Under the influence

It brought to mind an episode from my time as a field probation officer. I had unknowingly met Amadi (not his real name) prior to being allocated as his supervising probation officer, when a raffish looking man had shouted out “Jah man” as I was entering the office.

I turned to find a friendly smile and reciprocated with a warm wave. A short time later, to my pleasant surprise, in walked Amadi for his first probation appointment. He had been convicted of burgling a local chemist looking for drugs.

The initial meeting was promising. Amadi had no previous convictions, cautions aside. He readily admitted that his involvement in this “stupid offence” was a one-off opportunist offence and that he wanted to return to his community activities. 

He downplayed his usage of cannabis, proffering a religious explanation. The medicinal and spiritual benefits from the ‘weed’, he assumed, were self -explanatory.

The distressed area of the capital in which his neighbourhood was located, as was the probation office, was often characterised by a volatile relationship with the local police. I hoped that his community work might go some way to alleviating some of the evident tensions prevailing in the area.

We agreed that the debate on cannabis legalisation was a valid one. The constraints of what he would term “soft policing”, that is “Have you ever smoked the weed?” informed a positive level of supervisory engagement, if a shaky level of compliance, when reporting to the office became problematic.

To obviate breach action for his failures to report, I called in, one day, at Amadi’s home address nearby. Receiving no reply, I left an urgent message for him to contact me, as enforcement action would follow.

A day later, he reported to the office, offering profuse apologies, explaining that his community activities had resulted in his according probation “a low priority”. To reinforce the point, he invited me to his address for a meal of “reconciliation”.

Taking up this opportunity to home visit, I was greeted by his partner and a pleasant repast was had. I was curious to know if any hallucinogenic ingredients might be found in the meal. A knowing smile left me somewhat queasy and feeling exposed.

Amadi’s reporting improved, but I sensed that all was not what it seemed. “Before you find out”, he told me one day (I already was aware), “I am appearing at the magistrates court next week”. Attempted burglary, at the same chemist shop. “I will be going not guilty”.

Amadi’s mood and demeanour seemed to change over the following weeks. There had been a spate of gang-related shootings in the area and this appeared to have unnerved him, not least because he knew most of those impacted by the events.

As his trial date approached, Amadi evinced an uncharacteristic fatalism in our meetings. “Surely”, I opined, “if you are confident in your plea, the finding might go in your favour?”.

“Mike, I did not tell you but you must have wondered why the police have not nicked me when they know I deal weed. I supply them with information on criminal activities and now people suspect that I am a grass”.

On the day of his appearance, another drama was unfolding at the court. A defendant charged with attempting to murder a police officer was appearing. The court was surrounded by armed sharpshooters and looked like a US crime series. Just to add to the heightened intensity, a delegation from the Japanese Probation Service was on a planned visit to the probation office adjacent the court.

The drama was short lived; the defendant committed to the Central Criminal Court for sentencing. Amadi’s case was discontinued (no formal explanation was forthcoming). Shortly thereafter, he left the area, his order fast-approaching its expiry date.

As I reviewed how the probation order had falteringly worked, I recalled one of Amadi’s early observations, from the day we ate at his home.

“Mike, I don't know where life will lead me, but I know where I’ve been”.