Professor Philip Smith responds to policing postings

paddy wagon

Thanks for this interesting if sadly familiar narrative Judy. As an academic criminologist I was struck by how consistent your story was with the literature on policing. In fact your text could be used as a teaching resource for this reason.

First up it touches upon the issue of ‘over-policing’. This has been well documented in Australia by scholars like Gillian Cowlishaw and Paul Wilson and is known to Aboriginal activists as a problem. The basic point is that ratios of police to citizens vary widely according to who is being policed. Simply having more police in an area with more presumed ‘troublemakers’ leads to more trivial acts being detected and people being swept up into the criminal justice system. The Redfern area of Sydney is a well known locus of contention over this. The argument is also made that over-policing (in anticipation of trouble) generates a hostile atmosphere and hence a self-fulfilling prophecy. The policy conjures the crime as it were.

Next up we have the ‘dramaturgic’ aspects of policing. This is well established in policing ethnographies by people like Jerome Skolnick or Max van Maanen. Here the theme is that the police see themselves as outnumbered (ironically enough this is especially the case in over-policing contexts). They need to establish authority in direct interpersonal interactions and head off interactional complications with the public/those they feel they should be controlling. Their aim is to define the situation as one in which they are in control, where negotiation or discussion is not possible, and to make this quickly visible to onlookers. The last thing they want is a debate on whether or not the law has been broken or who exactly is at fault, even if we citizens feel this sort of thing should be central to conflict resolution or avoidance. The priority is to control the situation right now and then to let the court sort out the finer details later. The negative experiences you report at the police station (eg. their failure to smile or, apparently, to provide basic information on your rights) could be interpreted as manifestations of this urge to establish boundaries and show who has power. So also was their surly behavior at the music event. Once they had started out on a line of action, such as telling you that you were under arrest, they could not start to undo it without looking indecisive and open to hence negotiation. Once that flip-flop happens the situation starts to look indeterminate and, they believe, chaos will follow.

Lastly we have the issue of ‘order maintenance’ versus ‘law enforcement’. Ethnographies show that beat police give priority to maintaining orderly public spaces over any rigid to-the-letter enforcement of all possible laws. They feel they can be held responsible for visible public disorder, subject to criticism etc. if disorder can been seen and reported (to their boss, to the media, to politicians etc). Thus in many cases people are ‘swept up’ who have not done anything wrong but who are perceived to be either risky due to personality, as belonging to the presumed categories of the potentially disorderly (youth, minorities, people with tattoos, the mentally ill etc) or simply as behaving in non-conventional ways. It seems as if ‘order-maintenance’ was the focal concern for the officers at the music event. They wanted to keep a lid on things.

One thing that did puzzle me was that the police did not let you go sooner. According to ethnographic research you should have been defined by the police as a ‘do-gooder’, ‘disarmer’ or ‘challenger’ (see Robert Reiner’s book “The Politics of the Police” for these terms – please note these are not objective categories of person but rather types of person identified by police culture, talked about in the canteen etc.). The police generally fear such educated people as bringing complaints, shame or political interference as well as general hassle and bad publicity. The fact that your story made it to your blog and we have been reading this is a case in point. Moreover the police generally divide people into the ‘rough’ and the ‘respectable’, with the latter often given the benefit of the doubt – especially if this reduces workload and legal escalation is deemed pointless. Your referring to the fact that you had a husband and were an artist should have started alarm bells ringing that they had made a category error in their folk-classification system. Next would come the realization that their own best interest would be served by getting you out of the police station as quickly as possible. eg. with some kind of lame apology, or perhaps a Caution so you would go away humbled and not make trouble. One of the police officers seems to have realized the mistake. However it would have been difficult for him to do much about the situation without seeming to contradict or implicitly criticize his colleagues who had made the arrest. Within the peer police solidarity is very important, especially as one day you might need your buddy to risk his life to save yours.

Lastly we need to reflect a little on the difficulty of the policing role. To criticize policing does not necessarily involve blaming the individual. Much of the responsibility lies in what is called by academics ‘police culture’. On joining the police new recruits are socialized into a worldview and a set of cognitive and behavioral shortcuts that often make sensitive policing difficult. To a certain extent the leadership in Australia’s various Police services are aware of this problem, although their efforts to deal with it seem to have limited impact on the ground (see Janet Chan “Changing Police Culture”). We should also remember that in the context of Aboriginal issues the police are often damned if they do and damned if they don’t. In Australia weren’t the authorities blamed for failure to intervene and turning a blind eye to issues like domestic violence and incest in Aboriginal communities? Didn’t critics say “Where were the police?” And who would have been blamed had there been a violent incident at the music event and a policy of having a minimal police presence was in place? There seems to be no easy way to find a Goldilocks zone for policing and it is not surprising that the police often feel they are singled out for unfair criticism based on contingent outcomes. Finally we should remember that the police are the people who scrape body parts off the road after accidents, tell people that their child was found dead in the river, wash vomit from the back seat of the police car, and face down the occasional armed and violent person. Any volunteers? They deal with negative situations all the time and only some of these are of their own making. None of this excuses rude, insensitive, bullying or incompetent policing when it takes place but it is worth contemplating how the job itself might create a certain kind of thick skin and cynicism that helps the officer get through the day.

