Thursday, December 11, 2008
Luke Gets Out, But........
The first thing that I did was stake out a corner of the police station waiting area to use as an “office.” Then I took out my trusty cell phone and went to work. I first called Luke’s parents. On the fourth try, after getting their answering machine three times, Luke’s mother answered. I told her who I was and why I was calling, at which point she excused herself and gave the phone to her husband. I explained the situation to Luke’s father, that he was terribly scared, that I suspected that he suffered from bipolar depression, that the stress of jail could do long-term damage to his brain, that depression is treatable, and that I thought that it would be best if Luke’s parents could come over and bail him out.
Luke’s father flatly refused.
“There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s not crazy, he’s turning into a drug addict, and I’m not having any drug addicts in my house. Let him spend the night in jail. Maybe that will teach him a good lesson.”
I tried to explain that, if Luke did indeed suffer from depression, that it was simply not possible to “teach him a lesson” in this way, that he was quite possibly self-medicating, and that he needed treatment, not punishment. But the man would have none of it, and refused to come down to the police station.
My next thought was that I should call a lawyer. However, I didn’t know any lawyers, so I tried the next best thing. I called Bernie. After all, she was a detective for the state police. She would know what I should do.
Bernie’s first suggestion was to call a lawyer. And, being a police detective, she knew some good lawyers. However, when I told her that Luke’s parents were not interested in bailing him out that night, Bernie decided that it would be better if she drove over and handled the situation in person.
Bernie arrived in record time. Colette only had time to pace the room and call Luke's father a “mean bastard” 57 times. Bernie was allowed to talk to Luke for a few minutes to see how the boy was coming along, and then talked to the desk officer at length. However, there was still no way that the boy could be released without a parent present. So Bernie came out and said, “Let's go talk to Luke's parents.”
When we arrived there, the house was dark. We rang the bell a couple of times, but, to no one's surprise, there was no answer. Colette began shouting obscenities at the door, but I quickly quited her. Even though the man might be a mean bastard, one should still show some decorum, I admonished her. Fortunately, having police training, Bernie knew the proper technique to compel someone to open the door when they were not inclined to do so. She pounded on the door with her fist and shouted “Police officer! Please open the door!” until Luke's parents appeared.
When the door opened, Bernie showed her badge. “May we come in?” Bernie asked as she barged into the house. Colette and I followed her in. Colette started to say something to Luke's father, but I shot her a dark look, and she chose to be silent. Bernie strode into the middle of the room and began to speak.
“I'm from the state police, and I'm investigating your son's case. I just interrogated Luke. He was almost incoherent. His speech was slurred, he could barely keep his head up, his pupils were dilated, and he was sweating profusely. His breathing was shallow, and, judging by the veins in his neck, his heart rate was accelerated. He was in shock. I think that something was in that dope that he was smoking.”
“Serves him right,” replied his father. His mother looked shocked, but did not say anything.
“Excuse me?” responded Bernie. “Did you plant those drugs in Luke's bedroom? Or did you spike his stash so that he'd get sick?”
Luke's father's face took on a look of outrage, and he started to say something, but Bernie cut him off. “If you planted those drugs, not only are you guilty of possession, you're guilty of supplying drugs to a minor. That gets you ten years in this state.”
“I'd never plant drugs in my son's room!” hollered the father. “What kind of father do you think that I am?”
I quietly answered that one. “The kind that sends his sick son to jail and won't bail home out.”
A sudden quiet engulfed the room. After a long silence, Luke's mother started to walk away. “Where are you going?” asked Luke's father.
“To get our son, you fucking jerk,” replied his mom.
Five minutes later, Luke's parents were driving to the police station, and we were following them. During the drive, I mentioned to Bernie, “I didn't notice any of those symptoms in Luke.”
“Of course you didn't,” replied Bernie. “You're not a trained detective like I am.”
To which Colette replied, “Bullshit.” Colette is such a sweet girl at times. “You lied your ass off. And you did it very well. Thank-you.”
“You're welcome,” responded Bernie. “I love doing things like that.”
