This is an excerpt from my new book 'Law and Disorder: the good, the bad and the police officer' that will hopefully be available soon. The chapter follows on from an incident mentioned in 'I Pay Your Wages!' involving one Boris Kalashnikovski...

Sometimes there’s justice

Sometimes there’s just us

Tuesday, 26^th March 2013

Today is my day off. Only it isn’t: instead I am supposed to be in Westhampton Magistrates Court to give evidence in the case of R vs. Kalashnikovski. Some weeks ago I was notified that my rest day had been cancelled - and will be rescheduled when resourcing allows - as I am required to appear before the Magistrates in a trial set to be heard today.

I am not at the Magistrates court yet though. Instead I am committing several minor road traffic offences as I desperately try to make up time on the roads to avoid being late for my court appearance. The Crapmobile initially failed to start this morning; for some reason during the night it decided to discharge its battery completely, so when I turned the key all I received in return was a demoralizing clicking noise, rather than the usual cacophony of worn out pistons and blowing exhaust with accompanying blue smoke that I am familiar with. This perplexed me greatly as I had already over slept by twenty minutes. Bump starting a car on your own along a narrow and crowded street is no mean feat. I do not know if it still counts as an RTC and ‘Polacc’ if at the time you are not in your car but instead running alongside it, arms waving, as it ploughs into your neighbours Mercedes, but today I nearly had to find out.

Arriving at the court house with just seconds to spare, I make my way through the security check point and am still fastening my clip on tie and adjusting my uniform as I register my attendance at the information desk. We are in court room three the snooty lady behind the clear Perspex screen informs me. With my breathing returning to its normal pace I go to take a seat along with a moment to compose myself whilst admiring my surroundings. The court building dates back to Victorian times and still has much of the original intricate carved mahogany panelling adorning the walls. The whole building harks back to a bygone era of prestige and dignity, now surpassed by modern culture, technology and practicality. Unfortunately, the same goes for the antiquated criminal justice system in this land which is also ridiculously dated, but holds far less charm and nostalgia than the building in which I now sit. Ask any police officer – any officer – and they will tell you the legal system in this country is ineffective, convoluted, over complicated, wasteful or both resources and finance, whilst stacked far too in favour of the accused. But, until sweeping change is made, this is the framework in which the police must conduct their business and do the best they can to prosecute the perpetrators of crime. Let me give you an example:

Boris Kalashnikovski is a European immigrant, lawfully in the UK. He spends his spare time – which is 24 hours a day as he does not work – drinking high strength yeast based beverages and committing antisocial behavior, whilst abusing any other substance he can lay his grubby hands on. When he is ill as a result of this over indulgence, the National Health Service cares for him. When he needs money to feed his addictions, the state benefits him. When this ‘free’ money runs out he turns to petty crime to supplement it. He causes unrest and brings misery to any area he inhabits. When he is arrested for these misdemeanours, he is provided free and independent legal advice courtesy of the tax-paying public. The United Kingdom is a great country and I am proud to live here, police it and serve my community; yet some of the population – both of domestic and foreign origins - take our state services for granted and abuse the privileges bestowed upon them as a resident of this great land. Sadly, there is very little incentive or sufficient power/punishment to make them change their ways.

Eight months ago, in the summer of 2012, Boris and I met in Dickens Park one warm afternoon. Whilst on duty I was sent to the park to investigate complaints from members of the public about an abusive male harassing citizens and upsetting the beautiful ambience. I found Boris urinating into a bush which he then proceeded to have a brief conversation with such was his extreme level of intoxication. Things took a turn for the worse and I was forced to drench Boris in incapacitant spray - much to his dissatisfaction - to protect myself from his aggressive advances. A scuffle ensued and I was barely able to handcuff Boris and arrest him for a public order offence under Section 5 of the Public Order Act of 1986, as well as for an assault on yours truly. Despite having no recollection of the events the following day when interviewed, Boris decided he could not possibly be responsible for the crimes he stood accused and subsequently – as is his right to do so – elected to appear before a court of law and challenge the Crown Prosecution Service (CPS) over these charges; after all, why not, he has very little to lose other than a days drinking. This set the creaky, worn out cogs of justice into motion and eight months later I find myself at court on my day off (actually, this might have been settled in court just six months after the date in question, but on that previous trial date Boris didn’t fancy turning up, even though myself and everyone else did, so the trial was adjourned until now which is hopefully more convenient for him).

