I have never been arrested (yet), but I have been asked politely to accompany a police officer to the local station to sort out what he called a misunderstanding, and it is that bright crystalline afternoon, on a beach, that I wish to recount here.
I had been strolling along the beach with two college friends, one of whom had never had a drop of drink in his life, and the other who had, that day, too many. He was in a cheerful mood, addressing raffish remarks to passersby, until one passerby was an officer of the law, who stopped us and inquired as to sobriety.
We sober gentlemen reported ourselves so, and we made excuses for our companion, who stood swaying gently as we explained that he was not altogether what you would call sober, but we were escorting him safely back to a place of rest, and we were not driving, or armed, or contemplating any other flouting of the law other than intoxication on the beach, which, however, applied to only a third of us, all things considered.
The police officer was a youngish man, sturdy and tanned, and while he seemed slightly amused, he was not very amused, and his thoughts became clear when he asked our unsober friend what he had in his pockets, and our friend replied, in a much clearer firmer voice than you would expect from an intoxicated young man replying to a question from a policeman, Why don't you reach in there and find out, copper?
He said the word copper with a particular flourish, just like he was in a movie and he was a gangster making a terse remark about an officer of the law, and perhaps it was this little extra emphasis that tipped the cop from slightly amused to come with me, boys, which he said, tersely, and which we did, dragging our friend.
The police station was only a block inland from the beach, and it looked more like a lifeguard shack than a regular police station, but inside there were other policemen, and a booking sergeant, and a drunk tank, and posters of wanted men on the walls, and the jangle of handcuffs on belts, and I saw, for the first time in my life, a nightstick, sitting on the booking counter in front of the grim sergeant.
Now, a nightstick doesn't sound fearsome — I think it's the word stick