Scuba Jim
Contributor
Here's an amusing story from the Daily Telegraph (that's a British paper, BTW!)
An innocent abroad
One minute Dudi Appleton was strolling in Los Angeles. The next he was on his way to jail. His crime? Crossing the road - just one of many peculiar offences around the world which could ruin your holiday
(Filed: 18/11/2003)
The long and peculiar arm of the law
I am sure I have done things in my life for which I deserve to go to prison, but crossing the road is not one of them. Still, that is what happened on a recent visit to Los Angeles. I knew walking, as opposed to driving, in the city was pretty unusual; I didn't realise it was illegal.
It was 1am on a Monday morning and I had just been thrown a "welcome to laid-back California" dinner by friends. Later (and, yes, sober) I walked 300 yards to buy a phonecard: 1am in LA is 9am in London, and the perfect time to make vital calls home.
Emerging from the 7-11 store with two phonecards and a bottle of Vanilla Coke, I dandered across a virtually deserted Santa Monica Boulevard and strolled down La Cienega.
Minutes later, a sheriff's car screeched onto the pavement behind me. Hunting down some notorious LA criminal, I thought. No doubt they wanted to know whether I had seen anyone suspicious.
"Come here," said one of the car's occupants. Keen to help, I walked towards them, only to find myself pushed face down onto the car bonnet.
Unusual suspect: Dudi Appleton (second left) was arrested for 'jaywalking' in LA
"Do you always do that?" the woman officer (she did all the talking, pushing and prodding) barked as she yanked my arms back bending my thumbs sharply upwards. What was my crime, I wondered: whistling Irish folk tunes in a built-up area?
"Do what?" I ventured.
"Walk across the road."
Fearing a trick question I said nothing.
"ID?"
"In my pocket."
"Which pocket?"
I gestured with my chin. "That one, I think."
"Get it."
Now I was really confused. My arms were pinioned behind me while my face was being lightly seared on the metal of the cop car. The next thing I knew, I was being cuffed and thrown into the back of the car. Having decided that my ID was insufficient they told me they were "taking me in". In the Cagney and Lacey, rather than the Orphan Annie sense.
"Listen," I said, "my passport is only a block away."
"We're not taking you there - it's too dangerous."
Now, in my admittedly limited experience, LA's danger spots are far to the east of affluent Melrose, but my captors were adamant. I explained I was in town as a writer for an British newspaper and accredited by the mayor's office, so my identity could be easily confirmed. This was ignored. A car pulled up and its occupants called over to me."Can we help you sir? Would you like us to call you an attorney?" But at this, I was driven away. Not to check my passport 200 yards distant, but to a cell a mile away.
Those who know me well will attest to a certain lack of patience with authority, particularly authority wielded with stupidity. I admit that at this point I got angry."You're only making it worse for yourself."
"How much worse can it be? What are you going to do? Give me a lethal injection?" I replied.
"We're just doing our job."
"Arresting tourists?"
They explained that jaywalking tourists had to be put away. This was the first mention of my crime. To be honest I had no idea what it meant.
"You must love your job," I said.
"We do."
"Can I give you a word of advice?" I was feeling bullish now.
"Yes sir."
"Get another job."
We arrived at the West Hollywood Sheriff's Office, where my possessions (wallet, belt, shoes and mobile phone) were taken and I was put into a 6ft x 6ft cell. Having your liberty taken away is a strange thing. Utterly humiliating. In the cell the jailer took my details. Two hours later they took my photo (Hugh Grant style) and fingerprints. Then more stupid questions.
"Weight?"
"Ten stone."
"Ok you wanna play it like that do ya? How big are the stones?"
"What?"
"You're only making it worse for yourself."
I asked for the boss. A tall woman in a serious uniform appeared another hour later. I asked her why I was there. She looked keen to thump me at any moment.
"You didn't have ID."
"Is that an offence?"
She returned 20 minutes later with my charge sheet. "You jaywalked. You're from Belfast, huh?"
"Yes."
"You wouldn't get away with this in Belfast."
"Say what you like about British justice," I offered, "but I don't think they've ever locked anyone up for crossing the road."
I asked for a pen and paper to take notes. "Write what you like but I'm not giving you a pen." Later I noticed an official sign in tiny letters detailing detainees' rights. The right to a pen and paper was one. I asked her about this. "I can't be expected to know what's written on the cell wall."
So I spent hours listening to another inmate, Sammy, argue with the jailers who kept calling him a "ho" rather than addressing him by his preferred title of "pimp", and reading the jailhouse signs. My favourite: "hate crimes are punishable by death". I didn't make any calls. I didn't want to wake my hosts (I wasn't altogether proud to be in the clink) and they weren't about to give me an international call.
Finally, with my captors still no clearer as to my identity, I was released at 6am. I was then given my possessions. Except for one.
"I had a Coke."
"There's a machine in the lobby."
"Best you go get me one then."
There was intense debate before they returned with a can. "But mine was a Vanilla Coke . . . " I began, but then thought better of it and cut my losses and left. With no taxis in sight, I walked a rather risky mile home.
My LA friends were not helpful in my post-traumatic state. The girls wanted to know if there were any cute cops or whether I made any "special" friends. Male friends refused to believe that there wasn't more to it than illicit traversing of the public highway.
Strangely, my complaint never amounted to anything. And I have to say I haven't felt the same about the US since. The illusion of a free and liberal society evaporated sometime between the humiliation of being locked up and the pettiness of the officers, revelling in the knowledge they could do whatever they wanted.