I look around the court waiting area but cannot see Boris as yet. I do however recognize many familiar faces: there’s Sarah Butcher - local nefario as well as proud ASBO collector; Makesh Khan – a purveyor of gratuitous violence against his estranged wife; Geoffrey Steeles – local celebrity and absent minded shopper; as well as Tommy Henderson – drug dealer extraordinaire. More miscreants pass through this ancient building in one day than you would ever see on a whole series of The Jeremy Kyle Show. But in this court house, like many up and down the country, the ‘innocent-until-proven-guilty’ evildoers sit side by side in the waiting area with their victims and witnesses! Only if the crime in question is particularly heinous, or those involved exceptionally vulnerable, will victims and witnesses be allowed to wait somewhere more private. Fortunately I also see several other colleagues waiting for various court proceedings to happen so at least I am not on my own as we all nod in silent acknowledgement to each other across the room.

To pass the time I am busy playing with my mobile phone, keeping abreast of the latest sport offerings on the BBC website, so do not notice the gentleman in the grey suit approach me:

“Erm, hello, are you PC Surname?”

I look up and see a man in his thirties, well spoken and wringing his hands nervously.

“I am,” I reply.

“Good, I’m James Davies,” the Crown prosecutor introduces himself. “We’re still waiting for the defendant to arrive.”

At that moment a loud crash can be heard from the entrance foyer along with the sound of Eastern European dialect that I can only assume amounts to cursing. Boris enters the room as everyone turns to see what the commotion is about. A court usher goes to pick up the information stand Boris has inadvertently knocked over.

“Is that him?” asks James.

“How did you guess,” I answer.

“Okay, we should be calling you shortly as this is the first case in court, here is a copy of your statement,” before James shuffles off to the CPS office.

Boris tumbles over to the information desk and announces his presence with a loud, pungent belch in the direction of Snooty, before giving his name and taking a seat opposite me.

“’Ello mister polizia man,” he says in a thick accent.

I just smile politely as it is never a good idea to chat to a defendant minutes before you testify against him.

Today Boris sports a blue baseball cap, dirty green camouflage jacket, ripped blue jeans, as well as what must be several days of grime and filth on his unwashed skin. Good to see he made an effort.

After a few minutes more Boris’ solicitor (provided free of charge via legal aid remember) calls him in to a private room so they can discuss tactics about how they intend to flex the truth to breaking point and hope to get off the hook with this one. I take this opportunity to read my eight month old statement to refresh my mind about that what happened way back on that balmy summer’s day in July. Not so fond memories come flooding back.

Time starts to drag as I sit tapping the heel of my boot on my chair, much to the annoyance of the person sitting next to me I suddenly notice. So bored am I that no longer can I resist the temptation and start to leaf through a three year old edition of Heat magazine – ironically the best available reading material provided - apparently Alex Reid and Katie Price have never been happier and are looking forward to a wonderful life together!

My mind starts to wander to the weekend’s events and how I so spectacularly managed to alienate myself from Knightly. She didn’t speak to me for the rest of that set of shifts, instead making excuses to leave the room every time I tried to engage her in conversation and offer most sincere apologies. We had been growing closer each working shift and a bond was developing as we learnt more about each other; until I destroyed everything like a bumbling fool. At least she has perhaps seen Kurt for what he really is I console myself.

I’m waiting my turn with increasing impatience until:

“PC Surname to courtroom three,” the court usher takes me by surprise as she summons me.

I have been to court dozens of times – actually being required and given evidence on several of those occasions – but most officers would admit nerves are still a factor, so it is with some intrepidation I walk towards the courtroom entrance.

“Will you be affirming or taking the oath?” the usher queries.

When anyone gives evidence they are required to swear that what they say will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth – either on their religious book of choice, or by holding up their palm for the atheists’. Of course this concept of truth telling is lost on many of those who enter the inner sanctum of the court room.

