Lifting the middle finger to a terrible application of law

I’ve never been arrested before – I’ve been verbally abused, physically manhandled, warned, mocked, and endured a short-lived detention by the former security branch.

A camera around the neck or a notebook in hand usually meant you were a target for the men in uniforms – at roadblocks, on patrols, in taverns. Most times, taken aside by the men in plain clothes who never arrested you, always just the "we want to ask you some questions".

So, no arrests, but I have been a proud breaker of illegal and unjust “laws”. There were the many times we crossed the border illegally into the “independent republic of the Transkei”, the overnight stays in townships without applying for permits, the fraternising across the Immorality Act, the swims on off-limits beaches (occasionally with swimsuits off too!), the co-conspiracies with Indian friends during sorties into the then Orange Free State when they were not allowed to go there, the reading and viewing of material deemed a threat to the state, the defiance of orders not to gather or march or sit.

And, at all times, lifting – metaphorically – the middle finger to the nationalists who thought they could cow us into conforming to their ridiculous policies.

Since we raised the flag on the democratic republic in 1994, I have not once wilfully broken the law. And, my aversion to ending up in a claustrophobic cell anywhere on the planet has tempered my behaviour in every respect over time.

So, last Monday’s experience was a huge jolt.

But I was caught fairly and squarely – coming off East London’s North-east Expressway at 92 km an hour into a 60 km an hour zone.

The mental distraction which caused my eye to ignore both the speedometer and the road sign is an interesting talking point for another time – but does nothing to mitigate the criminal offence in any way.

Things got weird at the side of the NEX when the traffic officer placed his hand on my shoulder and said he was arresting me for exceeding the speed limit by more than 30km/hour. This is a new provision of national traffic regulations.

Because I was a “respectable” person, said the officer, he would not handcuff me. Instead, he sat next to me as we drove to the Fleet Street police station where I was charged.

Fleet Street – presumably like most other stations in the country – is a physical disgrace. The charge office at the front of the building no longer operates and its functions are spread across various locations in the rear of the precinct, with the holding cell offering a urine-soaked vibe and rats the size of cats.

The cops present a bizarre mix of sadist, bureaucrat and old world charmer. They’re all especially uptight that they have to deal with these “petty” traffic offences, presumably when they have better things to do. Since, there’s no one else to berate, the detainees bear the brunt of their frustrations.

The senior officer whose name I never obtained – I confess my objective on the day was not to write down all the facts for a good story – tells me gloatingly about how, in the old days, “we used to confiscate your cameras” before checking himself and saying he was just joking. Yeah, right. I suspect he would have been stationed in the former Ciskei “in the old days”.

The trick to surviving after finding yourself behind bars – especially when you believe your incarceration is both unfair and potentially illegal - is to lose the “hardegat” attitude, “see but don’t see”, speak only when spoken to and resist anything perceived as a challenge to either the formal or informal authorities. I’ve learnt that from 10 years of watching the Shawshank Redemption as part of my festive season ritual.

There were a couple of other arrested drivers ahead of me. Andre* was caught doing 94 while Sipho* was going at over a hundred.

Hours passed as we stood around, checking available cash for bail money, communicating via cellphone with loved ones and bosses and watching the local version of the Keystone Cops going about their “duties” (including searching high-and-low for receipt books to record valuables and accept bail money).

Finally, bail was agreed and we were allowed to leave.

Later, I am extremely angry – at myself primarily for getting into this situation to start off with. But also at a system that makes criminals out of ordinary, fundamentally law-abiding citizens who have had a lapse of judgment or concentration or even consciously decided to push the envelope.

A doting and responsible father, Sipho, should not have to hang back in the rear of a rat-infested holding cell, so that his 5-year-old son, also brought to the police station during the arrest, does not have an enduring image of his hero behind bars.

An unemployed builder, Andre, who gets a job a week before Christmas, should not  have to risk the opportunity to bring cheer into his home because he's in the lock-up.
But appearance in court the next day leaves even more of a bitter taste.

If we ran our spaza shops like the East London magistrate’s court, we would all be impoverished and sitting at the side of the road. There is no apparent system in operation, there is no effective communication with anybody except the barking of orders by a court orderly, there is no respect for people – who may eventually be convicted of an offence but who, until then, have not given up all their rights, including their right to human dignity and their right to know what is happening.

I get into a fight with the magistrate of Court A because I insist on knowing why he is not finalising my case instead of sending me down the passage to Court C. This is not the done thing, apparently. Court C’s magistrate allays my frustration somewhat by treating us, convicts all, with a huge measure of empathy – but much firmness. The R800 fine is firm, very firm.

Driving in the province days later, I reflected on the sobering effect of being locked up. It took me almost 4 hours of non-stop commuting to get from East London to Port Elizabeth – partly because of holiday traffic but mainly because I never once went over the designated speed limit for any stretch of the road.

From a psychological and sociological perspective, fear of consequence is part of the mix of factors that propel ordinary people to live lives of bodily and emotional integrity, and to conform to societal norms. It’s certainly an important consideration when people make rational decisions about whether or not to break the law.

But the gung-ho transport minister’s effort to enforce the speed limits on our country’s roads takes me right back to a former era when our response was to pick holes in the laws thrown at us. And smirk as we lifted our middle fingers.

That’s not in anybody’s interests today and the way to avoid it is a sensible review of the current approach which will see very many obedient and patriotic citizens behind bars.

Until a review happens, those arrested should not resist arrest but immediately thereafter approach their attorneys about bringing an action for wrongful arrest against whichever State agency participated in the action.

Buffalo City Metro would be top of my list.

* Not their real names