So . . . as we’ve stated in our previous blog post, the authorities have no record of having come to our house to pick us up and haul us to the insane ward.
This, according to the authorities (or at least the clerks we’ve talked to), is strange. Highly irregular. “Odd”, to put it in one Recorder’s Clerk’s words. “Impossible”, to put in in the words of another.
Where did those records go? There should be (according to our information) a dispatch record for the officers who were sent; there should be a report BY the officers stating that they were sent; plus another one stating our disposition when they got here; plus another for when they took me to the psych ward . . .
Instead there is nothing. Nada. Not one piece of information.
However, that we were taken there is no doubt. We have the officer’s name (Claque). He called my wife prior to them removing me from my own residence. So we had called Wednesday to get a copy of the records (that’s when we first found out that there was nothing to be found) – and waited for almost twenty-four hours before calling again.
Obviously (and naturally), and according to our own suspicions (that of my wife and I – and/or us) – nothing had been done. We weren’t surprised.
“After all,” I told my wife, “there’s nobody to bring any pressure down on them to produce these records. No one but us – and we aren’t anything to them. So why should THEY make any extra effort to find those records for us??”
She glumly agreed.
And sure enough – no records to be found. (This was Thursday, yesterday, at about four thirty p.m.) And . . . get this – I suspect that those records WILL be found – properly ‘pre-dated’ (or is it post-dated?) to the month before; that is, July the 12th, 2011, when the officers first showed up at my door to take me away (ha-ha*).
So here’s the transcript of what occurred yesterday during my phone call with them. (Them being the local Sheriff’s office.)
I call, get transferred over to records. Now this is at a small town in Georgia – and they’ve got a courthouse / sheriff’s office that you could throw a stone across (yeah, it’s that small. Be careful that you don’t hit none of them chickens!)
“Hi!”, I (and we) say. “This is M. Do you remember me from yesterday??”
“Oh! Yeah!” the lady in Records says. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I was wondering . . . did you all ever turn up anything on that police report I called about yesterday??”
“Nooo . . .,” she says thoughtfully. “We haven’t done anything . . . why?”
“Well, I’d really like to find out what happened . . . why the officers were sent – .”
“That doesn’t have anything to do with me!” she staunchly defends.
“I know,” I answer calmly, reassuring her. “But I was just wondering – could I get a copy of those records – .”
“Well,” she replies (somewhat huffily), “I told you – I have looked, but I haven’t found anything.”
“Well,” I reply, “Could you bother looking again?”
“Sure!” she replies brightly, and then a few seconds later: “There’s nothing. This is . . .” (She sounds confused.)
I wait for a moment, then ask:
“Isn’t this a bit unusual? For there to be no record of me having been picked up by your office?”
“I don’t . . .,” she begins, then brightening again, “I know! I’ll transfer you over to our Civil Division. Maybe they have something there . . . if it was a committal . . .”
“Sure!” I say, happy to have anything.
So ring-ding-aling, here comes someone else on the line.
“Hello? Can I help you?”
“Yes’um,” I say, imagining an older, slightly fat woman. “My name is M., and I was wondering if you could access some record for – .”
“No! I can’t do that,” she says firmly (and somewhat impatiently). I can imagine this place – dead as a doornail, nothing going on (especially at four-thirty-five in the afternoon) – but she sounds like she can’t wait to get me off the line.
“But the Records Clerk . . ,” I say.
“Oh. That. Okay. What’s your address?” she asks, then gets my name again. I go through the long process of properly spelling everything correctly (I live on a funky street with a funky name, and have my own funky name in the process.)
She pauses. I hear clacking on a keyboard. A few moments later she comes back on.
“There’s nothing there. We have no record of anyone coming to that address or name.” She’s sounding right impatient and somewhat hostile, as though I am wasting the time she needs to grow some more of that fat on her right precious ass.
“How about the date range?” I ask, being well aware of the searches going on – I’m all too familiar with this kind of process: searching database records and such for some kind of hidden information. “Did you check for July twel – .”
She cuts me off.
“I checked ALL the records going back to two-thousand and eight. MY computer calls up EVERYTHING we have from two-thousand eight on . . .” Then she pauses, considering (I guess.)
“There must have been a commital issued from Probate Court,” she says. “That’s the only reason I might not be able to find your record . . .”