I give my answer and am led to the witness box, respectfully bowing my head towards the royal coat of arms displayed high on the back wall of the courtroom. The eyes of three magistrates, the court clerk, the prosecutor James, the defence solicitor, as well as a few curious people from the public gallery are all focused on me (some of them may be local press members). Even Boris, sitting next to his legal advisor, tries to focus his wonky eyes my way.

After making my promise I introduce myself to the magistrates: “Your worships, I am PC Surname, I am attached to Westhampton Police Station.”

The three magistrates nod. My mouth is a little dry so I take a sip of the water in front of me. Like the waiting area, the courtroom is traditional, imposing, with an antique timber themed décor.

The prosecutor is the first person to address me with a few procedural pleasantries:

“PC Surname, please can you confirm you were on duty on 27^th July 2012?” asks James.

“I was,” I keep my answer short and direct them towards the magistrates.

“Did you arrest Mr Boris Kalashinkovski that day?”

“I did,” so far, so good.

“Where did you arrest the defendant?”

“Dickens Park, Westhampton,” I’m communicating in my most polite and intelligible sounding voice, the one reserved for speaking to senior officers and on the telephone to strangers.

“For what offences did you arrest Mr Kalashinkovski?”

“A section 5 public order offence and assaulting a police officer.”

“PC Surname, can you tell us what you were doing in the park that day?” James continues.

“I was asked to attend the park by the police control room as members of the public had called police stating a drunk male was being abusive and causing a nuisance,” the court clerk taps away furiously on her keyboard as I speak, whilst the magistrates also make hand written notes.

“What happened when you got to the park?” James continues to enquire.

“I found Mr Kalashnikov urinating in a bush. I started to speak to him and explained we had received complaints from members of the public. He became abusive and threatening towards me,” I pause to allow the clerk and magistrates respite to catch up with their notes.

“I see,” says James theatrically in a voice clearly intended to emphasize to the magistrates the deviant behaviour I have just described. “Please carry on officer.”

“Mr Kalashnikovski refused to leave the area and as I was about to arrest him he began to struggle and pushed me,” I explain.

“Thank you PC Surname. Tell me, do you recall if the park was a busy place that day?”

“I remember it was a very warm, summers day,” a stark contrast to the cold, over cast one outside this morning. “The park was particularly busy as a result with several members of the public walking by.”

James continues; “Do you recall the encounter you had with Mr Kalashnikovski and if so can you tell the court?”

“May I refer to my statement?” I respectfully ask the magistrates, who in turn nod in agreement.

Quoting directly: “… KALASHNIKOVSKI seemed highly intoxicated as he was unsteady on his feet, slurring his speech and uncoordinated. I repeatedly told KALASHNIKOVSKI he had to leave the park due to complaints from members of the public. He continued to refuse to leave and instead insisted on asking me to join him in a drink. I explained this was not appropriate and KALASHNIKOV became aggressive, shouting something like ‘I NOT GO! GO GET YOUR TASER GUN, I WILL FIGHT YOU, GO TO HELL, COPPER! KALASHNIKOVSKI then moved towards me in an aggressive manner.”

Not the greatest work of literature ever captured in print, but from my recollection a fair account of that particular day’s events. Boris gesticulates with his arms and mumbles something to his legal representative who motions for him to calm.

“Thank you, officer. Could you please elaborate on how he assaulted you?” the prosecutor continues.

My actual recollection of the assault is a little hazy and the statement in front of me offers no help as I have failed to include sufficient detail: “Well, I placed the handcuff on him to detain him and arrest him, but he pulled away and caused me to fall over on top of him. He then sort of struggled for a few minutes and eventually I got the handcuffs on and arrested him.”

“Thank you PC Surname,” James says, before turning to address the magistrates. “I have no further questions at this time.”

The prosecutor takes a seat.

Now it is over to the dark side to cross examine me. The defence solicitor looks much older, more experienced, prepared and undoubtedly better remunerated than his counterpart in the employ of the Crown. He slowly stands, takes one last glance down at his paperwork, clears his throat and looks up at me with a stern face over the top of his half rimmed glasses.

“Constable, how long have you been a police officer?”

“Just over six years, sir,” I respectfully reply.

“So not very long then,” the solicitor comments.

