short a time.
I asked the time again at 6, 7 and 8AM, each time being surprised that it had only been an hour. At 8 when Temporary Constable Karen Peters came on duty I was relieved, even if just for a moment, to finally see a friendly face (albeit only partially see, I am pretty blind without my glasses) and hear a friendly voice (my ears work fine). The night officers spoke to me like a piece of shit. Temporary Constable Peters was lovely. She let me out of the cell to go to the toilet and gave me plenty of water. She even let me chug back a cup of water and refill it, and fill a second cup as well to take back to my cell. That might sound trivial, but in the state I was in at the time it felt like she was sent by God. I’d been in a constant state of horror and panic for hours and she looked and sounded like an angel. I’m almost crying right now just remembering how I felt.
At about 10:15am the Mobile Crisis Team ladies arrived and I was taken to see them in a walled-off prisoner interview room that felt like freedom, filled with two more friendly faces and OMG NATURAL LIGHT. They asked me questions about my mental health, my past, and my problem with alcohol. I told them as much as I could just for the sake of saying words and it felt wonderful, even though I was almost crying half of the time. At sometime during the meeting I asked what time it was and was told that it was 10:20AM, which is how I know roughly what time I was let out of the cell. Finally they said they thought that I was fine to go home and that they would let the officers know. I was overjoyed. I stood and waited to be let out of the interview room. TC Peters let me out, but then she said “We just have to put you back in your cell for a few minutes,” and my heart sank. Please no, not that room again. She walked me down the hall and locked me in. It was then that I remembered something one of the officers had said to me the night before: “You’re going to be interviewed tomorrow. Something about shoplifting.” Fuck. I know exactly what’s happening here. I was recently caught drunk shoplifting (wine and few other random items) from a supermarket by the manager of the store. I returned the goods at the time and got away from him before he could get the police to come and I refused to give him my name, but I knew even at the time that I was fucked. And sure enough, when I was brought in to the police station they recognised me from the CCTV images they’d been given at the time of the theft. But oddly, this was when my day started to look up… sort of.
A “few minutes” turned into two and a half hours. And now that I had been deemed fit to be left alone by the MCT people, the police didn’t need to bother checking on me anymore. So they didn’t. And I’ll be honest, I think that it’s lucky for me that that room is designed to stop its prisoners from committing suicide. I was so confused and panicked and frightened by my ordeal up to that point that being told I could go home and then being locked up again might have been the final straw. Being detained this second time, while yes, I understand it was my own fault from here and I knew it, I really think I should have been told what was happening. Sure, I was cleared by MCT not to be a risk to myself, but I hadn’t taken my citalopram yet the night before when I was brought in and I was starting to feel the withdrawal, not to mention I was still reeling from the nightmare I just lived through.
By the time Constable Clayworth came to take me out to an interview room I was balled up in the middle of the floor of the cell. I’d nearly lost my mind. I’d tried to stay calm and I’d finally lost my ability to hold back the waves of panic attacks. I was ready to give up and just think of a way to will myself to die. When the Constable opened the door and looked at me, I just looked at him. I didn’t get up. I didn’t move at all except to raise my head enough to be able to see him, which wasn’t much. He was calm and collected but slightly awkward in his appearance, I noted it and recognised that this guy must be new. He seems genuinely kind. But then he spoke; “Hi Baden, how are you?” he said. I didn’t answer. “What kind of fucking question is that?” I thought to myself, but I knew saying it aloud was a waste of time and I didn’t even have the energy to have that kind of outward response to anything anyway, so I just said nothing. “I’m going to take you upstairs to talk to you about something okay?” He said. “Okay,” I replied. I know what this is about and they’re taking me out of this literal prison cell so all I could think was “don’t do or say anything that will make them keep you here any longer. just fucking cooperate you stupid piece of shit. tell the truth.” Constable Clayworth took me to the area where they process prisoners before putting them in cells or releasing them and told me to “wait here a minute”. This was where I met the Detective who’s name I wish I could remember. An older, stocky yet very friendly-looking man; too friendly-looking for a senior police officer, with a calming English, possibly Welsh accent. He told me that because it was New Years Eve “we’re all mucking in together” so that I was not to be particularly worried about his presence as a Detective. Between TC Peters that morning and these two new officers, I honestly don’t think I could have had better luck with the station staff with whom I’d had to deal.
