In the Making

'Police!! Police!! Open di door! - Get up off a di bed bwoy! Floor!! Floor! 'Pon di floor!!'

It was approximately 3:00 am. *Mike was deep in sleep, disoriented and barely covered in an underwear that he would have preferred to be kept private from public eyes. He just turned seventeen and dreamed of being an architect so that he can design homes for inner-city residents as well as participate in the design and planning of a more beautiful community. On his single spring mattress, that squeaked from the worn metallic base, was a book of his free hand sketches - he was practicing and preparing for that big break - preparing sketches, just in case he got an opportunity to display his talent.

The floor is cold; colder than the cold stand piped water with which he washed himself before he went to bed earlier the previous evening. 'Pon you face bwoy!! Mi a Police! Mi will Kill you bwoy!! It is dark, but he can feel the heels of boots in his hungry belly, rib and back. 'Mi say don't move bwoy! A dead you want dead Pu*#y!!?! He awakes, not quiet fully, but just enough to know his sleeping is over and that eternal sleeplessness has just begun.

Six o'clock. The pavement on which he is now standing is damp. The bleeding from his bruised feet runs like a little river, meandering along the gully bank. He wants to run. Run even like his blood that runs, even far enough to die trying. But he's tired. His breath is uneven as he chokes on blood that drips from his nostrils and mouth; blood that reminds him to shut his mouth and not ask questions of Police. To his left and right he now sees that he stands in a line; a line of at least twenty – standing, awaiting daylight that should have shed light on questions that are asked. But none have spoken. Silence or speech; what's the difference?

The pick up arrives. Its eight o'clock. *Mike is driven to a lock up, 'processed' and locked up.

As I listened to his story, I listen with my usual critical inner ear. But like many, whose story I hear, I hear the familiar theme and had no reason not to believe. We know that criminals are among us. But we also know that many are caught in the wide net of raids and who do not belong in a jail cell.

*Mike recounts that after a few weeks, his uncle got him a lawyer. He learned that he was charged with possession of firearm and must appear in court to answer to the charges. He tells me that he spent over two years going to Court and is yet to see the Officer who charged him or the firearm which he is alleged to have had. He tells me that he spent his savings on lawyer fees; paying someone who speaks for him, but does not speak his words. He tells me that he thought that he was still sleeping, and did not awake after he last went to bed with his sketches by his head. He tells me that he was cut in the face, got his teeth knocked out and his foot broken in jail. He tells me that he thought that by complying with the system, his innocence would be proven.

He is confused and begins to contemplate suicide. Suicidal thoughts gave way to bitterness. He wants to find the Police that took him from his bed. He wants to let him know how he feels. He wants to kill him. He hates Police. He wants to kill them all. He wonders if his lawyer believes him. He thinks his lawyer is working with the prosecutor. He doesn't trust his lawyer. His lawyer begins to suggest that he submits a guilty plea. The Judge, everyone seems to be against him. Why? He doesn't understand.

He is now nineteen. He has been honoring his court appointments. The Arresting Officer has still not showed up. The judge tells him, "Bwoy, just go a yaad, you hear?". His lawyer tells him, "everything ok now". He still doesn't understand. He is still confused, so he asked me:
1. Mr. Frith, you ever hear 'bout any youth in Norbrook or Cherry Gardens go to him bed and wake up inna jail with buss mouth, half dressed and bruised up?
2. Is it possible for a Police to just take a youth out a him bed and tell him say him can't ask no question? I neva own a gun nor have one. Nor hold one fi nobody.
3. How come the Police charge me fi gun possession and up till now I don't know which gun dat?
4. How come I end up a go Court and di Police weh charge mi still can't reach a Court wid the gun that him say mi have?
5. So after I take all my money plus borrow money to pay lawyer and di judge just decide say since di Police nah come, mi must go home - how come nobody no tell me sorry? What a go happen to the Police weh tell lie ‘pon me?
6. I a try find work and can’t fine none - look pon me. Mi look like bad man. Cut face, screw face. Three years a my life just happen like a nightmare..... tell my why somebody shouldn’t pay back fi this?

There are criminals. There are others who are not. Then there are those who are not quite yet, but an experience like this is often the proverbial straw that breaks the camel’s back. There are also those moments when stories like these are told and I know better than to think that I am hearing the story of a lamb lead to the slaughter. I KNOW THAT OUR HARD WORKING POLICE MEN AND WOMEN DEAL WITH DIFFICULT CONDITIONS DAILY AND FACE SERIOUS RISKS. BUT WE ALSO KNOW THAT SOME ARE WALKING DISASTERS AND WE MUST SEPARATE THEM, SOONER THAN LATER.

As *Mike sat in my office and looked across the desk, waiting for some kind of answer that makes sense, I scanned my brain running through the several identical cases that I have dealt with before now and offered sound advice then. I slanted my head to the left to view my computer screen, scrolling through the database of agencies to which I have referred others like him. My mind replayed the perfect lines and sequence of assuring words, sympathy and suggestions of a way forward. I have done this several times before. This should be easy.

But this time, it was one too many for the month. I leaned back in my chair, reaching for the bottle of Catherine's Peak water I was drinking before he came. I reached for the extra un-pulled bottle that I kept for my evening drink. I offered him the bottle. He said thanks. The kind of thanks you get from a wanderer whose fainting steps in an arid desert wanes but quickens in view of an oasis. I sipped. He sipped. We sipped and washed our silence. We drank for the hundreds of souls like him who thirst in mid morning raids; whose stories were never told and who still seek answers. We drank, quenching his bruised soul. We drank in silence, disturbed only by the old window unit buzzing and cooling the charged office; charged with anger, bitterness and pain. We drank and emptied our souls in silence.

Like the many before him that I answered in politically correct words, giving hope, encouragement and suggestions, he came for words that made sense. But like the empty bottle that he now examines in his hand, he has emptied himself. I did not speak. I too am empty. I had to empty myself for a moment. He said, 'thanks for listening sir, I really appreciate it'. I said, 'You're welcome'. I scheduled sessions for him with my Counselors. I decided to recommend and enroll him in Training and assist him with identifying or creating an income generating opportunity. I decided to help him, the way we have helped and tried to help many others like him, before him. He was wiling to take the leap forward.

But as we agreed to an action plan and a way forward, I thought of the many others like him, whose stories are never heard; others like him, for whom this experience is fuel in the furnace of shottas in the making....

To be continued....