Busted in Japan, An Actual Tale of Learning to Bow; Featuring Open Complaints to the Japanese Criminal Justice System
/Taxi cabs are the scourge of the earth. No matter where in the world you go, the one thing that you can count on is that taxi cabs there will be assholes. They are constantly cutting other cars off, taking advantage of tourists, and eagerly awaiting opportunities to clip pedestrians.
Which is why when my wits returned to me in the middle of a bender and I found myself surrounded by Omawari-san (Japanese cops; but not so much your John McClane-type cops, more like your Barney Fife-type cops) claiming that I had wronged a taxi cab, I was 100% sure that I was in the right.
A pair of Omawari-san patrolling Tokyo
Accused of malicious destruction of property (so now we can add false accusations to the list of reasons why cabbies suck), I could do nothing but protest.
“I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“You did. You need to apologize.”
“But I didn’t do anything wrong,” I persisted as the crowd of Omawari-san grew to double digits, adding fuel to my righteous fire.
Why am I being persecuted like this? I thought to myself in astonishment. Why is everyone out to get me when “I didn’t do anything wrong!”
Despite my pleas and obvious innocence, their patience thinned as the dispute wore on and before long I was met with nothing but harsh looks of disapproval and disgust.
Feeling like a cornered rat, I had no option but to lash out as rats are wont to do (i.e. hurling spot-on insults at one's assailants in the hope of wounding their pride and receiving profuse apologies for their hassling of the people's champ).
“You owl-eyed, shit-breathed troll!” I howled at the owl-eyed, shit-breathed Omawari-san.
Before anyone could respond, I turned to the next cop, doled out his comeuppance, and then proceeded to shower each one in turn with individually tailored abuse making sure to call the female cop both fat and ugly.
Needless to say, I was hauled down to the local precinct.
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“You weren’t run over,” the pock-marked, punch-permed detective who apparently drew the role of bad cop role declared condescendingly.
Punch Perm - This is Gushiken Yoko, my favorite 1970s world champion boxer turned 2010s variety quiz show regular, sporting the not very popular Punch Perm.
“What’re you talking about?! I was too. Now please write it down.” A junior officer next to Punch Perm was preparing my statement but they refused to write down what I was saying. Meanwhile, a fairly attractive middle-aged translator was seated next to me helping when necessary but for the most part sat quietly with a when-is-this-train-wreck-gonna-end look.
I’m all about milf translators helping out a foreigner in need, Japan, but couldn’t you provide one a little further from menopause? Maybe one with a toddler? Is that asking too much?
“You don’t want this to get any worse,” Punch Perm said. “You need to say what we’re telling you so that we can get this over with.”
“What is this China?! Why won’t you write down what I’m telling you? This is my statement, right? Why won’t you write down what I’m stating?”
“Because it didn’t happen.”
“Yes, it did.” Despite not recalling exactly what happened per se, based on A) the fact that taxi cabs are assholes, and B) a strong feeling of not having done anything wrong, I decided that it would be best to cover my ass in case the taxi cab had actually suffered some damage somehow.
“No, it didn’t.”
“Listen, I’m telling you that the taxi cab hit me and I reflexively gave it a couple stern slaps to the hood. Bad taxi! Bad taxi! That’s all. Now please write it down.”
“But that didn’t happen. I’ve seen the tape.”
“What tape?” I turned to the junior officer. “Did you see the tape?”
“Yes. And the taxi cab didn’t hit you.”
“Oh, really?! Then how about showing me the tape?”
“There’s no need for that,” Punch Perm replied dismissively.
“If you’re so keen on getting this over with, why don’t you just show me the video? We’ll all see exactly what happened and this will all be over without any bullshit false confessions like they have in China!”
“There’s no need for you to see the tape.”
“You know what I’m hearing? I’m hearing that you haven’t seen the tape. I’m hearing that you’re lying to me. Liars!”
“We’ve seen the tape.”
“If that really is the case and you actually have seen the tape, then the only reason you won’t show it to me is because you know that I’m right. You know that I didn’t do anything wrong and you’re lying to me straight in the face.”
“You’re just making more trouble for yourself,” the junior officer chimed in.
“Liars!”
“That’s not helping.”
“I want an attorney!”