Constable Clayworth and the Detective walked me outside – OUTSIDE – to another building filled with natural light – NATURAL LIGHT – and up the stairs through an office-type setting – OFFICE-TYPE SETTING – and into an interview room with carpet and wallpaper – CARPET AND WALLPAPER OMG. On the way I said to the Detective “Please don’t put me back in that room,” desperately and he reassured me by saying “We’ll try to process you as fast as possible, mate”. They sat me down, and in front of me was a polystyrene cup full of water. The Detective motioned toward it and told me it was for me, at which point I quickly picked it up with both hands and downed the contents – all I wanted to do was make it clear I was happy to be out of the cell. He offered to refill it for me before we started, but I politely declined. The detective then pointed to a blurry black box with some lights and a screen on it and asked if I’d ever seen “one of these” before. I said “I can’t see it now,” somehow already able to muster up a scrap of humour, but they didn’t get it and just looked at me. “I… have to wear glasses…” I said and looked away, almost ashamed I’d even tried to see this as positive. But they were kind, even though they ignored my joke. The detective went to get my glasses from the lock-up and came back. The blurry black box with lights on it was a computer audio/video recording device with a creepy looking wide-angle lens on it and three DVD recorders in the bottom half of it. The Detective told me it was to record the interview and that he was going to watch from another room. Thinking about it now, that seems a little weird, but I’m pretty sure the Constable was being trained on how to conduct interviews that day.
Constable Clayworth asked me a lot of questions of the incident about which I was expecting to be asked. I answered truthfully and honestly. There were a lot of “I don’t know” or “I don’t remember” answers as I was pretty drunk at the time of the incident, but he seemed to accept that. I was told at the beginning, of course, that I was entitled to a lawyer and that free lawyers were available, but I declined. I had a fairly good idea of what was about to be said and I didn’t want to be an asshole. Getting a lawyer would only have wasted time and could only change the outcome of my situation for the worse simply by being an asshole and asking for one. Plus it would have taken time and I had already been at the police station long enough.
The questions that Constable Clayworth asked me were mostly easy to answer, except for the parts I didn’t remember or were blurry. I was chased, I climbed a building – Wait, I climbed a building? Now the police have a video recording of me at a loss for words except to say “I climbed a building? What the fuck…”, by the way. A side-effect of playing so many videogames, I guess. I escaped after shoplifting by climbing a goddamn building. I still can’t believe it. A side note; I am also on record during a break in the interview as saying “I miss my phone.” Anyway, the interview was relaxing and professional and comforting. When it was over, the Detective walked in and looked at me and said “You need to sort your shit out, mate,” to which I swiftly replied, agreeing “Yessir.” I was told what would happen next in relation to charges and such, and then I was informed that they were going to have to put me back in a cell while they “decide what we’re going to do with you”. I could have cried, or collapsed, or thrown a table. But instead I just sat there, slumped in my chair and said “Okay.” Constable Clayworth said “I’ll talk to the Jailer and see if we can get you a bit nicer cell, with a toilet and water,” and my heart leapt. And had I known the Jailer was TC Peters, I would have been overjoyed. The request was granted and I was given a slightly larger cell which did indeed have a toilet and a tap and a paper cup and toilet paper. It felt like some kind of sad Christmas miracle. This must be what Christmas in Russia feels like.
I didn’t have to stay in my new cell long though. Soon the nice Sargent-whose-name-I-also-don’t-remember came to take my mugshot and fingerprints and was really nice to me. I commented on how flash the new fingerprint scanner machine was and that it “Looks pretty expensive.” “Oh yes, extremely expensive. But much more convenient than the mucky ink,” he replied. I told him they have a lot of flash new toys [in the police station] since the last time I was arrested ten or so years ago and he agreed, “Yes. A lot of new toys since then.” After that, I went to give a DNA sample with TC Peters where I finally got to see my Saviour up-close. I don’t know why I couldn’t muster the words at the time to tell her how much she helped me through that morning, but I hope word of this gets back to her someday. I had a choice of giving a blood or a saliva sample, and having a chronic fear and of needles and being in recovery-mode from the worst day of my life I opted for the saliva swab option. It was still uncomfortable and I nearly choked on it, but TC Peters laughed and said “You don’t need to shove it down your throat.”
After that I was taken back to the nice cell. And I was honestly happy to be there. It still had the same grey walls and lack of windows, but there was water on tap and the door wasn’t entirely see-through so I could see a light at the end of the tunnel. I knew for sure that this ordeal couldn’t last much longer. And I knew I was physically closer to the exit than I had been all night/morning, which was comforting. Again, I wasn’t locked up for long. Maybe ten or fifteen minutes passed (but given my judgement at the time it could have been three minutes) and Constable Clayworth came back and let me out to give me back my belongings and issue me my paperwork: a trespass notice for the supermarket I stole from, a notice of my bail conditions and a letter informing me of my court date along with instructions and a warning of what will happen if I don’t show up. I thanked him.
Constable Clayworth and the Detective walked me to a police car and drove me home. On the way we passed the supermarket I stole and was trespassed from and the Detective pointed it out, “Hey, look!” We were stopped at a set of traffic lights and I said “Am I allowed to be this close?”
