I make it a point not to stay late at work. Generally at 5:55 pm I’m out the door heading for my train, which runs every quarter hour. I blame it on working so many late nights and weekends in the lab during my PhD studies, while single. This night I had champagne & hors d’oeuvres in compensation for my sacrifice, so I made an exception. Fiddling around on my iphone, bored, quite tired, and annoyed not to be in the express train since they all run local after a certain time of night.
At the Noisy-le-Sec stop, just before the buzzer sounds for the doors to close, some tall dude rips the iphone out of my hands, but I keep hanging on. I say something like, “No, no, no, no…” then, “Asshole!” as I end up with the phone’s cover in my hand, frayed at one end where it’s ripped away from the part of the cover cradling the phone. Oh—and the headphone cord has been ripped clean in two as well.
My brain partially engages at this point and I realize that yelling in English on the train platform in a Parisian suburb is not going to be terribly effective. I start screaming “Voler! VOLEUR!” (thief) and continue with “Where’s security? Pull the alarm!” and whatever else I can think of to get anyone to actually help me instead of just staring in a mildly curious fashion from inside the train or hanging out of the open doors and outright gawking at the mad woman. There’s a diminutive mother, about my age and an immigrant too—just like the thief that ripped me off (and me, for that matter). She’s urging us to file a police report and convinces the second man to get off the train so he can file a report too.
In the exchange that ensues between the young woman and the other victim, I understand that there were 3 attackers who ran down onto and across the tracks to the exit. No one stopped them (in spite of me screaming my head off like a fool), but we do have plenty of onlookers until the train finally pulls away.
She calls the police, who arrive rather quickly, but stays with us and lets us call our spouses to let them know that we’d be arriving home late—and allowing them to call the phone company to have our phones blocked.
I make some comments to the officers about how this never happened to me in NYC. In Manhattan, someone would have tried to stop the thieves. I realize now that the only two “witnesses” to the crime were people getting off the train who lived in Noisy-le-sec. Considering that the train was about half full by my estimate, there were certainly more than 2 witnesses to this crime led by a gang of 3 in different cars of the train. The policeman says, “We’re 3 officers for a city of 40,000 inhabitants. We have a police force with American ambitions and African means (€)”. I remarked, “What can I do? It’s 9:30 pm in a half-full train”? “Be careful and don’t show your phone”. “What’s the good of having a phone if I can’t use it”? I’m still so American sometimes.
I decided my comments about the U.S. were not helping matters when the cop mentioned “Ici c’est le droit de l’homme/Here it’s the rights of man [that rule the day]”. I think he really wished he could pack some heat to scare those punks, as most of the time the justice system just lets them go after catching them, he admitted. He was a sweet guy for a cop. I guess it’s because he’s got to be a nice guy. No gun, no taser, just the “droit de l’homme” as his weapon. The entire police force of Noisy le Sec, myself and the other victim squeezed into the smallest cop car in Western Europe. I was shoehorned in the middle seat and could have easily reached over to steer the car, had I been so inclined.
It takes over an hour for me to give my testimony or constater. Meanwhile, supercop and I talked about where I’d visited in France, where I’d lived in the USA, and how I got to France. The illuminating part for me was the station itself. Pictures of France’s elite squad in full SWAT gear kitted out with a very serious german shepard, plus monikers such as “big nose” written in red indelible marker adorned the lockers. Someone at least had the mercy to order lockers in a nondescript beige, perhaps full well knowing that any fashionable color choice would reveal their true age. In short, it looked like a highschool men’s locker room from the 70s. I was told that I couldn’t call my husband’s cell number, because the police dept. had them blocked. It’s too expensive. I asked if they had internet access, and he looked apologetic. Reality came in for a crash landing. Nothing would ever happen to a single one of these pubescent punks that ripped me off. All I had to show for it was half a phone cover and a skinned knee, earned by hanging on to my beloved iphone.
At some point my new friend even pointed out the elite force, referring to them as “the real police”. They sure were amicable for cops; I mean one just doesn’t joke with say, New York City’s finest—even traffic cops. In NYC you threaten a bus driver and it’s like a $750 fine and 6 months in jail*. But I don’t think they get stabbed anymore. Hell, I just read that you can walk clear across Central Park at midnight and there’s barely any chance you’ll get mugged, let alone murdered (I looked it up, last murder in the park was in 2002). But that’s really my point. It’s high time to beef up the police squad and arm them with some nasty fucking dogs. Don’t like the guns? Fine. How about a little canine-induced fear? And make sure those damn dogs can run faster than 6 foot something dudes from the hood. Buy some god-damned tasers if you’re allergic to lead. But do fucking something! Something other than saying, “Well, what do you want us to do with 3 cops”? I can’t vote in this country motherfucker. Figure it fucking out.
It’s now near midnight and Friday the 13th, and if you’ve been following any of my stories in the land of stinky cheese, you and I both know that this 1 ½ tour of Noisy le Sec’s fine law enforcement establishment would not be my last visit to a police station in the near future. I was right.
My new best friend in Noisy-le-sec was kind enough to tell me that I could officially file my complaint anywhere in France, but I’d need to come back with the serial # of the phone. Ok; easy enough, as I can see the police station from my train stop. So after a glass of whiskey, some leftovers, and two hours spent updating all of my sensitive passwords that were set on auto-login in my former iphone, I was definitely in the mood to go back to the cop shop at 9 am. I arrive at the municipal police to discover that all official police reports must be filed at a national police station (I consoled myself with the knowledge that at I’d get to see some real guns). I recognize neither of the addresses that are listed. Perfect I’ll just look them up on the ol’ handy iph…Fuck. Ok, at least my neighborhood’s inhabitants are as friendly as Midwesterners. The florist draws me a map to make sure I don’t miss the stop where I need to get off. I half expected her to take me to the bus station.
I wait 10 minutes for the bus and begin writing this story on the back of the map she’s drawn for me. The station is in the tall housing blocks, meaning that I’m in the projects between my town and the next one on the RER A—another Parisian suburban train line. The ‘hood seems nice enough in the daylight but they guy has to buzz me in, which I find disconcerting. I mean, he’s a cop—right? Shouldn’t he be able to hold his own? I give him the short version. He says something about a “printer problem”. I explain that the other officer told me that I could file anywhere—only to have him tell me that he can’t do anything for me. Can’t I go to the other National Police office? No, I’m on foot. I say, “I’m sorry, are you telling me that you can’t help me”? “Our printer is down and we’re waiting for the technician”. I’m dumbfounded.
I take the bus back to the train station, take that slow train into Paris and arrive at work around 11:30 am, just in time for lunch and another trip to the police station—this time, to the Commissariat de Police du 5eme arrondissment. This place is clean, well lit, and I’m sure this policeman has ironed his shirt and not peeled it from the floor of his car. I tell my sad story, in full detail all over again, based on the officer’s questions, even managing to get worked up about it all over again. I suppose he did me a favor, filling out the report in full so it didn’t have to be transferred to the sad Noisy cops, giving them yet more paperwork. Yeah. Might as well give those poor sweet guys a break.
*A perfunctory Google search suggests that you can get up to 7 years for assaulting a NYC bus driver.
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