I am sorry to read that the riots in Tottenham escalated and have spread to other areas of London. What began as a protest and a demand for correct information has now evolved into a free-for-all for thieves and anarchists bent on destroying the property of others and violently objecting to the social status they've been assigned in life. It is an inner anger with the system for many and just open season for others.
I have that anger with the system because of all that was done to me between 1994 and 2008. That is a long spread of time and the fact that few acknowledge what was done over such a length of time doesn't make it any better.
When arrested I was financially set for life. Today I live in poverty compared to most in this country and I am forever watched and unable to step beyond that condition. This really angers me for a few reasons, the main one being that I should be able to give my adult child a decent financial start in life, buy him a car etc... but thanks to a bunch of bad cops, a bad police agency, and a bad prosecutor, I cannot.
Beyond helping my son, I do not give a rat's ass about money and I will never buy a house in this country again, even if I one day manage to pull myself out of the hole they put me in. You see, they taught me that one never actually owns anything and it can all easily vanish overnight. A hard lesson, but one I will carry to the grave. My trust in the system is long gone.
Cops are another story entirely. My perspective on cops did not begin with the MBI. This should be obvious to anyone as if the bad experience started with the MBI, I may have trusted them, or at least one of them, and may have made a plea deal instead of going to trial. In fact I never trusted any of them, the liar prosecutor, or any of the escorts for that matter. I have always been guarded in who I trust, and for good reason.
I commented on a post on the
Duchess of Hackney's blog. She's a nice lady and I like her, but I don't think she understands how serious I am when I state that I'd never trust a cop or call one for help. I have called cops a few times over the years, but only to document a situation and get a case number; not for help. I stated in the comment that I wouldn't call the police if my next door neighbor was a serial killer and I meant exactly that. She responded:
“...There is a reason we have a police force and I’m glad we do. You can’t tell me the cops in Florida don’t help people. If someone was breaking into your home while you were in there, who would you call?”
No Duchess, I cannot tell you that cops in Florida do not help people. I can tell you that the idea of helping people is a minimal part of the job description, say 1% at most. Some cops never help anyone and other cops help people often and make-up for some of the unhelpful cops. I can also tell you that if someone were breaking into my apartment, I wouldn't call the police. What would I do? Well, I am not a convicted felon and I can own a gun, but beyond that I will not state what I would do on this blog.
I wrote about a good cop, sort of, in
The Good Cop. I don't hate or despise all cops and in past, a few of my best friends were cops. I had a long relationship with a cop. But I do not trust cops and I never will. I didn't trust cops long before my arrest on November 20, 2001. Now I will tell you why...
The only time I ever called the police for help was in Jackson County, Oklahoma. You might be curious what ever brought me to Oklahoma to begin with so I will give you the short version: My son's father had (he is now deceased) family in that area and within a few months of giving birth to my son we chose to move there and buy a house. Houses are cheap out there – they were back then and they still are now, but for good reasons.
I didn't want to raise my child in crime-ridden Miami – this was back in the mid to late 1980s and Miami was the land of cocaine cowboys. I told my son's father that we could stay in Miami, but neither of us had family there and I would never be leaving my child with anyone, therefore we could never go out together again, at least not to the clubs. Probably the main reason for this was the Country Walk case – we lived close to Country Walk subdivision. For those of you that are unaware it was a ritual abuse case involving the Fusters, a couple that watched children for many residents in the subdivision. Read about it on
PBS Frontline.
So back to the only time I ever called police for help...
Having never been to Oklahoma, I was clueless how anything worked there. Going from Miami to Jackson County, OK was a culture shock for sure. My first surprise came when my son's father asked me to go pick-up some beer at a store down the road. I was in the middle of something (like unpacking) and asked him why didn't he go. He explained that he'd have to change clothes and didn't know where they were at the moment, but couldn't go in his OP shorts. I asked why not and he asked me if I had seen any male wearing shorts anywhere in the two weeks that we had been in the area. We had found a bargain house (or so we thought) in a small town (less than 400 people) called Duke and our new house was actually a mile outside of Duke. Anyway, it suddenly occurred to me that he was right – men didn't wear shorts in Jackson County. Hopefully the area has since changed.
What a weird fucking place this was, but I was still clueless as to how weird or the level or weirdness. (smile – yeh, I can smile now that I'm long out of there). We had been there for well over a year when the fights really started. It was everything, but mainly money. He was stuck working for the mayor of little Duke for really low wages and no health insurance or anything else. The guy was a rancher and my son's father had to do things like put up fencing, plow wheat and cotton, cut off bulls' nuts (yes, really), shoot bulls with steroids, and anything else done on a working ranch for that super low (under minimum) wage. There really was no other work around, and that rancher made sure of that.
After we had been in Duke for a year and a half it wore us down and we fought each other. The place just sucked. Nice house though – it had a large (2 to 3 car) garage, a huge party room above the garage where we placed a pool table, 3 bedrooms, a couple of bathrooms, a chicken coop, and it was on 5 acres. During our last major argument there, I stated that I wanted to go to my dad's in Florida. He stated that I wouldn't be bringing my son and if I tried, he would take him to Mexico and I'd never see him again. One day while he was at work I packed a few suitcases and moved to a dumpy little house in the nearby city of Altus, about 7 miles away.
