Diplomats at post must occasionally take their turn as Duty Officer, dealing with issues that come up after hours. Usually, things are quiet and the job doesn’t amount to much. During my first year overseas, though, I found that being Duty Officer in Paris at Christmastime could be plenty busy.
The most memorable call came from a man we’ll call Mr. Hudson, a young American living in Paris who called the embassy with, well, a drug problem. In a thick New York City accent (don’t ask me what borough) he told me that, while he was at work, the police had come by his apartment to talk to him about an envelope of marijuana that had come from the United States, addressed to him.
“Some friend probably sent it to me as a Christmas present. I didn’t ask for it. Dis isn’t my fault.” He told me he wanted to go down to the police station and straighten things out.
I wasn’t sure his was a good idea. “Mr. Hudson, stay home. If they really want to talk to you, they’ll come back.” Frankly, my thinking was that he didn’t seem terribly bright and somehow, after five years living and working (illegally) in Paris, he still didn’t speak French. Any attempt to explain things would likely only make them worse.
“But I really want to straighten dis out. I’m going down to da station.”
I told him that, much as I would like to, I couldn’t stop him.
I thought that would be the end of it, but he called back an hour later, using a phone at the police station. He complained that no one understood what he was trying to say. I wanted to tell him that this is what happens when you can’t speak their language. “I just want to tell ‘em that I didn’t ask for dis stuff,” he told me again.
“That’s admirable, Mr. Hudson. But at some point they’re going to understand, ‘Marijuana, mail and me,’ and they’re going to arrest you.” I didn’t add that if I were in the country illegally the last place I’d want to bring attention to myself was at a police station.
“They’re telling me dat a guy is coming soon who speaks English. I’m gonna wait for him.”
I told him I thought this was a very bad idea, but he was adamant.
He called back half an hour later, “Dis guy hasn’t come yet. I dunno what to do.”
I’d lost my patience. “Get out of there, right now, Mr. Hudson! Go to the nearest bar, find a phone booth and call me from there.”
“Well, I dunno . . .”
“Go! Now!”
Grudgingly, he said, “Okay.”
An hour went by. Not a good sign. Worse, when he called he was weeping. “Mr. Holgate, dey arrested me!” He sounded astonished.
Naturally, he wanted the embassy to help him. I thought of telling him that the embassy, in the person of me, had been trying to help him all day.
The police would release him conditionally, he said, but he would be facing trial in a few weeks. This was a Saturday. I told him to come by the American Citizen Services section of the embassy (ACS) on Monday, and they would explain to him what we could and couldn’t do.
Normally, I would have let it drop at that point. He was ACS’s problem now, not mine. But I really wanted to meet this guy. So, I asked ACS to call me when he came in, which he did later that morning.
Hudson was maybe twenty-seven, twenty-eight, tall, gangly, long black hair. He was talking to one of the ACS officers.
“They can’t send me to jail, can they? I’m an American.”
This is a common delusion.
“Yes, they can” the woman ACS officer told him. “And if you’re convicted you’ll do five years, hard time.” Maybe things have changed, but that’s how it was back then.
He was a nice guy, you could see, not used to getting in trouble, and this shocked him.
“You guys’ll defend me in court, woncha?”
Another common delusion.
The ACS officer said, “No, we can’t do that. We can give you a list of lawyers who speak English.”
He was having a hard time taking it all in. “Dey can really convict me?”
“Yes.”
By now, he was shaken. “What should I do?”
The woman, long experienced, sat at her desk, lowered her head and said quietly, “If I could tell you to leave the country I would. But I can’t.”
Hudson shook his head, lost. “Then what should I do?”
Did I say he wasn’t very bright?
The ACS officer shot me a longsuffering look. “I don’t think you’re listening to me, Mr. Hudson. If I could tell you to LEAVE THE COUNTRY, I would.” A beat. “But I can’t.”
The light went on. “You think I should leave da country?”
“I didn’t say that.”
It was a sad sight to see Hudson’s world collapse around him. He’d made a life for himself in Paris, may have been living his boyhood dream. Now his choices came down to fleeing or perhaps remaining as a guest of the French Republic for five years.
I had introduced myself when I came in, and he’d seemed happy to meet me. Now I had to say goodbye. I never saw him again and don’t know what he finally did.
Is there a lesson in this story? It’s hard to fault Mr. Hudson for his willingness to straighten the matter out. Maybe they would have arrested him anyway, even if he hadn’t gone to the station and more or less demanded it
I can only suggest that if you’re living overseas and Christmas is coming, tell your friends to just send a card this year.