I never paid my $75 ticket though. That'll show them.
An innocent abroad
One minute Dudi Appleton was strolling in Los Angeles. The next he was on his way to jail. His crime? Crossing the road - just one of many peculiar offences around the world which could ruin your holiday
(Filed: 18/11/2003)
The long and peculiar arm of the law
I am sure I have done things in my life for which I deserve to go to prison, but crossing the road is not one of them. Still, that is what happened on a recent visit to Los Angeles. I knew walking, as opposed to driving, in the city was pretty unusual; I didn't realise it was illegal.
It was 1am on a Monday morning and I had just been thrown a "welcome to laid-back California" dinner by friends. Later (and, yes, sober) I walked 300 yards to buy a phonecard: 1am in LA is 9am in London, and the perfect time to make vital calls home.
Emerging from the 7-11 store with two phonecards and a bottle of Vanilla Coke, I dandered across a virtually deserted Santa Monica Boulevard and strolled down La Cienega.
Minutes later, a sheriff's car screeched onto the pavement behind me. Hunting down some notorious LA criminal, I thought. No doubt they wanted to know whether I had seen anyone suspicious.
"Come here," said one of the car's occupants. Keen to help, I walked towards them, only to find myself pushed face down onto the car bonnet.
Unusual suspect: Dudi Appleton (second left) was arrested for 'jaywalking' in LA
"Do you always do that?" the woman officer (she did all the talking, pushing and prodding) barked as she yanked my arms back bending my thumbs sharply upwards. What was my crime, I wondered: whistling Irish folk tunes in a built-up area?
"Do what?" I ventured.
"Walk across the road."
Fearing a trick question I said nothing.
"ID?"
"In my pocket."
"Which pocket?"
I gestured with my chin. "That one, I think."
"Get it."
Now I was really confused. My arms were pinioned behind me while my face was being lightly seared on the metal of the cop car. The next thing I knew, I was being cuffed and thrown into the back of the car. Having decided that my ID was insufficient they told me they were "taking me in". In the Cagney and Lacey, rather than the Orphan Annie sense.
"Listen," I said, "my passport is only a block away."
"We're not taking you there - it's too dangerous."
Now, in my admittedly limited experience, LA's danger spots are far to the east of affluent Melrose, but my captors were adamant. I explained I was in town as a writer for an British newspaper and accredited by the mayor's office, so my identity could be easily confirmed. This was ignored. A car pulled up and its occupants called over to me."Can we help you sir? Would you like us to call you an attorney?" But at this, I was driven away. Not to check my passport 200 yards distant, but to a cell a mile away.
Those who know me well will attest to a certain lack of patience with authority, particularly authority wielded with stupidity. I admit that at this point I got angry."You're only making it worse for yourself."
"How much worse can it be? What are you going to do? Give me a lethal injection?" I replied.
"We're just doing our job."
"Arresting tourists?"
They explained that jaywalking tourists had to be put away. This was the first mention of my crime. To be honest I had no idea what it meant.
"You must love your job," I said.
"We do."
"Can I give you a word of advice?" I was feeling bullish now.
"Yes sir."
"Get another job."
We arrived at the West Hollywood Sheriff's Office, where my possessions (wallet, belt, shoes and mobile phone) were taken and I was put into a 6ft x 6ft cell. Having your liberty taken away is a strange thing. Utterly humiliating. In the cell the jailer took my details. Two hours later they took my photo (Hugh Grant style) and fingerprints. Then more stupid questions.
"Weight?"
"Ten stone."
"Ok you wanna play it like that do ya? How big are the stones?"
"What?"
"You're only making it worse for yourself."
I asked for the boss. A tall woman in a serious uniform appeared another hour later. I asked her why I was there. She looked keen to thump me at any moment.
"You didn't have ID."
"Is that an offence?"
She returned 20 minutes later with my charge sheet. "You jaywalked. You're from Belfast, huh?"
"Yes."
"You wouldn't get away with this in Belfast."
"Say what you like about British justice," I offered, "but I don't think they've ever locked anyone up for crossing the road."
I asked for a pen and paper to take notes. "Write what you like but I'm not giving you a pen." Later I noticed an official sign in tiny letters detailing detainees' rights. The right to a pen and paper was one. I asked her about this. "I can't be expected to know what's written on the cell wall."
So I spent hours listening to another inmate, Sammy, argue with the jailers who kept calling him a "ho" rather than addressing him by his preferred title of "pimp", and reading the jailhouse signs. My favourite: "hate crimes are punishable by death". I didn't make any calls. I didn't want to wake my hosts (I wasn't altogether proud to be in the clink) and they weren't about to give me an international call.
Finally, with my captors still no clearer as to my identity, I was released at 6am. I was then given my possessions. Except for one.
"I had a Coke."
"There's a machine in the lobby."
"Best you go get me one then."
There was intense debate before they returned with a can. "But mine was a Vanilla Coke . . . " I began, but then thought better of it and cut my losses and left. With no taxis in sight, I walked a rather risky mile home.
My LA friends were not helpful in my post-traumatic state. The girls wanted to know if there were any cute cops or whether I made any "special" friends. Male friends refused to believe that there wasn't more to it than illicit traversing of the public highway.
Strangely, my complaint never amounted to anything. And I have to say I haven't felt the same about the US since. The illusion of a free and liberal society evaporated sometime between the humiliation of being locked up and the pettiness of the officers, revelling in the knowledge they could do whatever they wanted.
I never paid my $75 ticket though. That'll show them.