At the time I was working on the AF base in Altus in the youth center, so I figured that I could survive without moving to my dad's in Florida and no major custody battle would ensue. I would just live with it until my son was older. In case any readers are wondering why I never returned to Europe, now you know – from the moment my son was born I was stuck in this country. My son didn't turn 18 until several years after my arrest.
So one day I went to drop my son off with his regular babysitter, an AF colonel's wife, (she was Russian) and she said that she could not watch him anymore because he didn't listen to her and would just go in the refrigerator and get a drink when he wanted. What? I recall calling her a stupid bitch and exiting. Now I had no babysitter. As timing would have it, my son's father called to say hello and was actually being normal, or at least sounded that way at the moment. He stated that his mother would love to watch our son until I found a more permanent arrangement.
Naïve as I was at the time, I dropped my son off at his grandmother's house. We had a skate night at the youth center that night and it was around 11pm when I arrived to pick my son up. I was greeted by his seriously intoxicated father – he had been drinking tequila all night. I was attempting to place my son in his car seat when his father grabbed him. It isn't as if I could have hung onto him. He struggled to get my son in the car seat in his truck while I ripped at his back – a physical fight ensued and ended with him throwing me to the ground, jumping in the truck, and driving off. I jumped in my car and chased him briefly, but his driving was erratic and he was actually driving into ditches.
Realizing that chasing a drunk driver intent on getting away with my child in the truck was not intelligent, I went home and dialed the Jackson County Sheriff's Office. About 20 minutes later, they called me back and stated that they found my son's father walking down the road carrying my son and the truck had run out of gas on the road to Duke. The cop told me that other cops were bringing them to the station and that I could come and pick-up my son. Relieved, I jumped in the car and arrived there in about 3 minutes.
On arrival, I was instructed to sit in a chair and told that they were on the way with my son. Well, about 20 minutes went by... this made no sense to me. I asked where my son was and a cop asked me, “Is that there his father?” I responded that yes, he was his father. The cop stated: “This here is a civil matter. We can't help you and you need to go to court.” I asked what about the fact that his father was driving drunk as a skunk, but that was immaterial. I got up and stated, “Thanks for wasting my time. I'll take care of it by myself.”
The next thing I knew I was being thrown to the floor by this cop and they were removing my shoelaces and telling me I was under arrest. “For what?” I asked. “Obstruction of justice” was the answer. I asked to make my telephone call and dialed my father. Dad asked me what the bond was and I turned and asked the deputy. He started laughing and stated, “That's a non-bondable offense. There is no bond.”
When I repeated the no bond statement to my dad, I admit to saying, “this hick cop says...”. The stupid cop ripped the phone-line from the wall. That was the last outside communication that I would have for several days. They snapped a Polaroid picture of me (that's how backwoods this place was) and took me to a cell, telling me I'd be going to prison and wouldn't see my son for a long time. I paced for two nights and three days with no sleep as I considered it possible that my son's father was already in Mexico with him. A nice woman gave me a pack of cigarettes, and I later repaid her a carton.
On day three a nice guard came and opened my cell door, telling me, “I don't know what is going on, but they are releasing you and you have to call your father right away.” I would later find out that a variety of people from the AF base, including the commander, attempted to rescue me. My boss and a couple of co-workers demanded they give me a bond, but were literally thrown out of the sheriff's office and told they'd be arrested if they returned.
The one that got through to these corrupt scumbag cops was my father. He finally got ahold of the Sheriff of Jackson County at home and informed him that he had exactly one hour to either release me on my own recognizance or on bond and if he did not hear from me within one hour, outside of that jail, that he would be on the next flight out of Orlando to Oklahoma City and taking it directly to the US Attorney.
So they released me and instructed me to dial my father immediately from the payphone across the street. I still had a problem though, so I wasn't exactly running out the door. I asked the deputy releasing me if they intended to lock-up my son's father when I went and took my son back from him as they did to me. The nice guard kept trying to shush me, whispering that something was weird and I just needed to get out of there for the moment.
What was weird? Well, recall that I stated my son's father worked for the mayor of Duke. When deputies found him walking down the road carrying my son he informed them he worked for R. B. Masters and they made a call to ole R.B. who needed his underpaid worker more than we knew.
That part of the story ended with an appalled judge – he just shook his head in disbelief at what these bad cops did to me and dismissed the case. His exact words were, “I do not even believe this!” The judges last name was Darby – bless his heart.
To give you an idea of what R.B. Masters was like, I will tell you that he owned the house we were buying and we did what they call a "contract for deed". Part of that contract was that he had to approve any transfer of the property. We had it half (over 50%) paid for and attempted to sell it and retrieve our money, but when a black couple came to look at the house and R.B. met us there, he pulled me aside and said, “It will be a cold day in hell before we have any watermelon pickers living in Duke.”
And yes, I did get my son back several days later, all by myself. (smile)
I think that about summarizes my thoughts on cops and my viewpoint of rural Oklahoma. So no Duchess, I would not call cops if someone was breaking-in – I would rather take my chances with the intruder.