“So you’re not going to continue with the statement?”
“And a beer!”
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“Here you go,” Punch Perm said upon re-entering the room and handing me a cup of water before handing the junior officer a folder full of loose leaf paper and a large zip-lock bag.
“This isn’t beer,” I replied disdainfully.
“Sure it is.”
“More lies! It’s like everything that comes out of your mouth is a venomous lie!”
Upon taking my fingerprints, the junior officer unscrewed a cotton-toothed swab from a plastic container and held it out.
“Scrape your cheek,” he instructed.
“What is this? What’s this all about?”
“A DNA test.”
“Is this normal?” I asked my milfy translator. “Do they do this to everyone?”
She looked to the junior officer who gave a quick nod. “Think of it as a formality.”
“This is bullshit. I know what they’re gonna do. They’re gonna peg every unsolved rape on me. God dammit. When the hell did Japan become China?! And how come I can’t get no beer around here?!!”
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“This is your last chance, Mr. Box,” Punch Perm threatened after we finished the DNA test.
“You know what?!” I began in a sing-songy sarcastic voice loud enough for the entire room of police officers next door to hear. “It must be nice. It must be soooooo nice to be a detective here in the most peaceful country in the world. Where there is so little crime and so little to do that you can spend your night harassing someone who at worst slapped the hood of a taxi giving it a couple of tiny dents. Good God I wish I was you. Nothing to do in this land of harmony but curl your hair into a bizarre looking afro and force bullshit confessions of non-crimes. You have it so fucking good!”
“Alright, have it your way,” Punch Perm said before turning to the junior officer. “Take him to the cells.”
At this point, the God of Shit-Just-Got-Real flipped the switch in the back of my brain from Arrogant Douche to Repentant Douche.
“Can somebody please do something?” I plead desperately while being led through the main room. “This is crazy. Please don’t lock me up for this. Please … Please, somebody help me out.”
“Your attorney will probably show up today,” Punch Perm said with a smug smile. “Or maybe tomorrow. Or maybe sometime later. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”
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“Oh, can I use my iPhone to make my call?” I asked one of the jail guards who was inventorying the contents of my pockets.
“What call?”
“You know. Your one call. I need to get in touch with a buddy to let him know where I am and arrange help.”
“There is no one call.”
What is this China?
Now in full contrition mode, I was able to keep this thought to myself but I couldn’t help but slump back in my chair as the realization set in that I could be locked up with zero outside contact for as long as the powers that be want. This was a very compelling case on why not to be a prick to people you don’t know. Particularly people in positions of authority. No matter how big a dick they might be or how stupid their hair is.
“Can I at least get a few minutes on Saucytime?” I implored puppy-eyed.
“Sorry, no can do,” the guard replied smiling before handing my possessions over to another guard while a third guard appeared in the doorway carrying a gray sweatsuit.
“This is the largest one we have,” he said, setting it down in front of me.
A gray sweatsuit?! How fucking drab and classless. What do they think I’m an Eagles fan or something? Cut me some fuckin’ slack, Japan!
“Do you know how long I’m gonna be locked up?”
“I can’t make any promises, but in a case like yours, you are usually able to get out of here within 10 days.”
The last two words were like a punch in the gut.
No phone call. No Saucytime. No telling when I might be released.
After changing into my new prison garb, I was led into a small jail cell area in the shape of a sickle, with the entrance hallway as the handle, a semi-circle of cells as the blade, and a guard station in the center having in front of it a semi-circular washing station with a half-dozen faucets.
A sickle-shaped jail. Seriously, is this fuckin’ China or what?
Smelling new blood, the current inmates rushed to the front of their cells to stare at the newbie through thick lattice doors of yellow steel. (Okay, I suppose they didn’t smell new blood so much as they just heard new blood’s footsteps but I need a little poetic license in this story. This is probably the only time I’ll use it, I swear.)
Anyhoo, thanks to the liter of vodka still coursing through my veins, I was put in a single person cell, a policy likely put in place to deter drunken first-timers from punching the biggest, meanest, most rapiest looking dude in the cell in a desperate attempt to keep their behymens in tact.
In keeping with curved shape of the overall cell block, the cell I was put in was a curved trapezoid with the door at the narrow end and a private toilet room at the wide end, leaving an awkwardly shaped hexagon as the main room.