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The court process following arrest

Charge sheet

Bail sheet

22 September 2013

It is Sunday and I awaken to reality. I rarely meet forensic psychologists but I have met one in my two weeks here and he lives just across the park from where I am staying. He is my first port of call in search of assistance – a silver thread across the park. Breakfast is immediately on and support is underway: letters to contacts in legal aid, and to journalist friends, and the drafting of a statement on my behalf.

What would I do without him? – No one here to support me, no knowledge of the system, and only a few minutes before my court appearance to talk to whatever stranger happens to be at legal aid before my hearing.

But this is also good – I am getting some first-hand experience of how it is for the Australian Aboriginal people of Alice Springs – the majority of whom, I am told, have been through the prison system – very clearly through no fault of their own. According to one ABC report titled “Indigenous Prison Rates are a National Shame” in 20 years, the rate of one in seven people incarcerated being Aboriginal has increased to one in four. And, as an artist, I have the opportunity to share this with you in the glowing clarity of my own story.

Monday morning.

I enter the wide high hall of the courts, somehow designed to make us feel smaller. My bags and I are scanned, and I am in a foyer, with a TV screen listing the names of the people to be called for the court. My name is there.

I must find the legal aid solicitor before I am called. I am lucky. My statement has been written, my biography and my website copied, and a reference written for me. Geoffrey, back in Brisbane, has also given advice on what and how to present. I arrive prepared and supported by a group of well-informed people. I feel it is a very different situation for the Aboriginal people around me who mill out of place in the foreign confines of a structure designed far, far away.

The duty solicitor is behind a desk piled high with people’s needs and he advises me to wait. We hover outside his door. Time ticks by with monotonous haste to the moment of being called. I feel vulnerable and dangerously invisible despite my heaven-sent support.

When we are at last called into his office the solicitor tells us the police papers are not ready. He doesn’t know the charges. A defence cannot be made until he knows. I thrust out my paperwork for him to read before the veil of overburden is pulled down again between us, and he disappears to discuss the matter with the prosecution.

The solicitor returns to say it appears the prosecution think there is no case. He decides he wants to get the bail condition removed and the charges of “Hindering a Policeman” dropped.

We sit in the sharp, clean silence of the court, shuffling loosely along to let others join us at our bench, as if at some church pew. Indeed – we are here to be judged. And we appear crumpled in all the smartness. Names are called. Formalities followed. The smell in here is of polished pine and blue cloth but the air is uneasy. There are two sides to the fence; those who sit limply waiting to be called, and those who march through procedure.

My name is called. It must only be a matter of seconds and I am dismissed, forgotten, eyes turned to the next. The police do not have their paperwork and I am discharged from bail. I am expected to gratefully depart. An invisible cloak falls over the seven hours already spent in gaol.

It remains that I may be summonsed at any time over the next 6 months. I am also advised by the solicitor that if the police decide to increase the charge, I might be summonsed at any time, even after the 6 months period. I am told there is only a one-month period, however, in which I can lodge a complaint.

I leave the court feeling dazed. My support team guide me across the road and we sit over coffee together. Have the police effectively made complaint impossible? I am certainly advised against it by everyone around me. The journalist agrees it would not be in my interest to write up the story. I am to lie low.

I am in Australia. I have been locked up for seven hours for asking after the welfare of my friend. Even the police, when I asked them at the gaol, did not manage to say they would not do the same in my situation.

I have not complained. I am however doing as I said I would do. The Northern Territory Police are included internationally in the Grounded exhibition, and on my blog. I thank them once again for this opportunity. They have provided material to raise a debate on whether perhaps the Aboriginal people of Alice Springs are being locked up without justification, and on how appropriate the systems are.

I have started these posts from Australia with the last days of the Grounded artist residency. Tomorrow I’ll return to the beginning of the story and introduce you to the beautiful Australian Aboriginal people I met along the way, and the stories they are very willing to share.

(You can visit more web articles from the Australia Digital Resources page of this blog)

 

Australia Grounded Artist Residency; I begin this story at the end

Illustration by artist Megan Forward

Illustration by artist Megan Forward

21 September 2013

“That’s me sitting on the bench in the cell to the left”. How I came to be sitting in an Alice Springs prison cell, and the broader implications of this in relation to the local population, is explained here. I believe my jail story is a window into a strange and disturbing world that is a routine problem for Indigenous people.

