Jackie Danicki

See this first.

I kept trying to call the detective on the number he gave me, with no answer and no voicemail. I ended up calling the phone number detailed in the letter I received from the British Transport Police yesterday. After I gave the crime reference number to the kind man who answered the phone, he told me in an astonished voice, “You’ve come through to the completely wrong department. I mean, it’s not your fault, but there’s nothing we can do for you here.”

He was so nice that my frustration did not turn into fury, but I did tell him who had left me a voicemail, and he then gave me the same number I’d been trying to call for a couple of hours. He gave me another number, for another detective, then told me to hang on while he used another phone to call the right department and try to get someone to talk to me. After a couple of minutes, he came back and said that somebody would call me later today.

It was at this point that I had a little ‘moment’. I said that I thanked him very much for trying to help me, but it had been seven days since I’d filed a crime report and seven days that I’d been waiting for someone to show an interest in the photographic evidence I had taken. I explained that I heard absolutely nothing from the police until the letter that arrived yesterday, which contained the wrong phone number (as he himself had told me), had spent a couple of hours trying to get hold of the right person, and was now being told on a Friday afternoon that someone would call me back “later today”. “I’m sure you believe someone will call me,” I told him, “but the handling of this case has been an absolute shambles, and I do have other things to do besides alternate between chasing and waiting on the British Transport Police.”

The man told me to try ringing the previously unanswered number again, as he thought someone would definitely pick up this time. “If you don’t have any luck, call me back and we’ll take this further,” he said. I called the number. No one answered. I called the other number he’d given me for another detective, and asked, “Is this [detective’s name]?” The man who’d answered had heavily accented English, and didn’t seem to understand who I was asking for. Finally, he did, and told me that no, that detective was on another line, but I was free to call back later.

I do believe the end of my tether was staring me right in the face.

As soon as I hung up my landline, my mobile rang - it was the detective who’d left me the voicemail this morning. “Boy, am I glad to hear from you,” I said (I always lapse into American clichés when I’m in a state). Here’s the deal:

They do have the CCTV footage, both from Baker Street (where I was assaulted and where the verbal abuse of a sexual nature started) and from Piccadilly Circus (where, after continuing the verbal abuse on the train, the two attackers followed me down the platform and kept shouting abuse at me). So, yay.

The reason they didn’t get in touch with me was because I’d already given a statement on the day of the attack. (But the detective to whom the crime has been passed has not even read my statement! Yeesh.) Also, there was no reference to my photo evidence in the crime report passed to this detective. I find that very odd, not to mention maddening.

The crime has now been passed into this detective’s division because it is being classed as a racially motivated assault. Should the attackers be caught and the case go to court, the punishment upon conviction will be much more severe - according to the detective - than if it were not racially motivated. I couldn’t help but express to him just how ridiculous and offensive it is to upgrade or downgrade the serious of attacks based on the assailant’s thoughts or feelings at the time of the assault, and he was not unsympathetic to my feelings. It was wrong - period - for these two to walk up behind me and assault me. It would be no less wrong or serious if I was black like them or male like them. Insert string of expletives here.

On the subject of the photo: I was told that British law states that any photographic evidence would have to be personally collected from me in order to be used in court. The detective asked if I could print out a copy of the photo. I’m getting fed up just recounting this exchange, because it’s so illustrative of how ignorant and stupid these laws are. I was able to explain, finally, how a print out - if useful - would probably best be done on a high quality photo printer. I also explained that I could still send them this photo during our phone conversation if he could just give me an email address. If and when the time comes for it to be used in court as evidence, I will have to burn it to a CD and a police officer will have to come to my house and collect it from me - otherwise, it will not be admissible. The detective seemed to understand how daft this all is, even if he didn’t seem to understand how unnecessary the delay in getting him the photo had been. He finally gave me a colleague’s email address (don’t they all have it?), and I sent the photo.

I was promised that someone would call me next week with a progress update, and the detective apologised profusely for all of the delays and mix-ups. Yeah, I’m sorry too, buddy.

Filed under: Law, Life, Survival, The State Is Not Your Friend