The cell was spartan in the sense that other than drab corkboard-like flooring there was nothing. No bed, no seats, not even a cushion.
Come on, Japan, would it kill you to hook a brother in dire straits up with a little bean bag chair?!
Needless to say, the john was a traditional Japanese toilet which in plain-speak amounts to a linoleum hole in the ground.
I was given a few books from the jail cell library (i.e. a cardboard box of old paperbacks) to thumb through during reading hours but found myself cursing them instead as I wound up with some shitty Haruki Murakami books full of shitty Western culture references. How the fuck does filling retarded stories with references to Joni Mitchell and Peter, Paul and Mary amount to literary genius?
Fortunately, those shitty books were able to serve as a pillow so my first few hours of hard time were spent sleeping off my hangover while dreaming of Revenge.
That fucking taxi cab motherfucker! While I can’t recall exactly what he looks like per se, once I get outta here, I’m gonna find that son of bitch and learn everything about him. His likes – the son of bitch probably enjoys shitty Japanese TV dramas – his dislikes – he probably hates getting the shit kicked out of him – and his daily routines. Then, when he least expects it, I’m gonna jump out from behind some bushes and kick the shit out of him.
Next on the list is that shitty day-time TV drama detective, Punch Perm. How embarrassing and ironic that he won’t even know that he’s being tailed. Staked out. A hamadryas baboon being stalked by a sapphire-eyed cobra-leopard-eagle-bear. And when he least expects it, I’m gonna jump out from behind some bushes, hog tie him, and straighten the shit out of his hair with a piping hot hair straightener.
And lastly, I’m gonna find that female Omawari-san and when she least expects it, I’m gonna jump out from behind some bushes and call her fat & ugly.
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The cycle of uneasy sleep and unnerving yet gratifying thoughts of Revenge was interrupted when I was taken out of my cell and brought to a small room where on the opposite side of a plate-glass window sat the attorney on duty, Nishida-sensei, a serious looking man in a gray suit. Next to him was an attractive female translator who looked to be in her early thirties.
A young milf doing the Lord’s work is great, Japan, but seriously, do you think I want a kid in the picture? Can’t you provide someone a little younger and firmer who's without a whiny brat?
Now in full repentance mode, I gave the most accurate description of the events that I could:
“I can’t recall exactly what happened because I was in a drunken cloud, but I think I was hit or almost run down by a taxi and then I think I slapped the hood a couple times in retaliation. After that, I took a very bad attitude with the police and I’m very very sorry about that.”
Nishida-sensei explained that I was entitled to this one consultation free of charge but after that, if I designated him, it might cost something.
“You’re hired. Please get me out of here.”
He further went on to say that the legal costs – but not any damages that I may have to pay to the taxi cab company – might be covered as well, mentioning that a government organization or some charitable legal organization might pay for it. It was kind of complicated and I had trouble focusing when the translator said it in English on account of her striking almond eyes and cute button nose, so I didn’t quite understand it, but the gist seemed to be that somebody occasionally foots the bill for gaijins in trouble.
Nice work, Japan! Not bad at all for a country of xenophobes. Totally JK.
“No matter what the case is, you’re hired. Thank you so so much for your help.”
“I can’t make any promises,” he continued, “but I’ll try to get you to see the prosecutor tomorrow or the next day.”
“Thank you so so much,” I replied, bowing my head repeatedly.
“Lastly, would you like me to contact your family or friends?”
An image of a well-chested pixie in a dazzling evening gown flitted through my mind. “My friend, Ryoko,” I replied. A flutter of hope and longing rushed through my body as I told Nishida-sensei her phone number. “Please tell her that I’ll be needing her and some gals from the Lily Pad to hold a special fund-raising party for me.” If just a few of the gorgeous kyaba-kura girls put in a couple of hours entertaining, they could easily raise enough funds to cover even my worst case scenario. Which I suppose would be if I had not in fact been hit by the taxi and had for no reason at all took a sledge hammer to the hood and windshield.
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The rest of the night was again spent in and out of an unsettling sleep with my thoughts of Revenge gradually giving way to an overall state of anxiety and dread.
