Do not pass go
It was a
stag-do, mates celebrating the passage of one of their number to marital bliss.
We were having a good time in a bar in a Spanish village until someone pushed
me on his way to the exit.
I went
outside to remonstrate with him, one thing led to another, and I lamped him one.
He went down twitching like a cow in a slaughterhouse.
“We’ll
call it quits and just forget it now, shall we?” I said.
He
nodded agreement, which was wise, as his nose was fountaining blood, and he
didn’t look in any condition to fight on.
I turned
to go, but I couldn’t, because a Spanish copper was blocking my
way. He was a big fucker, built like the Rock of Gibraltar.
He stuck
his hand on my chest.
“Where
are you going?” He asked.
I tried
to slip past him but he was too quick for me. He grabbed my arm and frogmarched
me to a waiting car where his grinning partner was smoking a cigarette.
He
cuffed me with my arms behind my back, threw me onto the back seat, and got in
the passenger side at the front. His partner threw the cigarette out the window
and started the car.
I thought they were taking me to the local Nick, but they had other plans.
They
took me on a drive up a mountain. The road we were on twisted so much that by
the time the car stopped I hadn’t a clue where I was.
But I
knew it wasn’t a Nick.
It was a
patch of scrub at the side of a deserted road.
One of
them grabbed me and pulled me from the car.
He went
through my pockets, took my wallet, and removed all my cash – about two hundred
Euros. That’s a lot of wedge.
“Hey,” I
said, “what are you doing? That’s my money.”
He
grinned and gave half to his partner. They both pocketed it.
“Give me
your passport,” he said.
“I don’t
have it.”
“Where
is it?”
I got
the feeling that giving them my passport would be the worst thing I could do, as
I’d have problems leaving the country, so I shook my head.
He drew
out his baton and clubbed me on the shoulder. God, that was painful. It might’ve
been the blow which broke my collarbone.
I shook
my head again, and he clubbed me again, this time on the legs. It hurt so much
I fell to the floor, and that’s when they both started beating on me.
I cried
out for help but there was no-one around to hear me, and anyway, who was going
to intervene when what passed for the law in that part of Spain was meting out
summary justice?
The
beating seemed to go on forever. They bludgeoned me on my back, head, arms, and
legs.
By the
time they’d finished, I was one big bruise.
Eventually
they decided I’d had enough, put their batons away, took the cuffs off me, got
in their car, and drove away..
I just
lay on the ground groaning, semi-conscious at best.
In the
fading light of the setting sun I got to my feet and staggered like Bambi on
ice. I hadn’t had much to drink but was as unstable as a barfly at the end of a
serious bender. That’s how dazed I was. Concussed, probably.
I didn’t
know where I was or what I should do.
Somehow
I worked out that if I followed the road back down the mountain, I’d probably
end up at the village I’d been in, or somewhere near it, so I set off.
From
higher up the mountain I heard a noise which cheered me up a bit.
It was a
car.
I could flag
it down and get myself a lift back to civilisation. I stuck out my thumb.
Couldn’t see the car because it was round a blind corner, but I could hear it.
When it
came into view I realised it was a police car. Thank God, the police could help
me.
Except,
it wasn’t just any police car, it was the police car being driven by the two
thugs who’d just beaten me to a pulp.
I put my
thumb down and looked for a way out of there, but of course there was none.
Just the mountain road going up one side of me and down the other side of me.
The car
pulled up and the two bent coppers climbed out of it. They cuffed me, shoved me
to the ground, took out their batons and gave me a pasting at least as bad as
the one they’d already dished out.
When
they’d done beating on me they threw me in their car and headed on down the
mountain. Every bump we went over and every breath I took hurt like hell.
“Passport!”
One of them said.
I
ignored him.
They pulled
up outside a hospital. I guessed they might have been worried they’d done too
good a job on me and needed to get me patched up a little.