I could point out that actually that duration of service makes me a veteran of Response patrol, as by now most officers have seen sense and moved on to roles much less laborious; but instead I do not respond.

The defence continues: “You arrested my client for a public order offence. In your position as a police officer you receive training in public order situations, is this correct?” the gent’s three piece suit stretches around his sizeable waist.

“Yes.”

“To what degree are you a trained public order officer?” the solicitor stairs intensely at me but I remain calm as I suspect I know where this line of questioning is going.

“I am a level two trained public order officer,” I reply.

“For the benefit of the court and with respect to your worships," gesturing to the three lay magistrates, “please can you explain what that means?”

“Certainly: there are three levels of public order training – level three is for basic foot duty and cordons, level two officers are trained in riot tactics and shield techniques…”

“That’s fine, thank you,” interrupts the portly solicitor. “You mentioned cordons and riots and shields just then; all genuine public order situations. So you are used to dealing with aggressive mobs, intent on causing harm to property and people alike, yes?”

“Yes sir,” I reply.

“But what about people minding their own busy, enjoying a summer’s day in the park, people like my client, Mr Kalashnikobski, are you used to dealing with them?”

Defence solicitors have a habit of asking prosecution witnesses questions that cannot be answered in any sensible fashion. They do this so as to throw said witness into confusion, thus making them seem foolish to the court and discredit their evidence. I have no idea how to answer this question other than:

“Erm…”

Before I have chance to refocus the cunning solicitor continues:

“You say my client was intoxicated at the time. Did you see him drinking?”

“N-no…” I stammer.

“You mentioned when being questioned by my colleague here that Mr Kalashnikovski offered to share a beverage with you, yes?”

“That is correct.”

“That doesn’t sound like the actions or behaviour of an aggressive person to me, does it to you?”

This time the solicitor does not interrupt, but instead insists I offer a reply.

“Well, no, but, it was explained to him I could not accept a drink and instead he had to leave.”

“Why did he have to leave? Is that park not a public one, open to all? Why should my client not be able to enjoy it just like anyone else?”

“Because he was being a nuisance and police had received complaints,” I stick to my guns.

“I am not disputing that police received complaints about someone, your police logs show that two people made such calls. But, how do you know it is my client about which they were complaining?”

“He matched the description they had passed?” I explain.

“Did he now? How convenient,” there is a tone of disdain in my adversary’s voice. “And tell me officer, what did you do when my client refused to leave the park?”

I know what he is getting at: “He continued to refuse to leave, despite me offering to take him somewhere of his choosing, and then he became aggressive, moving towards me, so to protect myself I used my incapacitant spray.”

“Ah yes! That is correct! You sprayed a noxious chemical directly into the eyes of my client just because he would not do as you asked,” the defence solicitor exclaims boldly, really getting into the swing of things.

The magistrates scribble away furiously now, but their blank faces give nothing away.

“I believed he was going to assault me, I used reasonable force to protect myself,” I leap to my own defence.

“When you arrested my client, did you Caution him?” continues the seasoned solicitor, referring to the spoken Caution said by police to detainees immediately after arrest.

“Of course, sir.”

“Humour me officer: please can you remind the court of the police Caution?”

Making an officer repeat the Caution whilst on the stand is an old school underhand defence trick, again intended to throw the officer into disarray and appear foolish and uncertain in front of the magistrates. Every police officer has the words engraved in their brain, but with dozens of eyes watching, in the intensity of the witness box, the words have a habit of realigning themselves and coming out gobbledygook.

“You do not have to say anything, however it may harm you defence if you do not mention when questioned something that you later reply on in court, anything you do say may be given in evidence,” I reply and pass the test.

“Thank you, officer. Now let us move on to this allegation of assault you mentioned: this came after you had filled my client’s eyes with chemicals, yes?”

“That is correct, although I believed he was moving to assault me prior to using the spray.”

“So you say, officer. Did this ‘assault’ result in any injury to yourself?”

“No visible injury, but I had some pain in my right arm afterwards,” I explain.

“Did you receive any medical treatment for this arm injury?”

“No.”

“Certain powers are bestowed upon officers of the law, Constable. What power did you exercise when you used such force against my client?”