How quickly my freedom had been taken away for pretty much no reason at all. Never had I imagined just how easily and out of the blue one’s liberty could be stripped away with no telling when it might be returned. Or whether it will be returned at all. I was completely powerless.
And if I did eventually get released, would this go on my record? Would I ever be able to get a decent job again? Would I be viewed and vilified as one of the dregs of society. Am I one of the dregs of society? Am I a horrible monster of a human that needs to be locked up in solitary confinement?
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“Number 13! Number 6! Number 24!”
I pressed an eye to the lattice door as a guard shouted out numbers early the next morning and the corresponding inmates passed in front of me before they retrieved their toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, and hand towel from the lockers in the entrance hallway.
My door opened a short while later and as I exited the cell, I put on my designated plastic slippers, grabbed my toiletries, and took a position at one of the faucets. After gulping down a few cups of water, brushing my teeth, and washing my hands and face, I quickly made my way back to my cell.
After folding and returning the sleeping mat, blanket, and pillow, the guards gave me a small vacuum cleaner for the floor and followed that up with a bucket of soapy water and scrub brush for the toilet.
My janitorial duties done, I paced back and forth in my cell – I was able to fit five steps in each way! – until breakfast was served through the small slot next to the door.
Much like convenient store food here, jail food in Japan is much better than one would imagine. We were served warm bentos consisting of a fist-sized omelette, an egg roll, a dumpling, and white rice. To wash it down, we were given miso soup with a few strips of seaweed and some green tea.
But it wasn’t all peaches and cream. The tea was a little too hot for my liking.
A little too hot, Japan! Plus, who on God’s green earth brushes their teeth and then eats breakfast. That makes no sense at all, Japan!
In what may have been an attempt to make up for these trespasses against me, I was awarded the ichiban-buro (literally, “first bath”; meaning that I was the first person to enter the freshly drawn tub of water), a perk usually reserved for the head of household.
After a quick rinse at one of the surrounding faucets, I slipped slowly into the soothing water and while the tub was clearly not made for the tall and gangly, by sitting in it lengthwise, I was able to stretch my legs out halfway, lean my head against the wall, and mentally escape to a hot spring far far away. Oh, hell, yeah. Calgon ain’t got nothing on you, metal tub of plain water in a jail bathing facility.
I was brought back to reality when a trio of rough-looking dudes entered the room and stripped out of their prison garb. At least I think they were rough-looking. I didn’t observe too closely in order to avoid any potential misunderstandings.
And as one of the dudes who happened to be covered in tattoos hovered over the tub, it dawned on me that this wasn’t an individual tub, but rather it was meant for two. I spun 90 degrees to allow him to climb in and we both settled in widthwise. Despite our knees touching our chests and our elbows now and then brushing against each other, my new tattooed buddy and I enjoyed a wonderful butt rape-free respite.
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Clean and fed and ready to face my second day of imprisonment, I was happy to learn that I was being sent to meet with a prosecutor. Handcuffed for the journey, I was marched through a series of rooms and hallways until eventually being led down a couple of outdoor emergency exit-like stairs and onto a half-full bus. Whenever I went through a door or around a corner or down a flight of stairs, the guards would scream at the top of their lungs some kind of announcement or something that I couldn’t understand which on the one hand made me feel like a very important person but on the other hand made me feel as if I was being walked down death row.
Upon boarding the bus and being shown to my seat, my handcuffs were attached to a sturdy blue rope that linked me to the dispirited prisoners who had been picked up from other local precincts in this part of Tokyo. (So I guess if one of us were to flee, we all flee.)
The bus was fitted with expansive curtainless windows so as we made our way to what I think was the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Station, I felt like I was in a giant fishbowl on wheels, on display for onlookers to point at and to fear, despise, and/or ridicule. A potentially just humiliation for those actually in the wrong.
We were showered with more militant shouting as we disembarked the bus still roped together and were filed into a big holding room containing about a half dozen narrow holding cells. The bulk of these tight cells was occupied by two wooden benches facing each other that snugly sat six people each. Beyond that was a step up to a western toilet which was sheltered by a knee high partition.
A western toilet. I’m sure you’re familiar with these but there aren’t too many pictures in the latter half of this story so I figured why not.
