Welcome to the
Crime & Punishment 2024 Story Event
. Note: my story this year is in the Gay Male category. It's a stand-alone police procedural story, but for fans of the characters, this story takes place shortly after Sex Swing Shenanigans (which has much more sex in it!). See end notes for more info.
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Interviewed about Indecency
We cut through some side streets on our way home from east London. "That renovation you're leading on is round here, isn't it? How's it doing?"
It's Dan's first role as site manager. Once he got his architectural-related degree, and more importantly, the confidence that came with it, his career rose fast: from technical drawing and odd bits of materials-ordering, to being in charge of increasing amounts of building restoration projects and change-of-use schemes. This one's an old factory, being turned into yet more posh flats. Sorry, 'apartments'. At least under Dan and colleagues, they'll be solid and practical.
Dan's solid and practical too. Tall, lean, short blond curls, cheeky grin. My rock.
"The project's going well," he says. "The façade of the building held up, even after the interior was demolished. And the new shell's nearly had the first fix done."
Dan leads me down a narrow street with Victorian red-brick warehouses on each side, then a cobbled alleyway between two of them. There's clapboard hoardings in front of the factory railings. He rummages in his coat pocket, holds up a bunch of keys. "Wanna come see?"
We give ourselves a tour. It looks great. I check some details from my field of expertise; he promises to ensure it's all good. As we put our hard hats back in the lockers, I'm so proud of him. He deserves a reward.
Once we're outside in the alley, all in shadow because the sun's now behind the buildings, and Dan's locking the site up again, I tell him that.
He knows how I like rewarding him, since the day we first met. He'd responded to an ad, to find a small sandy-haired Irish guy - that's me - who passed him a beer; I was on the floor, sucking him off, within a minute. Only today, Dan's convinced that actually I've been the one supporting his career all this time, so today it's him who drops to his knees and insists on doing the honours.
I've learned to resist many things in my life, but my man with his hand on my cock? I've never even tried!
It turns out, that wasn't such a great idea.
_____
"You're nicked, mate." So much for our privacy.
"Run," I tell Dan. It's only two police who've magically appeared, so I act all obliging and helpful, letting one handcuff me, but 'accidentally' trip up the other cop before he can give chase. The plod comes back from the entrance to the alleyway, having lost Dan already. Result. He glares at me, but just recites the caution and puts his hand on my head to shove me into the back of their car. We drive to their nick - police station - in silence.
After the routine photoshoot - much more high-tech than in my day - and the now-routine biometrics - which is all new to me, with the fingerprint scanner as well as DNA swabbing - my charm is rewarded. They let me make the phone call myself, to arrange for a brief. A lawyer, for those of you who don't follow UK cop shows.
"Sam? Hi. All right, big man? Good, good. Me? Ah. Sorry to bother you on a Saturday night, but I've been arrested and need a brief." I turn to the sergeant. "What was it you're doing me for?" Back to Sam, I tell him, "'Indecent exposure', and 'outraging public indecency'. Aye. Sex in public, basically.
Allegedly
. You'll send someone? Grand. Can you call Dan and let him know you're on it? Thanks, mate. I owe you one."
Sam comments drily in my ear. I chuckle, causing the custody sergeant to raise an eyebrow. "I very much hope I'll be back in the office by Monday morning! Sure. I'll go see if I can get some kip before the Saturday night regulars turn up. Ta."
I hang up and pass the phone back. "Was that your boss?" the guy asks.
"Aye, Sam. Owns the company. He's a good man. He's always said, if any of us get into any bother, call him - he knows good lawyers. So now, I guess we wait. Where do you want me?"
Being polite and friendly to custody sergeants is always vital if you want a reasonably comfortable cell lock-up experience. They'll give you a paperback to read, extra blanket, double up other prisoners first, that kind of thing. And let you out promptly for a piss, which believe you me makes things much more civilised than when they don't! It's much easier to convince them to give you leeway when you can sound middle-class and sober. Especially the sober, I'm finding. I've never done that part before.
"Number two, please, sir, once you give me your belt and shoelaces."
"Really?" Tedious.
"Really, sir. I'm sure you're low risk, but if you want to keep the shoes then I want the laces." I know from experience I don't want cold feet. I've passed him my belt already, so I oblige and give him them. "Thank you. Adding them to your other possessions. Books there, if you want. It may be a few hours until your brief shows up, though I could get the duty one to pop down? May be quicker."
"Please." It'll be someone to talk to. I grab a Stephen King sans cover. Though once I'm banged up - the modern cell is reasonably clean, smells only of disinfectant, even has a toilet, though no bog roll - I just lie on the plinth on the crap thin cushion, under the blanket. It's relaxing, in a way. Same old institutional cream paint from when I got nicked a lot when I was younger; more cheerful new blue doors.
