Interpretation of the Law 2: Arrested without Handcuffs
2. Arrested without Handcuffs
The officers sift through my IDs and business cards, their eyes darting between my face and the names, as if searching for cracks in my story. They pat down my shirt and pants, their hands methodical, impersonal-until one gives an uncomfortable squeeze around my crotch. I tense up, and for the first time, I catch a smirk on the chubby officer's face as he registers my discomfort.
When they finally hand back my wallet, keys, and phone, I feel a fleeting sense of relief-quickly replaced by confusion as they usher me past a graveyard and down towards a dark intersection where a nondescript blue van idles at the curb. Two more officers wait in the middle of the block, bringing the total to nine. Not a single one wears a uniform and there isn’t a police car in sight. The whole scene feels surreal, as if I’ve stumbled into the hidden world of the Japanese justice system.
“Where is the cop car?” I ask, my voice betraying my suspicion.
The officer in charge glances at me. “We are detectives,” he says, his tone flat. He passes the Leatherman to the waiting officers, who immediately begin measuring the blade-again. The ritual feels endless, but the fact that I’m not in handcuffs, or physically restrained, gives me hope that time, for the moment, is on my side.
Up until this point, most of our conversation was a patchwork of their broken English and my broken Japanese, which only added to the confusion about what to do with me. Finally, one officer holds out his phone, the screen glowing with a Google Translate message: We want to talk to someone from your work who speaks Japanese.
A stoplight glows in my mind, and I think, “I’m not dancing tonight.” I dial the number of the one man I know can get me out of this situation. The Dutchman picks up. I briefly explain my predicament, knowing he can fill in the blanks. He’s been through something like this before, and his advice is blunt: be as compliant as possible. I’ve already pushed back as much as I dare, toeing the line without raising my voice. But when the most combative foreigner I know tells me to cooperate, I listen.
He doesn't mince words. If the cops get upset, he warns, they’ll find a way to systematically take me down, piece by piece, and lock me up-no lawyer, no defense. His words settle over me like the massive counterweights of a Dutch canal bridge-designed to keep things in balance, but heavy enough to pin you in place. Compliance, for now, is my only way out.
I hand the phone to the officer in charge and listen as the Dutchman calmly explains the reason for the tool. Another officer approaches and says we’ll be heading to police headquarters. He adds that they’ll need an English translator, and if they can’t get one today, I’ll have to come back another day. In my mind, that either means a scheduled return-or being held in custody until a translator can be appointed, maybe over the weekend or even into Monday morning.
I steel my spirit for the worst case scenario. I recall reading about an American who’d been caught with a bag of cannabis at the airport. He was held for days without any outside contact. When his lawyer finally saw him, the young man was spiritually broken.
I am determined not to let that happen to me.
Two more cops arrive, this time in uniform, bringing the total to eleven. I am told to sit behind the driver’s seat in the van. I haven’t been formally arrested, but it’s clear I have no real choice.
The phone is handed back to me. The Dutchman lets me know he and our Japanese amiga are on their way. He reminds me once more to cooperate and triple-checks if I’m headed to police headquarters in Minato-ku.
“Once they bring you in, you won’t have access to your phone. You won’t be able to contact anyone. So are you sure that’s where they’re taking you?” he presses.
“That’s what I’m told,” I confirm.
He hangs up, and the officers close the van doors beside me. I think, if they can hold up Carlos Ghosn-a global CEO with resources and lawyers-what chance do I have in samurai heaven?
I look out the window as, yet again, they measure the blade. This time, they place it on a white slab, carefully lining up the ruler and snapping photos from different angles. To a bystander, it might look like evidence in a murder investigation.
One of the detectives who pulled me over slides into the back seat beside me. I decide to play nice and strike up a conversation about a topic that never gets old in Japan: the weather. He responds cheerfully, commenting on how the temperature seems to change every week. “I don’t know whether to wear a winter coat or a spring jacket,” he says with a smile.
It’s then that I notice something odd. None of the detectives wear masks-only the uniformed police do. It might sound strange to a Westerner, but since 2020, and well into 2023, every Japanese person in a government or public role kept their mask on at all times. Yet here, not a single detective bothers. The contrast is as striking as the situation itself. I’m in an underground world of surveillance, but unlike public life, here I can see faces.