After a few more busloads of prisoners arrived and were settled into holding cells, we were informed that some of us would be going to court while others would be meeting with a prosecutor and/or attorney. This would take all day, and possibly go well into the night.
Fortunately, there was a list of 12 rules posted on the wall that we could read over and over and over to kill the hours and hours of waiting/doing our damndest not to make eye contact with the people sitting across from us who were literally less than an arm’s length away.
Of particular note was Rule #5: “Do not graffiti.”
Apparently, this did not hold much weight as almost directly below it the following capital letters were etched into the paint: BOB
Score one for us gaijin!
When my number was finally called, I was led to a room with a half dozen desks where prisoners were conversing or having it out with their designated prosecutors. At the desk next to mine, a livid middle-aged man was tearing into his prosecutor which produced in me a momentary feeling of glee as I figured that the prosecutors needed to come down hard on a few people and this guy was the perfect candidate. His shitty attitude only served to make the repentant whitey next door look even more repentant and therefore more release-worthy.
I was seated across from my prosecutor, who looked serious but forgiving, and next to a gorgeous female translator in formal business attire who looked like she had just graduated college.
Not too shabby, Japan. Young, hot, and likely kidless. But does she really need to be dressed so conservatively? You can’t hook a brother up with some cleavage?!
Without any prompting, I launched straight into the contrite speech that I had given my attorney: "I don’t recall exactly what happened due to the alcohol, but I think I was lightly hit by the taxi and reflexively slapped the hood a couple times. After that, I took a very bad attitude with the police and I’m extremely sorry for that and I would like to apologize to everyone."
Rather than respond verbally, the prosecutor picked up a War & Peace-sized file/booklet containing the facts of my case and opened it to a page containing two pictures.
In the first picture, I was standing at the taxi’s driver side window brandishing my index finger in the cabby’s face and apparently screaming at him.
In the second picture, I was in midair above the hood apparently jumping up and down on it.
The prosecutor then flipped the page to a third picture where for good measure I had dropped trou and was apparently trying to squeeze out a deuce on the windshield while the elderly cab driver looked on in shock and horror.
A not very close approximation of the event. There is a surprising lack of images on the internet of people squat-pooping on the hoods of taxis.
At this point, the God of Shit-Just-Got-Real adjusted the switch in the back of my brain from Repentant Douche to Repentant Douche Who Was 100% In The Wrong.
“So you’re ready to admit that the taxi cab did not hit you?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re ready to admit that you damaged the taxi cab?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll pay for this damage?”
“Yes.”
“And in the case that we release you from jail – please keep in mind that this is a hypothetical and I am in no way saying that we are going to release you – but in that case, if the police or any other authorities contact you, you will immediately respond to such contact?”
“Yes. I am very very sorry for all of this. I did a horrible thing and I will do everything in my power to make amends. I would be eternally grateful if you could find it in your heart to allow me to go home.”
“It will be considered, but I cannot make any promises at this time.”
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Back in the holding cell, after reading the rules another hundred or so times, lunch was served through the small door slot in the form of two small loaves of sweet white bread with packets of marmalade, strawberry jam, margarine, and a mini cheese log.
Really, Japan?! Sweet white bread?! We don’t have it bad enough in here without you giving us diabetes?? Plus, are you seriously trying to fill us up so that we have to take a dump in a cramped cell with 11 other dudes who are on edge enough as it is?!
Having said that, I must admit the mini cheese log was a culinary delight. An absolute triumph. I retract my above complaints.
Shortly after lunch, I was called to a small room where again on the opposite side of a plate-glass window sat Nishida-sensei.
“So you saw the pictures from the video?” he said with a wry smile, shaking his head.
I nodded pathetically.
“And your recollection of being hit by the taxi?”
“Apparently fabricated out of self-preservation.”
“Well, I’ve contacted the taxi cab company, apologized on your behalf, and am hoping that they will accept payment for damages in lieu of pressing charges.”
“That would be great. Thank you very very much.”
“I also submitted a statement to the police and prosecutor promising that you will compensate the taxi cab company and if released you will cooperate fully. Given your roots here and lack of priors, I tried to make the case that you are not a threat to flee.”
“Thank you very very much. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate everything that you’re doing for me. I’m very very sorry for all the trouble.”
