addressing the remaining people with a cheery, ‘Right. Who’s next?’
Needless to say they were a bit hesitant at approaching the counter, and when they did they were very polite.
As my career started to blossom a little I was able to start drawing on previous experience and advice, to gain in confidence and competence, but still every day brought new and different situations. Most of the time there was very little drama, the usual run of drunks at a weekend, shoplifters (often from charity shops, surprisingly!) and minor road accidents, each one different, but never anything of a sort that would make good viewing on a half-hour television programme. What did surprise me however was the sheer variety of people in the town, and the conditions in which some of them lived.
A domestic argument took me to a house where the mother of five turned out to be on her way to her third divorce, a situation not helped by the pressures of raising so many young children. Maybe not an unusual occurrence, but the lady in question had only recently celebrated her 21st birthday.
Many of the ‘pond life’ lived in houses which were quite pleasant to look at from the outside, but were so neglected by the inhabitants you wondered how they tolerated the conditions which were, after all, of their own making. Colin and I walked up a garden path to a terraced house in the old part of town, the path half overgrown by the lawn. Obviously a lawn mower was not in the family’s list of possessions, but a dog was. I realised this as my boot slipped gently on what was termed a ‘dog’s egg’ left on the path. This happened just as Colin had knocked at the door. ‘I can’t come in,’ I muttered to him, ‘I’ve just trodden in a big pile of dog shit.’
At this point the door opened, and the lady of the house ushered us politely in. Despite what he had been told about the state of my footwear, Colin stood back and said, ‘After you.’
I thought he was trying to embarrass me, but as I looked into the hallway I saw that it was a way of reassuring me. The hall was littered with ‘dogs’ eggs’ as liberally as the garden, and the smell was horrendous. It was Colin’s way of letting me know not to waste my time apologising or staying outside as it made no difference what I had trodden in – it wouldn’t show. But how these people lived what they considered to be normal lives in this filth, and with such a blatantly low standard of hygiene still surprises me.
More work brought more arrests, and with them came a number of appearances at Court. I would only need to attend court in the event of a ‘not guilty’ plea, and most of the time the defendant would be represented by one or other of the local solicitors.
When I saw these men at work it made me all the more grateful that my involvement in criminal law was more at the raw material end rather than the ‘refining’ department inhabited by solicitors. The solicitors on the other hand saw themselves as consummate professionals, an image which they were all the more keen to impress on their clients as more esteem meant more guaranteed work, and court was their opportunity to shine. If they could secure an acquittal for their client, and make the Police look small into the bargain, it was not just a guarantee of repeat business but also a guarantee of personal recommendation throughout the lower echelons ofsociety. Equally for an officer to ‘put one over’ a defence solicitor was a cause for celebration on our side, and while we said nothing of our failures, the victories were the stuff of legend.
The Criminal Law Act allows Police to use ‘reasonable force’ to effect an arrest. What constitutes ‘reasonable’ is subjective depending on the circumstances at the time, and has to be justified by the officer if called upon to do so. A defence solicitor will jump at the chance to show that any force used was excessive, and many an officer has been backed into a corner after
Needless to say they were a bit hesitant at approaching the counter, and when they did they were very polite.
As my career started to blossom a little I was able to start drawing on previous experience and advice, to gain in confidence and competence, but still every day brought new and different situations. Most of the time there was very little drama, the usual run of drunks at a weekend, shoplifters (often from charity shops, surprisingly!) and minor road accidents, each one different, but never anything of a sort that would make good viewing on a half-hour television programme. What did surprise me however was the sheer variety of people in the town, and the conditions in which some of them lived.
A domestic argument took me to a house where the mother of five turned out to be on her way to her third divorce, a situation not helped by the pressures of raising so many young children. Maybe not an unusual occurrence, but the lady in question had only recently celebrated her 21st birthday.
Many of the ‘pond life’ lived in houses which were quite pleasant to look at from the outside, but were so neglected by the inhabitants you wondered how they tolerated the conditions which were, after all, of their own making. Colin and I walked up a garden path to a terraced house in the old part of town, the path half overgrown by the lawn. Obviously a lawn mower was not in the family’s list of possessions, but a dog was. I realised this as my boot slipped gently on what was termed a ‘dog’s egg’ left on the path. This happened just as Colin had knocked at the door. ‘I can’t come in,’ I muttered to him, ‘I’ve just trodden in a big pile of dog shit.’
At this point the door opened, and the lady of the house ushered us politely in. Despite what he had been told about the state of my footwear, Colin stood back and said, ‘After you.’
I thought he was trying to embarrass me, but as I looked into the hallway I saw that it was a way of reassuring me. The hall was littered with ‘dogs’ eggs’ as liberally as the garden, and the smell was horrendous. It was Colin’s way of letting me know not to waste my time apologising or staying outside as it made no difference what I had trodden in – it wouldn’t show. But how these people lived what they considered to be normal lives in this filth, and with such a blatantly low standard of hygiene still surprises me.
More work brought more arrests, and with them came a number of appearances at Court. I would only need to attend court in the event of a ‘not guilty’ plea, and most of the time the defendant would be represented by one or other of the local solicitors.
When I saw these men at work it made me all the more grateful that my involvement in criminal law was more at the raw material end rather than the ‘refining’ department inhabited by solicitors. The solicitors on the other hand saw themselves as consummate professionals, an image which they were all the more keen to impress on their clients as more esteem meant more guaranteed work, and court was their opportunity to shine. If they could secure an acquittal for their client, and make the Police look small into the bargain, it was not just a guarantee of repeat business but also a guarantee of personal recommendation throughout the lower echelons ofsociety. Equally for an officer to ‘put one over’ a defence solicitor was a cause for celebration on our side, and while we said nothing of our failures, the victories were the stuff of legend.
The Criminal Law Act allows Police to use ‘reasonable force’ to effect an arrest. What constitutes ‘reasonable’ is subjective depending on the circumstances at the time, and has to be justified by the officer if called upon to do so. A defence solicitor will jump at the chance to show that any force used was excessive, and many an officer has been backed into a corner after
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