This evening is the Bush Bands Bash, down by the dry Todd riverbed that runs through town, flanked by eucalypts awaiting the rains. The Bash is preceded by three days of professional development and rehearsals for the bands. It is the peak Central Australian Indigenous music showcase event.

I head down in the late afternoon with a couple of friends I have met here. The music has already started at Snow Kenna Park, and groups of people are sitting together on the grass watching the stage as we move into the park to join them.

The air is warm and relaxed; and keen with the enthusiasm of the young musicians. Smiles are radiant in the space.

As the sun starts to set, we decide to take a break and go for an amble up Anzac Hill. Outside the gate there is a remarkably strong police presence, which rather surprises me given the good-natured festival feel to the event.

As we leave the event my companions and I stop to look in the direction of a distressed call that splits through the otherwise happy sounds. Some Aboriginal women are being taken into custody by a group of policemen.

“Protective custody” is a police power in the Northern Territory, which enables police to apprehend an Aboriginal person who is intoxicated and incarcerate them until they are sober;a controversial law. There is an overrepresentation of Aboriginal people in the prison system, which is hurting families and communities.

The women we can hear are in their middle years and posing no evident threat to themselves or anyone else. They have had a few drinks. My companion, who works locally in a supporting role with the Aboriginal communities, moves forward to question what is happening as the women are directed into the back of the police van. The police do not want to engage in this conversation, and after my companion – a quietly spoken, respectful young woman – tries a few times to have her questions answered, the police ban her from returning to the Bush Band event.

We leave to continue on our walk. About an hour later we return to the event. We both re-enter the gate.

We have gone no further than a few steps inside when two large policemen suddenly appear from behind, grab my companion by the shoulders and pull her backwards. “You are under arrest”. I turn in shock and follow them back towards the van. I stand back a little watching the scene before approaching my companion and asking if she would like me to accompany her. Then I turn to the policemen and say in quiet disbelief, ‘You can’t do this!”

I am immediately surrounded by policemen. Two large men grab me, one on either arm with enough force to make me stumble. That same phrase, “You are under arrest”, and I am pushed towards the back of the van.

One Aboriginal man is spread out on the floor of the van. I don’t see him at first in the dark enclosed interior. It is my foot touching something soft that makes me look down. Another man is sitting hunched beside us on the little side bench. We look through the grill to the world outside as we are driven along the streets of Alice Springs to the jail. I phone my husband, back in Brisbane, to alert him to the course of events, and tell him I will call again when I know what is happening.

At the jail we are taken out of the van one person at a time and led to the front desk. I am first and the others are kept inside the back of the van.

At the front desk I try to engage with the policemen there, explaining that I am in Alice Springs to do an art exhibition as part of the Commonwealth Games Festival events, telling them I am a visitor to town, suggesting amicably, when they don’t respond, that they might even feature in the show. But there is no way past the wall that now stands between us – the arrested and the enforcers of the law.

There is one officer who seems less certain of the procedures. He says in a moment when no one else is around, “I don’t know what you are doing here. You seem like a nice person”. Though this is meant, I am sure, as a gesture of support, I am a bit disturbed by the implications of how others in the jail are being perceived. I imagine, after all, that most people in this jail are in fact nice people.

I am frisked, and all my possessions are taken away. My shoes are removed and I am left vulnerably barefoot. I am given a green towelling blanket, a heavy-duty sheet and a foam mattress. I am walked down the corridor to the cell.

Walking down the corridor, I ask for a phone to call my husband. “Later”, I am told. “I thought it was my right to have a phone call”, I say. “No”, comes the reply. “But they have that right on the telly”, I say with an attempt at a friendly smile. Silence.

I ask how long I can be locked up for without a charge. “There is no ruling”, comes the reply. “It just depends on the circumstances and how busy we are”. “But there’s a limit on the telly?”, I suggest, pushing my luck at humour again. Silence.

I say I would like to make a complaint to someone. Silence.

I put my foam mattress on the moulded concrete bench that runs down one side of the cell and carefully place my folded sheet and blanket on top. I sit on the cool bare concrete beside my mattress as the key is turned in the lock. I look up at the averted eyes of the person who is turning the key.

It is about half an hour before I am joined in the cell by my companion. We can hear the distressed calls of the Aboriginal women through the wall. There are just two of us in our cell. Next door there must be about fifteen.