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“I can’t believe you didn’t just apologize at the scene,” a young police officer said as he counted out the cash that had been removed from my wallet and inventoried. Upon returning to the local precinct, I was informed that the prosecutor had granted my release and as such my belongings were being returned.
“Me either,” I replied.
“A case like this usually ends right there. You didn’t need go through all the rest of this.”
“I’m really very sorry. I had a terrible attitude.”
“Just put your thumbprint here acknowledging that your belongings have been removed and you’re all set to go.”
“Thank you so much. I’m terribly sorry about everything.”
“Wait, where are your shoes?”
I couldn’t help but smile sheepishly as I looked down at my bare feet. “I think my sandals were destroyed in the fracas.”
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As I walked out of the precinct and into the throngs of unwitting, blissful tourists and carousers, and inhaled the cool nighttime air, three things flittered through my mind.
1) God damn are these police officers nice. After being a complete dick when taken in, not only did they release me with kind smiles and words of encouragement, but they had given me a pair of sneakers to get home in. Sure they were grimy low-top Converse sneaks that were so small my heels stuck out of them, but were they trying to kill me with kindness? Cut me some slack, Japan.
2) God damn is freedom awesome. I never realized how essential and fragile it really is. You never know when you may be stripped of it for something that you didn’t even do and be powerless to do anything about it. Or, as in this case, you never know when you may be stripped of it for something that you totally did because you are a fuckin’ idiot.
3) Wait, what the shit? I never got the chance to bunk with other inmates to hear if what they say about forced blow jobs is true and to ask one of the recipients if he’s only gay in jail or if he’s also gay in real life. And if he says he’s not gay in real life to ask him why he doesn’t just beat off in the bathroom to fantasies of naked chicks? Cause that’ll do the trick, bro.
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“Brace yourself for an ass-reaming,” Nishida-sensei warned as we walked from the train station to the taxi cab company headquarters.
“I understand,” I replied, feeling as nervous as I had ever been in my life.
About a week had passed since I’d been released and Nishida-sensei had arranged this trip so that I could apologize and deliver the roughly $3,000 for damages to the taxi (a couple small dents to the hood), compensation for the time that the taxi was out of service, and apology money for all the trouble caused.
It was time to take my well-earned medicine.
“When I contacted them before, they were extremely angry so they will likely give you an extremely harsh scolding. They’ll be screaming so loud and fast with spit flying everywhere that you probably won’t understand everything they’re saying, but just stand there and take it. Keep quiet and apologize repeatedly.”
“Okay, I will. Thank you very much.”
Upon arrival at the taxi headquarters, we were led into a reception room with a meeting table and partitioned kitchen. The owner, a sober-looking older gentlemen sporting a gray suit and crew cut, pulled out our chairs and then had a seat himself across the table. I remained standing and Nishida-sensei motioned to the owner that I was going to give an apology.
I had been rehearsing it in my head sense being released and now it flowed from my mouth in possibly the most serious tone I’d ever taken in my life.
“I am usually an upstanding citizen, but for some reason that night I drank way too much alcohol, lost myself, and committed an unconscionable offense against you and your company. I am extremely sorry and I regret this very very much and will never do anything like it again. I hope that you will accept my profuse apologies.”
The owner seemed pretty satisfied with this and only nodded a few times as I spoke before focusing his attention on Nishida-sensei who handed over a document stating the facts of the case and that by paying the roughly $3,000 in compensation, the case would come to a close.
As the owner disappeared to another room to stamp the document with his official seal, a female office worker served three glasses of oolong tea with ice. Sure I prefer jasmine tea for its sweet aroma and health benefits, and wouldn’t serve oolong tea to an AIDS-infested leper, but was the taxi cab company also trying to kill me with kindness? I thought I told you to cut me some slack, Japan!!!
“People can change when they drink too much alcohol,” the owner said pensively after handing the sealed document back to Nishida-sensei and counting out the roughly $3,000 in cash. “You really must be careful about drinking too much because you cannot go around causing trouble like this. It is unacceptable and I’m glad to see that you are remorseful and will no longer engage in such delinquent behavior.”
“I will not, sir. I am very very sorry.”
And that was it. Killed with kindness again. God damn bastard taxis. Scourge of the earth, indeed.
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