“But what about Dispatch?” I ask. “Surely there has to be something in Dispatch. You all don’t send someone out – someone had to call the officer and send them out. Surely you can – .”
“Oh. You want Records,” she abruptly interrupts. “Let me transfer you – .”
Ring-ding-aling . . .
“Oh, hi!” I say as someone picks up again.
“It’s you!” the Records Clerk says. “We just talked a few minutes ago!”
“Yeah!” I answer, laughing. “You see the circle I’m running around!” (This knowing that these two secretaries – the one from records and the one from Civil are probably sitting cheek to jowl – or practically so – if not actually staring at one another. Yeah. LOL. You remember me saying: this courthouse area is quite small.) It is now four-forty in the afternoon.
“Who referred you back to me?” she asks, sounding quite clever as she’s doing so.
“Your partner,” I say, “The woman you referred me to – ‘M’.”
“Oh. And she said?”
“She couldn’t find anything either,” I say. “I’m really wanting to know who sent me there – who initiated this thing.” After all, my wife says she didn’t, my daughter didn’t, and my doc told me HE didn’t – and there’s a letter in my medical file from when I did visit the doc and tried to get the same Sheriff’s office to take a statement (more on that later) in which the officers say there is nothing they can do and no reason to take me in.
So she begins paging the original officer – the one who showed up at my door (and starting pounding it in).
He doesn’t respond.
She seems very disturbed by all this now . . .
“I’ll tell you what,” she says, “I’ll call you back – that or Sgt. Claque – as soon as I get in touch with him.”
“Okay!” I say. And (believe it or not) – I’ve been not only maintaining a good mood through all of this shit, but actually am starting to laugh about it. A part of me knows: I’ve got ’em good. Small town politics (and law) – at its best and its worst.
Five-oh-seven pm, and she calls again.
“Hi!,” she says. “I just wanted you to know I haven’t forgotten about you!” She’s sounding very friendly, helpful, and kind. “I’ve paged him three times . . . still no answer. It’s his day off, you understand . . .”
I bust out laughing.
“Please!”, I say, trying to contain my mirth and feeling somewhat sorry for the officer who is caught in this situation, “for Sgt. Claque’s sake! This is his day off! This can wait. Give the man his free time . . . no need to go on paging him. It can wait…”
She laughs, then thanks me for understanding.
“I’ll call you back tomorrow morning,” (that’s today, by the way, you folks out there). “That or Sgt. Claque. But I just wanted to know what would be a good time . . . I didn’t want to wake you up if you were sleeping in . . .”
“Oh, that’s okay,” I say, laughing again. (I do a lot of that: laughing. It’s just me; that’s the way I am: a happy-go-lucky kind of person in here.) “Any time will do. After all – I’m a disabled Marine and I ain’t goin’ nowhere . . .”
We both laugh and chuckle.
“So about eight o’clock, eight thirty or so then?” she asks.
“Yeah, that’s okay,” I chuckle back. “I’ll be here.” (I should be drinking my coffee and typing on my computer by then (which I am, LOL!!! – just check the timestamp).
“Okay,” she says, “Either I or Sgt. Claque will call you in the morning . . . ’bout eight thirty . . .”
And that’s the end . . .
Should be interesting. Sgt. Claque was the one who showed up. Why isn’t there any paperwork on this? That’s my big question. I (and we, and we includes me my wife and three) – think we know. Small town politics – and yet in a BIG town (look up “CSRA” and Augusta Georgia if any of you all care). Somehow, some way, this officer got marching orders to come to my house and take me away . . .
and yet there are no records there . . .
can you smell lawsuit coming on? I can . . .
Like I told my wife:
“Something fishy’s going on here,” – and she agrees. Something improper and wrong has been done. Protocol and procedure hasn’t been followed (apparently). That, and someone’s lying . . .
Either its my doctor (and my friend), my wife, or my daughter.
That, or someone’s been forging my records . . . and then stealing them . . .
Should be interesting . . . stay tuned for the continuing saga as our Ship of Fools sails the encircling reefs . . .
firing our guns all the way :).
(* I add this “ha-ha” based on an old song I hear in which the singer says: “They’ve come to take me away, ha-ha!” – and then some maniacal laughter.)