I'm almost nostalgic. I don't know how many times I've been arrested. A couple dozen, for sure. Maybe twice that? But none since I got properly together with Diane. Twenty years ago, the last time, probably. What can I say? I had a drug and alcohol problem, the problem being not enough of either of them. Thus getting into misunderstandings and fights and being beaten up and everything else that goes with that.
At least I've given up smoking, a good ten years back now. At the end of the Nineties, when various police forces decided to ban smoking in cells, it made all the arrests after that truly hellish. But it was encouraged in the interview rooms, still. More for the filth's safety than for being kind to the prisoner! I bet even that's not allowed, now.
It feels like I've just dozed off, when the custody sergeant bangs on the door, then opens it.
"It's your lucky day, mate. Not one, but two briefs have turned up! You decide which one you want."
I blink, sit up, and straighten my clothes. A small Asian guy with little beard, and a round white woman with hair a bright red not found in nature, both enter the cell.
"Adrian Cullinane?" the woman asks.
"Aye, that's me. Pleased to meet you. I would give you my business card, but the chap out there has them."
The young chap interrupts. "I'm Kamran Shokar, tonight's duty solicitor. I was asked to come to you after my previous client. But it turned out that Tanya was also coming down to see you."
"Hello." She puts out her hand. "Tanya Jeffries, of DPK Legal. Your manager Sam called us. Actually, my friend Gareth Davies also called me, so I could reassure him I was already on my way."
Oh, ye gods, how did sodding
Gareth
find out? Gareth's one of my best mates from uni, stuck by me through everything for thirty years now. He's a lawyer. But he lives in Manchester. More importantly, he's the biggest fucking gossip this side of the Irish Sea. No, the Atlantic...
"Gareth? How did he know I needed a brief?"
"Daniel..." She's got the name written down.
Dan. Of course. He'd have panicked, wanted to ensure I got a good lawyer, would call Gareth. Hopefully he
also
told Gareth what would happen to his balls, if he spread this about...
"Ah, right. Yes, Dan would have. And I called Sam. Looks like your firm is the go-to for such cases, then." She grins, presumably knowing they're the top criminal defenders around.
The duty brief guy looks between us. "Right, are you saying you don't need me, then?"
Poor lad, he's intimidated. Which is the opposite of what I need. "I need a good brief. Which of you has more experience at defending public indecency?"
"Her. Definitely her!"
She smiles. "I might do more sex-criminal defence than anyone else in the country. No, that's not 'getting rapists off', thank you. Ensuring everyone has an appropriate defence, based on the facts, is my job. The odd bit of defence of kinksters - I work with Kashminder Singh. Lots of doggers, not as in private as they hoped - or more arrested, rather." Dogging seems to be trendy nowadays - having sex in vehicles in the woods, for other people to watch. Never seen the attraction, myself.
"Right, thanks for coming down," I tell Shokar, "but I'll let you get on to your next client." I shake his hand - I may need him later.
"So," Tanya coos, taking a seat on the plinth and getting out an iPad, "let's chat here rather than waiting for a custody room. Tell me what happened."
I take a deep breath.
"I've not been arrested in twenty years," I tell her. "Before that, I've got a long rap sheet of drunk-and-disorderly, breach of the peace... Simple drunk, disorderly behaviour: three months suspended sentence."
"That was in Northern Ireland?" Those last two offences don't exist in England, so she can tell. Also, my accent makes it pretty obvious where I grew up, still. "Were you over eighteen by then?" Juvenile records have to be ignored when looking at your history. Mostly.
"Aye. If you add the under-eighteen, well. Height of the Troubles; my family were...
known
to the police. A few uncles claimed to be in the IRA; I don't know how much of that was bollocks. Me, I got lifted regularly. Common assault, vandalism, disorderly. All sorts of stuff that was their word against mine, nothing very interesting."
"Fine. Once you were of age, then? And over here, by the looks of it." She studies her paperwork. "A bunch of D&D, assault, breach of the peace, possession.
More
possession. Arrests for intent to supply, no charges, so basically possession of large quantities." She stares at me, not voicing her question, which is 'Could you have been any more obvious you had a fucking huge drug and booze addiction?'
"Ah, aye. My twenties weren't good. I lost half a dozen jobs thanks to the drink. And the rest. But, and you'll note this, from age twenty-eight, there's nothing."
"Yes. The last is one common assault, for which you were bound over for six months." Basically, I had to be a good boy or else.
"Don't get wasted and ask a cop to phone a taxi for you, and trip over onto them, in other words."