“Common Law, sir – I acted in self defence with a pre-emptive strike, using reasonable force,” I confidently announce, sidestepping another potential banana skin the defence laid in my path.

This solicitor is good. Even I am now doubting whether I lawfully detained a lurid thug, or indeed assaulted a friendly eccentric.

“No further questions, thank you,” finally I can start to breathe again.

The clerk offers the prosecutor the opportunity to respond to the defence and ask me any further questions, but James declines the opportunity.

“Thank you officer, you may step down,” the clerk tells me.

I quickly step out of the box and spotlight and take a seat on a wooden bench at the back of the court room, feeling a few inches shorter than before.

It is now the turn of the defendant – the one actually on trial, not me who just felt like he was – to take to the stand. As Boris fiddles with a pen, seemingly not paying attention, the usher invites him to enter the witness box. Boris clutches the bible and swears he will not bare false testimony, whilst I watch closely to make sure the good book is returned to the witness stand and not placed inside Boris’ thieving pocket.

“Please state your name, date of birth and address.”

“Yez, I am Boris Kalashnikovski, born 20^th February 1976, but I have no home, is very sad, yez?” he announces.

James again rises to his feet and this time addresses Mr Kalashnikovski.

“Do you remember being in Dickens Park on the day in question?”

“Yez.”

“What were you doing in the park that day?”

“I was feeding ducks, enjoying sunshine, thinking of going for swim in pond,” Boris cheerfully announces.

“Do you recall how much you had to drink that day?”

“No, but it was quite a lot,” Boris chuckles to himself, “I was how you say, ‘drunk as skunk’, yez?”

Even from the back of the courtroom I see a few raised eyebrows from the magistrate’s bench.

“Mr Kalashnikovski, can you describe Dickens Park to me?” James probes further.

Boris looks pensive as he ponders the question posed to him.

“Well, park is place for grass and trees and icecream man and ducks to live. You must know what park is?”

“I know what a park is, Mr Kalashnikovski,” James states a little perplexed at the implication that he might not. “Would you describe it as a happy place, for individuals and families alike to enjoy their surroundings?”

“Yez,” Boris nods in agreeably.

“A safe place,” James continues, “somewhere people can make the most of the sunshine that day and have fun, yes?”

“Yez, absolutely, yez.”

“Somewhere they should not have to be subjected to lewd, rude, and antisocial behaviour, isn’t that right Mr Kalashnikovski?” James previously soft tone becoming sterner.

“Definitely, Mr Lawyer-man.”

“Then why were you there harassing members of the public, urinating in bushes, making crude remarks, generally misbehaving in a drunken state?”

“But I was not, I like park, is good place,” Boris appeals, looking shocked at the very thought of such an allegation.

James continues: “Westhamptonshire Constabulary received two telephone calls from members of the public complaining about your unacceptable behaviour whilst in the park that afternoon. Why were you bothering the general public?”

“Not me, you have wrong guy,” Boris continues to plead.

“As a result of your unacceptable actions a police constable asked you to leave the location, is this correct?”

“Yez, was that polizia man there,” Boris points at me.

“Why did you not leave when he asked you to then?”

“Because I was having fun time, did not want to leave, had not had swim in pond yet, or fed ducks.”

“PC Surname lawfully instructed you to leave, but instead you became aggressive and threatened him, didn’t you?” James is now unrelenting in his challenge towards Boris.

“No, no, no,” Boris shakes his head dismissively, “you is woofing up wrong tree, I not bad guy.”

“You left the officer with no choice but to defend himself and then when he attempted to detain you, you pulled him to the ground and struggled.”

“No! You is wrong! I like ducks!” James has evoked the desired response as Boris raises his voice to protest his innocence.

“No further questions,” James sits once more.

“Mr kalahnikovski, how are you feeling?” asks the defence brief whose turn it is next to speak with Boris.

“I am okay,” replies Boris, doing his best impersonation of an innocent man, “I know not why this other man speak of me so badly,” referring to the prosecutor.

‘It’s because you’re a terrible excuse of a human being, Boris,’ is the answer running through my head.

“So you were in the park enjoying the sunshine, is that correct? Please take your time,” the solicitor asks.