We got to the backpacker where I currently live and they walked with me up to the door. I saw some other residents outside and told the officers “Seeing you guys coming might scare some of the people who live here,” and Constable Clayworth replied “That doesn’t surprise me.” The hallway to my room didn’t smell of weed at the time, which is unusual and lucky for whoever it is who smokes it indoors so regularly. I had had a pocket knife on my keychain at the time of the theft so the officers had accompanied me to my room to confiscate it. I handed it over, because why the fuck wouldn’t I, and the Detective said to me “You know we could have gotten a search warrant to get this, but we trusted you to hand it over.” I told him “You could have if you wanted to?” and he informed me that “it would have been a pain in the arse, actually,” and seemed glad that he didn’t have to. He saw my dying fern by the door and asked me if it was marijuana. I laughed but didn’t know how to answer the question because A) surely detectives must know what marijuana looks like, and B) as if I would invite police officers into my room knowing there were illegal plants there especially considering how much trouble I was already in? So I just laughed and said “No it’s a dying fern,” like an idiot. He laughed too.
I was still pretty traumatized at this point and awkwardly shook the Detective’s hand when he prompted me but left Constable Clayworth hanging which made me feel awful and I didn’t know what to do about it, so I just shut the door. I sat down and reflected for about an hour. I considered writing this blog post then, but decided I didn’t want to think too hard about what the fuck just happened so soon after, so instead I played DuckTales Remastered for an hour and a half and drank some wine and smoked some cigarettes. I was in bed asleep long before the New Year opened and I don’t even care.
So I start the new year with a court date of January 6 where a judge will decide my fate. Since I made it clear that alcohol is the source of my problems and the reason why I committed the crime, the officers said they will suggest to the judge that I be given the “restorative justice” option, which is a court-ordered requirement that I attend Alcohol and Drug services counselling with a view to getting better and preventing future incidents. I’ve been charged with “Charge Code 4322 Shoplifts (Est Val Under $500)” which is an imprisonable offence, but I’ll have to wait and see what my punishment is. I only hope my luck continues and I stand before a judge that understands alcoholism and recognises that I know I made a mistake. Thanks to the recorded interview, at least he or she will get to see my reactions to the questions asked. I really wish they had asked about the medication I take and what it was for, though. Hopefully they find that out while looking into my case before I stand in court.
I have a ways to go to recovery, and a ways to go before I’m able to get over what happened to me at the police station too, but I’m finally on the right track. I’ll likely be ordered to attend an AA meeting or several, and I’ll likely be ordered to undergo treatment for alcoholism, to which I say “thank god.” Without being ordered to by law, I’m not sure I’d have ever done it. If I’m super lucky, I might even be sent to a rehabilitation clinic paid for by the Crown. I’m not holding my breath for that last one though, it’s just something I’m hoping for. That shit is expensive.
Right now I’m on bail until my court date with the conditions that I not be found intoxicated in public, that I turn up to my court date and that I must stay at home between the hours of 8pm and 7am and present myself in person if the police should come calling to check that I am here. And I could not be more happy with the outcome. I am also not to enter the supermarket I stole from or have any interaction with the manager of the store who caught me stealing, but that’s okay. Pretty sure they didn’t need to tell me that part though, I’m not an idiot. When handed the trespass notice I told Constable Clayworth that “I was waiting for that bit.” For any US or other international readers, New Zealand police don’t charge money for bail they just give conditions and then fine you or imprison you if you break them, so there’s another instance where I appreciate my luck.
After all of that I am not quite sure how to end this, except to say that the officers of the law who work during the day are much nicer than those who work at night so I guess if you get arrested during the day count yourself lucky and be nice to them. They get enough trouble from assholes as it is, and honestly being an asshole to them will only make your own day worse. But regardless of the time of day, depending on the nature of your crime and your attitude toward them, you too might be offered a cup of tea and a nicer cell and a slap on the wrist with helpful rehabilitation options given to you rather than imprisonment or massive fines.
A very serious and kind shout-out to Constable Craig Clayworth who interviewed me, my Angel of Salvation Temporary Constable Karen Peters, the salt-and-pepper-haired Sargent who was nice when he fingerprinted me and offered me a cup of tea, and the friendly and calm Detective who’s name I wish I could remember who sat as oversight on my interview with Constable Clayworth. Because of you four I survived this ordeal and will live to continue to tell the tale. And I can’t wait to recover. I’ll love you forever, I mean it.
If I go to prison for this or not, I hope that my blog and this arrest has some effect on you. If you’re thieving or if you’re an alcoholic or you have a mental illness or you know someone with a mental illness, call the hospital. Contact a mental health support centre. NEVER call the police!! I can’t stress that enough!
drowning dry 
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