Abstract
Young men (aged 18–24) represent a quarter of all episodes of police custody detention for adult males in Victoria, Australia. Despite this, little is known about their experience. Using Bacchi’s Foucauldian-influenced “What’s the problem represented to be?” approach and data from interviews with 28 young men with histories of injecting drug use who were detained in police custody prior to adult prison, we aim to address this gap in the literature. We highlight how dividing practices of discrimination made possible their subjectification as “dangerous violent Others” and how unruly behaviour and self-harm were simultaneous mechanisms for voicing their despair and frustration, for gaining power in a place in which they had very little control and for resisting dominant truths imposed upon them as worthless subjects. It is such positioning we argue, that allowed the forfeiting of their rights to basic health care, fair treatment and respect, and at the same time produced and exacerbated a range of psychological, physical and social harms. Our analysis raises important questions about police custody, notably its role in the production of inequality and further marginalisation of vulnerable groups.
Keywords
Introduction
Young men (aged 18–24 years) account for over a quarter of all episodes of police custody detention for adult males in the state of Victoria, Australia (Victoria Police, 2018). For many of these young men, police custody is the first stop on the journey to prison. Little is known about their experience of adult prison (see Halsey & Deegan, 2012, 2014, 2015; Walker, Higgs, Stoové, & Wilson, 2018; Walker, Lancaster, Stoove, Higgs, & Wilson, 2018), but even less is known about their experience of police custody.
One in six adult male prisoners in Australia are aged under 25. They are amongst the most vulnerable prisoners, typically characterised by socio-economic disadvantage, poor educational and employment histories, and a complex combination of substance use and mental health issues. They are more likely to have been be detained as juveniles and to return to prison (and therefore police custody) than any other age group (Ombudsman, 2014; van Dooren, Kinner, & Butler, 2010). Three-quarters report histories of illicit drug use, a rate higher than for older prisoners, and those who inject drugs are amongst the most marginalised of these, experiencing an even greater likelihood of reincarceration and a return to police custody than their non-injecting peers (Australian Bureau of Statistics (ABS), 2018; Australian Institute of Health and Welfare, 2015). Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders are disproportionately over-represented, accounting for almost a third of these young male prisoners (ABS, 2018), a phenomenon recognised as stemming from colonisation, past policies of dispossession (of land, children and culture) and racist practices within society (Cunneen & Tauri, 2016; White, 2015).
For young male prisoners, police custody represents the first point of detention in the criminal justice process after their arrest. At this time, untreated health issues and unmet needs in the social and welfare domains are common and may be exacerbated by the psychological distress of arrest and/or drug intoxication and withdrawal (Coghlan, Gannoni, Goldsmid, Patterson, & Willis, 2015; Ogloff, Warren, Tye, Blaher, & Thomas, 2011). Although a small (albeit growing) body of research has focused on the experience of police detainees in Australia and the UK (Choongh, 1998; Dixon, 1997, 2005; Kendall, 2018; McDaniel, 2019; Skinns, 2011, 2019; Skinns, Wooff, & Sprawson, 2015; Wooff & Skinns, 2018), no previous researchers (to our knowledge) have attended to the perspectives of young men or those with injecting drug use histories.
Using interview data from a qualitative study of young men with histories of injecting drugs, who were detained in police custody prior to their most recent incarceration in adult prison, we aim to address this gap in the literature. Our analysis is undertaken using Bacchi’s (2009, 2016) “What’s the problem represented to be?” (WPR) approach, a technique intended to facilitate critical interrogation of governing policies and practices. We reveal how government, although claiming to protect the community and keep Victorians safe, does so only for particular groups. We highlight how the dividing discriminatory governing practices of police custody enable the production of “dangerous unworthy” subjects and a range of social, psychological and physical harms. Our analysis raises important questions about police custody, notably its role in legitimising the further discrimination and subordination of already vulnerable and marginalised groups.
Before presenting our analysis, we provide a brief overview of the police custody environment in Victoria, Australia, followed by an outline of Bacchi’s WPR approach and the methods used to collect and analyse interview data, including a brief description of the participants in the study. Our analysis is presented via two themes, “dividing practices of discrimination” and “producing acts of protest”, followed by concluding remarks.
Police custody in context
Police custody in Victoria (also referred to as the police cells, lock-up or watch-house) is the usual entry point into the criminal justice system for people under investigation for a criminal offence, including people who have been charged and awaiting a decision about bail or transfer to a remand prison, and sentenced and remand prisoners in transit before and after appearing in court (Office of Police Integrity (OPI), 2010, p. 6). Police custody is also a place for the temporary confinement of people who are intoxicated or appear mentally ill (ibid).
