Interpretation of the Law 3: The Police Station
3: The Police Station
The ride is short. They still haven’t put handcuffs on me, so I’m not sure if I’m technically under arrest or just being brought in by persuasive force. One thing is clear: this isn’t voluntary.
Before I can even pass the front desk at the ward headquarters, I have to stop for a COVID temperature check. The machine flashes green-36.6 Celsius.
I can’t help but wonder: If I had a high temperature, would they let me go home?
We step into the elevator and ride up to an office floor that has the unmistakable air of a SWAT team base. No one wears uniforms; everyone is dressed in black, and a couple of Teflon vests lie casually on a desk. The detectives escort me to an interrogation room that looks eerily like the one from my high school days. Déjà vu.
The leader of the group points to a chair in the corner for me to sit. As I reach for it, he stops me with a curt command.
“Wait a moment, please. First, I need you to empty your pockets.”
Another officer slips out and quickly returns with a transparent case, about the size of a bento box. My wallet, smartphone, pen, marker, keys, and a metal USB drive are placed inside. The commanding leader among them, perhaps a sergeant, picks up the USB drive.
“Can you tell me what this is?” he asks, turning it over in his hand.
“That’s a USB stick,” I reply.
His forehead wrinkles into a question mark. He twists the metal cap off, peers inside, and his eyes seem to say: “USB. No drugs.”
“We’ll have to pat you down before we get started. Please raise your arms,” he requests.
He and another officer pat me down from chest to ankles while a third keeps a close watch. The sergeant’s hands linger around my crotch.
“Whoa! Whoa!” I blurt out.
He pauses, looks me in the eye, then gives me one more firm pat-just to remind me who’s in charge.
I think to myself, I’m tired of all these male cops rifling through my possessions and patting my nuts. Please, let the next cop who walks through that door be a woman.
They ask me to take off my shoes. I step out of my sneakers, standing there in my socks with an ever-expanding internal monologue. As they search through my footwear, I decide: If I meet a female cop, I’ll make it my mission to ask her out on a date.
“Please put your shoes back on,” the second cop says. As I bend down to slip them on, the third officer steps further into the room. When I stand up, I catch him eyeing my chest, where my necklaces hang-a cross, a Spanish family gold coin, a stone of Dominican amber, and the tooth of an Amazonian predator.
He inspects them more closely and fingers the edges of the tooth, clearly wondering if it could be used as a weapon. I almost ask if he wants to measure it, but bite my tongue.
“Should he be carrying this?” he asks his sergeant.
The sergeant takes a glance at the tooth from across the room.
“That’s not a problem,” the sergeant replies, waving it off.
Finally, the sergeant gestures for me to sit. He and the third cop step out, leaving the second to stand guard.
Anything feels possible at this point, and the ax of justice seems to hang on their discretion. The fact that I’m in this room means I won’t be let go with just a warning. Maybe I’ll be locked up, maybe fined, or maybe the Dutchman and our Japanese amiga will find a way to get me out.
The second officer stands tall. He and the others probably know judo or some martial art to restrain a suspect-and they have guns. But I can’t shake the sense that not one of them has a clue about romance. I might not have a lawyer in the room, but my own form of justice will take shape if, and when, a woman in law enforcement arrives.
After working with these grunts all day, I imagine there must be a Freudian longing to be wined, dined, and swept off their feet by a gentleman-anything to break the monotony of bureaucratic posturing.
The sergeant returns, and behind him comes a woman in SWAT-like attire, maskless. Her face is hardened and commanding, but there’s a kindness in her stride. It takes only a second to recognize her professionalism.
She sits across from me. Moments later, another female officer enters, this one in a standard police uniform and wearing a mask. Her eyes look green-not in color, but in experience; the eyes of a beginner, a rookie not long on the force. She takes a seat at the table between us.
The woman across from me speaks in Japanese. The young cadet turns to me and says, “Hello, I’m going to help translate. This is our interrogator. She would like to ask you some questions about tonight.”