So Luke was bailed out and went home with his parents. I reiterated my fears that Luke was suffering from a mental illness to them. Despite some skepticism from his mother and outright denial from his father, they promised to have him examined by their doctor and obtain a referral to a psychiatrist.
This sounded like a happy, or at least promising ending. Such was not the case, as I shall explain in my next entry.
Luke’s father flatly refused.
“There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s not crazy, he’s turning into a drug addict, and I’m not having any drug addicts in my house. Let him spend the night in jail. Maybe that will teach him a good lesson.”
I tried to explain that, if Luke did indeed suffer from depression, that it was simply not possible to “teach him a lesson” in this way, that he was quite possibly self-medicating, and that he needed treatment, not punishment. But the man would have none of it, and refused to come down to the police station.
My next thought was that I should call a lawyer. However, I didn’t know any lawyers, so I tried the next best thing. I called Bernie. After all, she was a detective for the state police. She would know what I should do.
Bernie’s first suggestion was to call a lawyer. And, being a police detective, she knew some good lawyers. However, when I told her that Luke’s parents were not interested in bailing him out that night, Bernie decided that it would be better if she drove over and handled the situation in person.
Bernie arrived in record time. Colette only had time to pace the room and call Luke's father a “mean bastard” 57 times. Bernie was allowed to talk to Luke for a few minutes to see how the boy was coming along, and then talked to the desk officer at length. However, there was still no way that the boy could be released without a parent present. So Bernie came out and said, “Let's go talk to Luke's parents.”
When we arrived there, the house was dark. We rang the bell a couple of times, but, to no one's surprise, there was no answer. Colette began shouting obscenities at the door, but I quickly quited her. Even though the man might be a mean bastard, one should still show some decorum, I admonished her. Fortunately, having police training, Bernie knew the proper technique to compel someone to open the door when they were not inclined to do so. She pounded on the door with her fist and shouted “Police officer! Please open the door!” until Luke's parents appeared.
When the door opened, Bernie showed her badge. “May we come in?” Bernie asked as she barged into the house. Colette and I followed her in. Colette started to say something to Luke's father, but I shot her a dark look, and she chose to be silent. Bernie strode into the middle of the room and began to speak.
“I'm from the state police, and I'm investigating your son's case. I just interrogated Luke. He was almost incoherent. His speech was slurred, he could barely keep his head up, his pupils were dilated, and he was sweating profusely. His breathing was shallow, and, judging by the veins in his neck, his heart rate was accelerated. He was in shock. I think that something was in that dope that he was smoking.”
“Serves him right,” replied his father. His mother looked shocked, but did not say anything.
“Excuse me?” responded Bernie. “Did you plant those drugs in Luke's bedroom? Or did you spike his stash so that he'd get sick?”
Luke's father's face took on a look of outrage, and he started to say something, but Bernie cut him off. “If you planted those drugs, not only are you guilty of possession, you're guilty of supplying drugs to a minor. That gets you ten years in this state.”
“I'd never plant drugs in my son's room!” hollered the father. “What kind of father do you think that I am?”
I quietly answered that one. “The kind that sends his sick son to jail and won't bail home out.”
A sudden quiet engulfed the room. After a long silence, Luke's mother started to walk away. “Where are you going?” asked Luke's father.
“To get our son, you fucking jerk,” replied his mom.
Five minutes later, Luke's parents were driving to the police station, and we were following them. During the drive, I mentioned to Bernie, “I didn't notice any of those symptoms in Luke.”
“Of course you didn't,” replied Bernie. “You're not a trained detective like I am.”
To which Colette replied, “Bullshit.” Colette is such a sweet girl at times. “You lied your ass off. And you did it very well. Thank-you.”
“You're welcome,” responded Bernie. “I love doing things like that.”
So Luke was bailed out and went home with his parents. I reiterated my fears that Luke was suffering from a mental illness to them. Despite some skepticism from his mother and outright denial from his father, they promised to have him examined by their doctor and obtain a referral to a psychiatrist.
This sounded like a happy, or at least promising ending. Such was not the case, as I shall explain in my next entry.