The management and supervision of police detainees varies across Australian jurisdictions. In contrast to the UK, where police custody is mostly distinct from court cells (Skinns, 2019), in some Australian states post-remand defendants are detained with suspects awaiting decisions about charges and bail, but are managed by different staff in separate sections of custody facilities (Galouzis & Corben, 2016). In Victoria, all detainees are held on the same premises and are managed by the same staff. Unlike in the UK, where single-occupancy cells are provided, detainees in Victorian police custody are required to share cells (Skinns, 2011). Although sentenced prisoners are expected to be segregated from other detainees, as are those who are intoxicated, at risk of self-harm, or mentally ill (OPI, 2008), overcrowding reportedly often prevents this occurring (Ombudsman, 2014). Furthermore, a recommendation that detainees are held no longer than 14 days 1 (Corrections Victoria, 2015) is often neglected due to overcrowding, and in an attempt to accommodate those attending court, it has been noted that detainees are often transferred through multiple custody facilities before transfer to prison (Ombudsman, 2014).
In Victoria, 22 police custody suites for temporarily holding 294 detainees (OPI, 2010) are scattered across rural/regional and metropolitan areas (mostly near a Magistrates’ Court). The daily management of detainees and custody facilities has predominantly been the role of police officers, but outsourcing of some functions (including property management, detention duties, catering and medical services) to private providers is increasingly occurring, as is the case in the UK (Skinns, 2011). For example, the Melbourne Custody Centre (Victoria’s largest custody facility, which provides 24/7 health services for detainees, including one medical bed) has been privately managed for two decades; people with histories of violent behaviour are usually held there, as are those who are intoxicated, and those experiencing acute mental or physical health issues (including withdrawal symptoms).
In 2008, the OPI developed a “toolkit” based on principles set out in the Victorian Charter of Human Rights and Responsibilities Act 2006 (Parliament of Victoria, 2006) that aims to “to provide a framework for assessing the conditions in police cells, having regard to human rights [and] to assess progress in the ongoing improvement of the treatment and care of people in police custody” (OPI, 2008, p. 3). A follow-up audit in 2009 (OPI, 2010) found many issues contrary to human rights principles, including that some detainees were held in police cells when they should have been in a hospital or another health care facility, and that staffing levels were inadequate to ensure minimum standards of care (OPI, 2010, p. 19). An Ombudsman’s investigation in 2014 reported similar concerns for detainees, including (in particular) overcrowding and a lack of access to appropriate health care, especially for those at risk of suicide or self-harm, or intoxicated and withdrawing from substance use (Ombudsman, 2014). Recommendations for addressing these concerns were made to government. Our findings suggest little has changed since.
Presented in the Victorian Government’s (2018a) Community Safety Statement, ostensibly for the reason of protecting the community and keeping Victorians safe, is a suite of “tough on crime” legislative initiatives for “cracking down on crime” (p. 12), including several with direct implications for police detainees. The training and employment by Victoria Police (since 2016) of 400 new Police Custody Officers to oversee the management and welfare of detainees, including their health, wellbeing and safety (Victoria Police, 2019)—a role previously undertaken by Police Officers—is one such initiative. Positioned as a mechanism for keeping the community safe, a stated aim of the appointment of Police Custody Officers is to “free up police officers” from custody duties “so they can return to the frontline and protect the community” 2 (Victorian Government, 2018b). In the Community Safety Statement, refrains such as “developing strong new police powers to target dangerous and repeat offenders” (p. 10), “cracking down on youth offending” (p. 11) and “tougher punishments for young people” (p. 14) (Victorian Government, 2018a) sit alongside—apparently without irony—a commitment that the Government will “make sure vulnerable children and young people are kept safe” (p. 21). In the following analysis, we highlight how such claims neglect the needs and rights of particular groups of vulnerable young people, with detrimental consequences for their physical and mental health and wellbeing.
Research methods
Bacchi’s (2009) poststructural WPR approach has been applied across a number of fields, including the alcohol and other drug, law, criminal justice and health sectors (Bacchi, 2016, 2018; Lancaster, Seear, & Treloar, 2015; Scallan, Lancaster, & Kouyoumdjian, 2019; Seear & Fraser, 2014; Walker, Lancaster et al., 2018). Influenced by Foucault (1994), this poststructural approach challenges the commonly held view that government’s role is “to solve ‘problems’ that sit outside them, waiting to be addressed” (Bacchi & Goodwin, 2016, p. 14). Rather, it is posed that governmental practices, in the broad sense, are active in producing or giving shape to “problems” and that how these “problems” are constituted can have harmful effects for particular groups of people. The approach involves a mode of problematising that allows the interrogation of deep-seated assumptions within governing practices (Foucault, 1994). Drawing attention to how subject positions are shaped and produced within these practices and how they coalesce in what Foucault (1982) describes as “dividing practices”—disenfranchising processes of differentiation, subordination and “Othering” (Said, 1978) that separate groups of people or place them in opposition to each other—is a key purpose of a WPR approach and our investigation. Although Bacchi’s approach has been used extensively to interrogate text in the form of policy and practice documents, Bacchi and Goodwin (2016) argue that interviews, like all knowledge practices, are inherently political and are therefore useful tools for understanding how we are produced as particular kinds of subjects (see Bonham & Bacchi, 2017; Bottrell & Goodwin, 2011; Gautier, De Allegri, & Ridde, 2019; Walker, Lancaster et al., 2018). Our study aims to build on this scholarship.
