After the last day of school, I left my name at one of the community’s police stations. We will be here until the end of July and I have time to put in a few shifts as a guard.
On the first night, I was surrounded by five detainees in various states of inebriation.
I can answer questions, pass out blankets and pillows (through a slot), turn lights on and off, and provide coffee in the morning.
Other than that, my hands are cuffed.
“Hey, lady, can you call my girlfriend for me and tell her where I am.” – No (no phone calls as the detainee might ask to have evidence hidden, or threaten someone to drop charges).
“I want to call my lawyer. I have rights!” – No (must have permission from a constable before handing over the phone).
“Can you get me my wallet?” – No (there could be drugs or such in it).
After many questions and requests, I developed, what I considered, an authoritative, strong voice. I only faltered once when I passed a phone to a detainee. I rattled off the procedure and instructions as per the constable on duty. Only the detainee kept staring at the phone.
“Aren’t you going use it?” I asked.
“It’s not a phone,” he said. “It’s a remote.”
I had been flipping channels a few moments ago. I quickly made a switch.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Guard, just call me guard.”