An American Cop is an intimidating figure.
Through T.V. dramas, grapevine stories and reality cop shows, an image has been built of men (I don’t mean to be sexist, this is just how my imagination works) who have all the power and not necessarily much morality.
In a country where, they say, it is not that difficult to get a gun, and where, they say, there is much gang related crime, it would not be surprising to find cops who look on you with suspicion before giving you the benefit-of-the-doubt.
I have, in six months, had four encounters with the US police-force. Each increasingly dangerous…
Honestly though, it’s not what it sounds like.
The first was early on. Driving lost through down-town LA, hoping and praying that some mad-man won’t jump out of the shadows with a sawn-off-shot-gun, disorientated we turn left from the wrong lane and cut off a police car.
Well, I say “we”, but Chris was driving.
At the next junction, we are blinded by one of his special “blind the criminals” lights, and he calls across to us:
“You can’t just pull across me like that, buddy.”
“Oh….I am terribly sorry.”
Stammers Chris in his best “I went to a posh British school” voice. The “we are just stupid tourists” excuse is always the best.
Our second encounter was much more personal, though still disappointingly polite.
Speeding on our way to a day of mundane background work, we are caught - yes - speeding.
Again, I say “we”, but Chris was driving.
Blue lights flash behind us. It is very exciting, this time it is a motorcycle cop.
He walks purposefully to my window, which I obediently roll down, and complete with moustache, sunglasses and leather gloves he introduces himself and asks the driver why he might be driving so fast.
My over-excitement at the whole experience is somewhat dampened when the extortionate ticket arrives.
At encounter number three, I had no husband to protect me (or to blame).
Work took me out to a little hotel in the middle of nowhere, and at 8am there is a knock on the door. My room-mate answers it and immediately we are asked:
“So what’s going on?”
So nice to meet you too, officer.
Thinking it is some kind of joke, my room-mate laughs along, but when we are requested to hand over I.D. she staunchly refuses and begins a rampage about how, if the police did their jobs, California would not be in debt.
A slightly confusing argument.
It turns out that there had been an anonymous call saying that something distressing was happening in our room - though he did get the room number wrong when he mentioned it, sooo…
After taking me aside to ask sincerely “are you sure you are alright ma’am?” he has to admit defeat and leave.
I begin to eye everyone else at the hotel suspiciously, and am very happy when it comes time to leave for work.
And so, two nights ago came the fourth, and definitely most scary, encounter.
At 3am we wake, with a start, so the screech of tyres and a thunderous bang. A car alarm goes off for about 20 seconds. Then silence.
My heart literally pounds from the shock, while my mind runs wild. As I have mentioned, we live in a guard gated cul-de-sac with speed bums every 50 yards; how could anyone even travel fast enough to create such impact?
In my head a pick-up-truck has crashed into a house. Chris agrees that this is what it sounded like.
Lying awake I hear a few scuffles in the dark - figments of my startled imagination, I tell myself.
Then there is torchlight, voices, and the unmistakable sound of our back-gate. Followed by a knock on our door and Chris’ mom’s rushed voice:
“There are policemen in the back yard.”
It takes up approximately two seconds to dress, and we head for the front door to investigate, but the call of “don’t go out, the police had their guns drawn” halts us firmly in our tracks.
The image of policemen running around just outside the windows, guns in hand, chasing down a criminal, who was clearly trying to escape them, has an odd effect.
Will the mad-man run through our land? Might the police, on the other side of the house, see him, shoot through the windows and catch us in the cross-fire? Conversations of whether the patio lights should be on or off, ensue.
A knock on the door brings the news of how the attempted escapee did run through the back yard, and that now having been caught, he would be going to jail. Not a drug-dealer or gang-killer, it transpires he was a drunk 21 year old who panicked when stopped for a broken headlight.
We watch the blue lights slowly disappear, and head back to bed.
Chris’ dad, who slept through the sound of the crash, puts the kettle on, and stays up to have a cup of tea.
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