Derek Went Mad
by Wrongtom
Derek Went Mad
A few weeks back I guested on the debut episode of Anne Frankenstein and DJ Eops’ What Goes Around podcast. Charged with choosing 3 tracks which soundtracked significant moments in my life, I opted for a theme of police harassment, because that’s the kind of good-times guy I am.
It was actually a lot of fun. As you might be aware, I can be a bit of a clown, and even when tackling tough issues I err to the jocular side of things. The response was a surprise. Journalist Louis Barfe described how he was left howling with laughter, in turn I chuckled at the idea of my tales of wrongful arrest getting a mention in, of all places, The Lady.
There’s a problem here though. Even whilst we were laughing in the studio, I knew this was mainly funny because it was me, I’m no badman, and most of it happened in the “sleepy” suburbs of SW London. It seems laughable as I type, even having been through it, but the truth is, at the time I was miserable. It went on for over a decade. It was rare I could go out without being pulled over for absolutely no reason. Sometimes searched. Often accused of things I hadn’t done and, on occasion, detained.
George Floyd’s murder made me think back once again over minute details of these encounters, considering what might have happened had I been black. I’ve been in that position we all witnessed in the video. Not with a knee to my neck, but flat on my face on the floor, handcuffed and pinned down.
One particular incident sprang to mind. I wasn’t in any danger but, well, here’s the story…
Spring 1995. It was a Wednesday. I know this because I was heading to The Blue Note on Hoxton Square where they had their weekly jam session. I was a regular and had been lucky enough to join in, patting the congas with some of the greats of the UK jazz and funk scene of the time. Chesney Hawkes showed up once but just stood at the side of the stage, sheepishly holding his guitar. He never joined in. One especially memorable session was graced by Roy Ayers’ sax cohort Ray Gaskins who led us in a version of ‘We Live In Brooklyn Baby’ in which he improvised “we live in London baby, we shop in Tesco baby…”
On this particular night I’d invited members of my own funk band Three Bean Salad, and we were en route in my brand new (second hand) Mini Metro which I’d bought off a nice old lady in Twickenham earlier that day.
Remember the Ring Of Steel? The glass shelters where the police stood are all that remains of the guarded spots as you enter the City Of London now. This was barely 2 years since the Bishopsgate bombing, and the police were still “randomly” stopping and searching cars entering the City. Of course I was pulled over.
“Is this your car son?”
“Yes officer”
“What’s the registration number?”
I was stumped. I’d only just bought it that day. How was I expected to remember it?
That was enough. They ran the plate and it was still registered to the lady in Twickenham. They didn’t buy my story. Next thing I knew I was in cuffs and on my way to the station in Hackney.
It was a busy night.
“Normally you’re entitled to your own cell” one cop scoffed “but this is Hackney, and we’re all full up!” He ushered me towards an imposing door and opened it with a sadistic glint in his eye. I think this was my second time in a police cell. A fresh-faced kid hanging on to his teens, still pretty naive to the world. I knew I’d done nothing wrong but the way I’d been treated so far didn’t reassure me that I’d be getting out in a hurry. They made me feel like dirt.
Inside, the cell was dark, the only light was coming through a mercilessly small window in the door. A man sat on the bench opposite. He was black, short dreads, he smiled and asked “what did you do?”
“They think I stole my car”
He laughed “have a seat mate.”
His name was Derek. He’d recently been released after a short stint in prison — I forget what for but I think it was minor — his daughter had been off school ill, and he was on his way to Blockbuster to rent her a film. He was accosted by the police claiming he fitted the bill of someone who’d robbed a shop. When they ran his ID, they said he was still wanted for the crime he’d just served time for, and arrested him again.
I don’t pretend to understand how this works, and the details are a little blurry 25 years on. All I know is he was waiting to hear if he was going to stand trial and go back to prison. Some of you might think he was spinning a yarn but everything else about him seemed genuine.
Derek was a builder by day. A junglist by night. We chatted for a while about music, especially Shut UP & Dance. He wasn’t that fussed when I got onto funk but we met in the middle over hip hop, both of us KRS1 fans.
At a lull in the conversation I looked down. “Where are your shoes?”
Derek laughed again, a desperate one this time. Before I showed up he’d been trying to get someone’s attention. They wouldn’t have it that he was innocent, ignoring his pleas. He’d shouted the place down til his throat was raw, kicking the door over and over til he heard the jingle of keys outside.
Four officers burst in and pinned him against the wall, a fifth took his shoes and socks.
And there we were, two guys, both wrongfully arrested. One of us knew he was getting out that night, the other barefoot and brutalised.
The lady in Twickenham got a call from the police, and then my dad. He wound up having to call her. The poor woman was bewildered, convinced she’d sold her car for a bank job or something. Worse, we were on our way to a jazz-funk jam session.
I was free. I wished Derek the best of luck, told the police they’d made a mistake, I was mocked, first by the police, and then again by my mates who’d been waiting outside. Back at the car we’d missed the club night. I was relieved. Jamming out a version of ‘Expansions’ was the last thing I wanted to do as I sat there feeling humiliated, angry and helpless, thinking about Derek still locked up.
As I started the car I looked to my right and noticed something printed on the window just near the lock. It was the car’s registration number.
And cue Curb Your Enthusiasm theme music…
Over the course of the following decade or so I lost count of how many times I was pulled over, sometimes more than once in a day. I’ve heard them all from “you look like you’re on drugs” (I wasn’t), to “…I don’t know, four guys driving around at night with hats on, who knows what you’re up to.” One officer admitted he’d pulled me over because they’d checked my reg and noticed I’d been pulled over twice that week. I’ve been chased, on foot and in my car, rugby tackled, bent over a car bonnet, humiliated and emasculated. I know this doesn’t represent the entire police force by the way, but this will be a familiar story to many.
I tell you all this, not for sympathy but because I figure most of you have been lucky enough to have avoided being in George Floyd’s position, or Derek’s position, or even my comparatively privileged position. I don’t pretend to know what it’s like to be singled out because of my skin colour, to be frightened for my life because of it. I’m sure that by ratio of these incidents and the way some of them escalated, if I was black, and especially if I was black in America, I wouldn’t be telling you any of this today. To cut a long story short…
BLACK LIVES MATTER
P.S. If you’re looking for new music AND fancy donating to the cause then look no further than RTJ4, proceeds go to the National Lawyers Guild Mass Defence Fund: www.runthejewels.com
