by Russell Judd
When I come back to reality the conversation has shifted onto a much darker topic.
I know that most cops have negative thoughts about the shit they see and a coping mechanism they use to deal with it, is through the use of ‘black humour’. So this conversation never really surprised me too much as it is usually spoken about around the meal table or over a few beers.
They started talking about one of the pieces of shit that routinely comes through the cells. He’s the type that seems to enjoy coming to court, almost as if he needs the attention to justify his existence. He’s got forty odd pages of criminal convictions ranging from family violence offending to drugs, dishonesty and even child abuse. It’s fairly obvious that the system has not worked for him. To be honest I don’t think he wants it to work for him.
Terry speaks up and begins talking about back in china “when I grew up, if you got arrested you would be kept in custody for two weeks by the Police. You would be placed in a cell with up to twenty others and as the unfortunate newbie in the cell it’s your job to clear the drain that is used as the toilet. It gets worse because you have to use your hands to push the urine and shit along the drain and out of the cell. If that’s not punishment enough the two weeks is just for the Police to decide if you are going to be charged, and put before the court or not”
“Sounds like a pretty strong incentive not to get arrested it you ask me” I say.
One of the young fellas Rueben pipes up. “So why not do society a favour and give them a bullet instead. Cure them of their lead deficiency”
As these words are being spoken I can just hear the wimpy moans of the left wing tree huggers jumping up and down about human rights. I do believe that it would be too much power for a single person or counsel to have. Who would control them and how could we stop it from getting out of hand. Would it be best to have a secret organisation that did dawn raids and took out New Zealand’s most vile criminal offenders, or do we just bring in capital punishment, the hangman, or the lethal injection. The conversation then turns to how New Zealand is full of spineless swine that couldn’t stand on their own two feet, which is reflected as the majority of the population stay silent. All the while the minority appears to have the louder voice and consequently the most sway.
The thought of handing the punishment back to the community, mob rules, or an eye for an eye are terms that are brandished around a bit by the boys. The only problem is you’d have all the unstable nut jobs come out of the wood work wanting to pull off people’s fingernails and feed them to a bunch of starved eels. They continue talking about vigilante justice. I try and keep my input to a minimum as I don’t want to be seen as too much of an avid supporter. I decide to make a hot drink and offer the others if they want one. As soon as I stand up and walk past our door the stench of fresh shit engulfs my nose. ‘Fuck, can you guys smell that’ I say in disgust. ‘Smell what’ they reply in unison.
Terry gets up and is stopped in his tracks as soon as he gets to the door. His face contorts as he comes into contact with the invisible wall of stench. The look on his face is quite comical as he tries not to inhale the horrid smell. I walk out of the office and to the left, making sure not to breathe through my nose. Terry breaks right for a quick recce of the other cells. I walk closer To Harley’s cell, the smell becomes more intense. I step towards the cell window and reluctantly peer through and I’m definitely not prepared for what I find. Harley is standing in the middle of the cell with his back to me, completely naked.
“Oi Harley”, I yell, “you break the toilet!”
He just stands there, not moving a muscle.
“Oi Harley”, I yell this time accompanied with a sharp kick to the cell door.
He turns his head and stares straight at me. Again he begins to ramble on about some nonsensical dribble. I give him my blank stare along with a shoulder shrug, and he turns around to reveal the cause of the stench.
“For fuck sake” I mumble to myself.
He’s drawn an unusually tidy swastika on his stomach which I can only imagine is his own shit.
Chapter Fifteen