Inside the cell, grey concrete benches are moulded into the floor and walls. A large black number 6 is painted on the wall above one bench. At the end of the other, a narrow, waist-height stainless steel partition marginally conceals the stainless steel toilet, and above the toilet, a water fountain on the wall, which from my visual memory could only be reached by leaning across the toilet. I can’t bring myself to use the toilet and sit uncomfortably on the bench.

I ask my companion if she would like to learn some Scottish songs. She smiles and we sing together for a good few hours – Will ye Go Lassie Go, Mo Ghile Mear, Banks of Loch Lomond – I can only remember the really well-trodden songs. My brain is numb to anything that hasn’t been with me a long while and I can’t seem to retrieve the words of other songs. My companion then teaches me an Arrarnta song.

Every now and then a policeman looks in. My companion and I pull out Bob Dylan’s Blowing in the Wind and, by this time, it is with some defiance that we sing.

Our voices sail out into the space, mixing with the calls and cries from along the corridor, briefly glancing off the ears of the occasional officer that passes by our way.

I feel homesick. These words leave my mouth so thin that they evaporate as soon as they touch the air. But inside of me they are 3-dimensional, full of bulk and weight and taking a form that presses outwards on my rib cage, squeezing against my throat.

We are brought some food and water that we pick at and leave. I ask again if it is not the law that I should be allowed a call. “Not until you are charged”, they say.

It is now 5 hours since I phoned my husband in Brisbane from the back of the van. I think of him, sitting there in the night, wondering what is happening. Finally the policeman who showed some humanity earlier in the evening arrives with a phone for me, and a message, “Be quick. I’m not supposed to do this”.

It must be about midnight, the first time I am called out of the cell. It is not explained why I am being called. I am sat beside an officer with a notepad and pencil. He asks me what happened. I don’t know if this is my statement or a complaint, or what really, but I tell him what happened and he writes it down. At the end he asks if I will sign it. I don’t know the implications of signing it or what difference it might make and say it concerns me to sign it. “Why am I signing?” I ask. He says I don’t have to sign. I say I won’t bother. I feel vulnerable, uninformed, tired and unsure. I am sent back to my cell. Is that my complaint dismissed? I don’t know.

It is 1.51am before I am taken to be charged – about seven hours after our arrest. I am hungry and tired. My companion left the cell an hour ago and I have been here on my own, not knowing what is happening.

At the front desk again, I am taken to a booth and photographed from all angles, all my fingerprints are taken and the palms prints of my hands, over and over again as the machine doesn’t seem to be doing its job properly, until I feel exasperated. I feel I am already a criminal. “Why do you need my fingerprints?” I ask. “I haven’t done anything!”

I am taken to the desk to give my statement and I launch into an account of the evening. But I am immediately stopped. “Just three lines I am told”. I pause and stare into some middle distance. “I was only trying to check that my friends were OK”

I am issued with a bail statement. $500 if I don’t turn up in court on Monday morning at 9am. I look at these men in silent wonder. Are we from completely different planets!? If I hadn’t been so tired I think I could be almost fascinated by them and the workings of their brains.

It is 2.30am when I am released into the dark and empty streets of Alice Springs, the crime capital of Australia where one is told not to walk alone at night. My companions appear from the shadows across the street as I exit the hot, bright lights of the station through the sliding glass door. It is just as well. I do not know where I am and could not find my way home.

The policeman who showed a little humanity during the evening had said they would drive us home except they are not allowed to. At least the thought did cross his mind.

As we walk home I am too tired to feel much but my mind wanders with the Aboriginal people of Alice Springs against whom there is clearly an underlying prejudice; who might have no support on the outside; who do not understand the system; many of whom do not speak English as their first language; and whose starting point as they face the jail is one of dispossession and displacement and generations of disempowerment and fear that has led them to this place where the oppression is repeated. More of their stories will follow in this blog.

I believe my jail story illustrates an overzealous approach to arrest and detention by the Northern Territory police, when it comes to matters relating to the Aboriginal population.

It is for this reason that The Northern Territory Police are included internationally in the Grounded exhibition, and on my blog and Facebook page. I thank them for this opportunity. They have provided material to raise a debate on whether perhaps the Aboriginal people of Alice Springs are being locked up without justification. I am putting this out there now in the hope this story is picked up and carried.

Next I will post the story of events in court. In the meantime, please do take the time to look at some articles I have linked to below.

(Articles relating to the wonderful music event and a chance to listen to some Australian Aboriginal singers are also added as links on the Digital Resources, Australia page of the blog).

Australia is Still Fighting a Land War and it is the Country’s Great Divide Article by Ali Cobby Eckermann, Artist in Residence at University of Sydney in The Conversation

Ten dark secrets Australia doesn’t want you to know Buzzfeed article

Central Australian Aboriginal Legal Aid Service report

Megan Forward is the talented artist who did the prison illustration. Check out her web site here.