In my previous entry, “My encounter with drugs”, two plain-clothed narcotic officers came knocking at my house’s door. After acknowledging them and making their intentions known, I agreed to follow them to the police station.
When we reached downstairs, there was a police car waiting for us. Behind the wheel was an Indian, in police uniform. I started to ask the narcotic officer as to whether the person who reported me, wrote in or phoned in. Feeling agitated or most likely, trying to show off his statues as a policeman that he felt great of, the driver yelled at me. “If you take drugs, do you want me to send you to Headquarter?” I was so bloody upset by this matter that I shouted back at him. “I’m now in your hand, you can send me to wherever you like. If I’ve got the rights to decide, I’ll tell you, send me home now!” From his facial reaction, it can be clearly seen that he was astounded by my remarks, for he did not expect a civilian to yell back at him, a policeman. Good for him and me. At least he kept his bloody mouth shut for the rest of the journey.
Over at the police station, they took my statements. Next, they took my urine in a container, to be sent for testing. Results would be known in two weeks’ times, given the technology of that time. I was told to call home to get someone to bail me out. Meantime, the most appropriate place, prior to someone to bail me out, was the lock-up area.
Near the door entrance was a policeman with a desk and a whiteboard on the wall. I was told to go inside the cell. Walking along the corridor, on my left hand side were six cells. So, I went inside one. Though I was inside, the door was not locked, so I didn’t felt like I’m really in lock-up. Moreover, there was a magazine on the floor. So, I made good use of it.
Ten minutes later, the policeman called for me. He said “A!” What the hell was he doing? Can’t a policeman be more polite? Can’t he address me with “hello Mr” or something more soothing to my ears other than ‘A’? Anyway, I went up to him. He asked for my name and home phone, after which he wrote it on the white-board. I went back to my cell. Just reading one paragraph into the magazine, there goes the bloody policeman again, ‘A!”. Poking my head halfway out of the cell, I asked “why?” He said, “come here!” Not feeling comfortable with the way he addressed me, this time I loose my temper, “Come here…come here, for what?” He yelled at me, “I say come here, you better listen!” I yelled back at him, “if you’ve got questions for me, ask me in one shot, not one question at every few minutes!” He started to loose his patience, “you better come here right now!” Sensing that he’d got the upper hand, I went up to him eventually. This time, he asked for my home address.
When I went back to my cell, he followed from behind. He took away the magazine. I asked him, “am I not allowed to read magazine?” Not only did he ignored my question but this time he did a proper lock up of the cell. That’s the only time in my life that I’ve been in a lock up!