By Daniel Linskey
My partner Eddie and I responded to a domestic violence call in Mattapan, MA.
On arrival, we observed the suspect. He was a 6'5” West Indian male, weighing about 240 lbs. He was on the front walk screaming at his girlfriend, who stood in the doorway. It was obvious that he had assaulted her. She was crying and her face was red and swollen.
Upon seeing us, she screamed, “He kicked and punched me.”
The suspect then looked at us shouting, “Stay the %&*$ away from me.” He started towards his car.
“Stop right there,” I yelled. He opened the passenger side door to his car, attempting to dive across to the driver’s seat. We rushed forward and pulled open the door as he was trying to put the keys into the ignition to drive off. I reached for the keys and the fight was on.
He was a strong guy, and trying very hard to get away. We were getting tossed around like rag dolls trying to get ahold of him. It was confined space inside the car and he had the upper hand since we couldn’t use OC or our sticks.
Eddie went over to the driver’s door in order to come at him from the other side. Now he was alternating between hitting me and Eddie. After he delivered a quick shot to my nose, I grabbed my radio and called an OT (Officer in Trouble).
We both struggled with the suspect and tried to hold on while waiting for the cavalry. Sergeant Cheryl Pichon was the next on scene. She was a great boss and was never afraid to mix it up with the best of them. The Sarge jumped in and the guy threw some shots at her when he wasn’t walloping me and Eddie. During the course of the struggle, the guy’s glove box opened and out fell a bunch of items.
We were still getting our asses kicked when I saw Sergeant Pichon reach over and grab the button on the guy’s shirt. She ripped off the button, then picked up an item from the floor. It was some type of root. She said, “my mother is a Louisiana witch, you son of a bitch. I’ve got your ginger, and now I got your button. You better stop right now or I will curse you like you have never seen.”
He went completely limp and complied, even apologizing and begging her forgiveness. We then cuffed him and got him out of the car. Even though he kicked our asses he now looked like he just did twelve rounds with Mike Tyson. The troops came and we placed him in a wagon. Sergeant Pichon came over and asked me if I was ok?
“Yeah, I’m okay. What just happened there?”
She laughed and said, “When the glove box opened, I saw that a ginger root fell out. If you know anything about Voodoo, those who believe keep a ginger root to protect themselves from evil curses. If you take their ginger root and grab a piece of hair or a piece of their clothing, you can put a curse on them and they are unprotected. Once I had his button he was afraid I could curse him. It’s some old Louisiana folklore my mother taught me. If you have their ginger you have their power.”
Years later, as a patrol supervisor, I responded to assist some of my officers for a woman in distress. On arrival, they met an elderly woman who reported her neighbors had put a voodoo curse on her and were keeping her up at night. She had called the police over 50 times in three weeks about voodoo curses.
When I arrived on scene, I took ten bucks out of my pocket and dispatched an officer to the supermarket for a couple of ginger roots. When he came back with the ginger roots, I exchanged the women’s newspaper with the alleged curser’s newspaper, which was sitting in front of their door.
I handed the woman the paper and the roots and said, “If you have their paper and the ginger roots they can’t hurt you.”
She took a deep breath and said, “Thank you, I should have thought of that. Thank you.” There were no more Voodoo curse calls from the apartment.
It pays to understand other cultures.