The
medics couldn’t believe it when they saw me. They took some photos. The
bruising on the pictures they got was horrific. A doctor told me I could use
them as evidence to sue the police. He must’ve been naïve.
Apart
from the bruises, I was lucky. I had concussion, a broken collarbone, and a
couple of busted ribs. It could’ve been a lot worse.
The
coppers made sure that after I’d been treated, I was cuffed to my hospital bed with a
hood on which covered my face so I couldn't see. Just to taunt me, they took off the hood and shaved my head before
putting the hood back on.
After an
overnighter in the hospital I was discharged back into the care of my captors.
They bundled me into the back of their car and took me to their Nick at long
last. Told me to sign some forms which were in Spanish, which I didn’t
understand, and there was no interpreter present to explain them to me..
When I
refused, one of them raised his baton threateningly, so I quickly put my signature to it.
I couldn’t
be sure, but I guessed what I signed might be a confession to numerous offences
including assaulting police officers and resisting arrest.
They
took away my shoes and threw me in a dirty, insect-ridden cell.
It had a
wooden bench set in the wall. I was scared shitless, but grateful for the
chance to lie down without being beaten or having my head shaved.
When I’d
been lying there for some time, they grabbed me, hauled me to their car, and
drove me to another Nick in another town.
At first
I didn’t know what was going on – then I worked it out: they wanted to make
sure my mates wouldn’t know where I was, and wouldn’t be able to help me.
During
the course of the next couple of days, they took me to five different Nicks. I
had no visitors and wasn’t given any chance to speak to a lawyer.
Whenever
I asked to go to the toilet they gave me a bucket, watched me, and laughed.
Occasionally
they’d wave my own money in front of me.
On day
three I was told to get myself looking smart as I was going to court. That was
a big ask since my clothes were bloodied and torn and I had no shoes.
They
took me to court in that state, and at last – at the very last minute, in fact,
in front of the Judge – I was given
access to an English-speaking lawyer.
She read
out my charge sheet, which, as I expected, stated that I had seriously
assaulted two police officers in the course of carrying out their legitimate
duties; and that I’d resisted arrest. It seemed I’d also damaged some property and
stolen goods from a small shop.
“I’m not
guilty,” I said. “I didn’t do any of this.”
“Sshh,”
she said, nodding towards the other side of the courtroom, “keep your voice
down. They’re over there. They can hear you.”
Sure enough,
the coppers were nearby, eavesdropping on us.
“I’m
innocent. Why should I be bothered?”
“Because
if you say you’re innocent, you'll make them mad. And there will be a trial. You’ll be put back in police
custody until the trial and there’s no telling what they’ll do to you.”
I
lowered my voice.
“Can’t
we go somewhere private to talk?”
“No,
this is the best we can do.”
“So
what’re you saying? That I can’t plead that I’m innocent?”
“That’s
precisely what I’m saying. You have to plead guilty. If you do, I might be able
to get you off with a fine and you’ll be able to walk out of here. If you plead
innocence you’ll be locked up for at least a month pending your trial, and
anything could happen in that month. You might not be in any condition to
attend your trial at the end of it. I know; I’ve seen it happen.”
I
pleaded guilty. The two bent coppers were grinning like hyenas when I did.
My
lawyer did a great job of telling the judge I ought to be allowed to walk free
with just a fine. At least, I think she did.
Trouble
was, she miscalculated.
I got a custodial
sentence.
That’s right,
I got locked up – by the same two grinning coppers who’d worked me over.
That
Spanish lawyer I mentioned let me have a pen and a piece of paper; which I managed
to smuggle into my cell. That’s how I’m writing this account of the injustice I’ve
had to endure.
I can
hear them coming.
These
might be my last words.
Whoever
you are, if you get this message, my name is Jason Cross and I’m from
Huddersfield, in England. Please get word out to my mum and dad, or anyone else who
might be able to help me..
Please.
Before
it’s too late.
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