Clearly the defence brief and Boris share little in common - whilst one will be sipping a full bodied Burgundy red and enjoying a cigar this evening, the other hopes to be gulping down cheap cider from a two litre plastic bottle recently liberated from the shelves of Asda, whilst puffing on discarded fag ends, hoping to drift off to a wondrous world of inebriation - yet for now their enforced coalition is a necessary evil, mutually beneficial to both: one gets paid and continues the lifestyle he has become accustomed to, whilst the other might get off lighter and avoid a few weeks staying at Her Majesty’s hospitality where drink and drugs are harder to come by.

“Yez, was in park, minding the business of my own,” the colloquial challenged Easter European tries to explain.

“What did the officer say to you when he approached you?”

“He was not happy, very angry polizia man. He say ‘go! you must go!’. I say but why, I no say boo to a swan, why I must leave?”

“Please carry on,” gestures the defence with a deeply concerned look on his face.

“I say I won’t go, I like park, but he say ‘you go now!’ but I want to stay. Then he spray me in eye with potion! It burn like fire!”

“Dear me, that sounds awful, please carry on with what happened next?”

Boris continues his tall tale: “Next he put handcuffs on me, lock me up like criminal. I was scared so I fall down and polizia man jump on top. I know not why he so mean.”

I really hope the magistrates aren’t buying this work of fiction.

“A truly harrowing experience for you I am sure. Did he say why you had to leave the park?”

“What is harrowing? Anyway, he say I upset people, I too drunk, I cause mischief. I think he no like foreigners maybe?”

Brilliant – now I am racist too as well as heavy handed and unnecessarily violent.

“Did he give any warning before be sprayed you with chemicals?”

“No, sir.”

“So you were just minding your own business, enjoying the summers day in the park, when a police officer – sworn to protect the public – approaches you and rudely demands you leave the area before coating you in burning spray and wrestling you to the ground, is this correct, Mr Kalashnikovski?”

“Err… yez.”

“Thank you, no further questions.”

We all stand as the magistrates retire to their chambers and consider their verdict. The Clerk joins them to aid their decision.

“All rise,” announces the Clerk as the magistrates re-enter the court room and take their seats.

The centre magistrate – the chair of the bench - addresses the court:

“Today we have heard evidence in to allegations against Mr Kalashnikovski who stands accused of committing a public order offence and assaulting PC Surname during the course of his duties. The court has heard from two witnesses and finds both to be credible,” silence falls across the courtroom as we anticipate the verdict. “Having considered all the information available, in relation to the public order offence this court finds Mr Kalashnikovski guilty.”

Boris throws his hands in the air and mumbles more foreign obscenities as the magistrate continues:

“In relation to the assault, although we believe reasonable force was indeed used by the officer who feared for his own safety, we find the defendant not guilty as we cannot be sure he intended to assault the officer and was most likely in a confused and disorientated state due to the incapacitant spray used.”

So that is it then. Was justice done today? Probably not. Am I at all surprised? Definitely not. For his actions that day, taking into consideration his long list of previous convictions for public order offences, he was ordered to undertake seventy hours of unpaid community work and pay £75 costs (that will come out of his benefits). To reach this conclusion hundreds of pounds of tax payer’s money along with several hours of public servants time has been spent, not to mention the time of the already over-burdened, clogged up court system. The participants of this charade were myself, the custody sergeant whose time was taken to care for Boris whilst at the police station - not to mention the civilian detention officers at his beck and call, the officer who interviewed Boris and completed the charge file, the staff at the Criminal Justice Unit who administered the process up to the point of court readiness, the court staff, James the prosecutor and the three noble magistrates.

As I stroll back to my car I can’t help but reflect upon the lunacy of it all. Yes, Boris and his kin must be punished for their crimes and yes, they are innocent until proven guilty, but surely a more effective route to justice can be found. Until it is I will soldier on like my hard working colleagues do.

I book myself off duty, get into my car and prepare to drive home and put today behind me. Tomorrow is a new day and I will be refreshed and once again ready to fight crime and protect the public. In a few weeks this will all be a distant memory and new obstacles will have been put in my way. I turn the key to start the engine and am greeted once more with a clicking noise… oh crap.