The transcripts of in-depth interviews conducted with 28 young men (aged 19–24) with histories of injecting drugs are the focus of our analysis. Participants were recruited from the Prison and Transition Health (PATH) study (see Kirwan et al., 2019), which is examining the health and criminal justice trajectories of 400 male prisoners 3 with recent injecting drug use histories. Thirty-seven PATH participants were aged 18–24 years. Contact tracing methods were used to locate them after their prison release, via secondary contact information provided in prison. Of the 37, nine were unable to be located within six months of release and thus were ineligible according to study criteria.
The first author conducted in-depth interviews between August 2015 and 2016. Young men were paid $40 for each interview. A flexible semi-structured interview guide, with broad overarching themes and prompts related to experiences of incarceration, drug use and release from prison, allowed for the emergence of unanticipated topics. Police custody was one such topic arising in early interviews, and the interview guide was adapted progressively to include this and other issues worthy of further exploration. Interviews were audio-recorded and transcribed to ensure things said were accurately represented. Accounts related to experiences of police custody, in particular the treatment they received whilst detained (how their health, wellbeing and safety were managed), were coded into themes using an inductive iterative process (Braun & Clarke, 2006; Hansen, 2006).
A second-level analysis was conducted using Bacchi’s framework (see Bacchi, 2009, p. xii), with a particular focus on her questions three and five, “what deep-seated presuppositions or assumptions underlie this representation of the ‘problem’?” (Q3), and “what effects (lived and subjectification) are produced by this representation of the ‘problem’?” (Q5) (2009, pp. xii, 2). Importantly, our interest is not in why particular practices were used or not, or in interrogating the assumptions, beliefs, biases or attitudes of those responsible for such practices, but in examining the meanings and assumptions that gave rise to them and allowed such things to occur, as well as the subjectification and lived effects that were produced as a result.
In the accounts that follow, pseudonyms are used to protect participant anonymity.
Participant characteristics
All but two of 28 participants were Australian born and eight were Aboriginal and/or Torres Strait Islanders. Most were residing in the highest-ranked postcodes of disadvantage in Victoria when interviewed (Vinson, Rawsthorne, Beavis, & Ericson, 2015), two-thirds in rural/regional towns. All but four self-reported at least one mental health condition, and 15 reported three or more diagnoses. Twenty-six reported being juvenile detainees and/or confined in adult prisons prior to the incarceration period in which they were recruited. Many had experienced repeated trauma such as exposure to family and drug-related violence, removal from parents’ care as children, and parental incarceration. One-quarter first injected drugs before age 15 and most were using multiple drugs (predominantly benzodiazepines, cannabis, crystal methamphetamine [ice] and heroin) in the month before their most recent detention; almost two-thirds were injecting drugs daily in that period (see Table 1 for participant characteristics).
Self-reported participant characteristics.
PTSD: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Results
Each young man in this study said they had been in police custody detention at least twice, and more than three-quarters had been detained numerous times, including some who said they had been “in and out too many times to remember”. Their most recent experiences 4 lasted from three to 30 days, with more than half reporting being detained for at least two weeks. Accounts of being transferred through multiple custody facilities (sometimes up to five per custody event) due to overcrowding were common, with some travelling to rural locations up to four hours away only to be returned to the same cells within days. These experiences brought angst due to uncertainty about when and where they would be going next—prison or more police cells. Most young men reported being charged with several offences, varying from less serious (such as breaches of community corrections orders for testing positive to drug use or missing appointments, driving an unregistered and/or stolen car and/or without a licence, and drug possession and use) to more serious (such as trafficking drugs, burglaries, armed robberies and assault). More than two-thirds were intoxicated at the time of the offence and almost half committed their most recent crimes to pay for drugs. Most arrived in the cells hungry and tired (especially those who had been using crystal methamphetamine daily), and more than half had stopped taking prescribed medication for existing health conditions.
Young men’s descriptions of the physical conditions of police custody included reports of old, dirty, over-crowded spaces, sleeping on hard concrete surfaces without sufficient bedding or warmth, toileting and showering in view of other detainees and staff, and wearing the same clothing for their entire stay. The discomfort associated with these issues was exacerbated by drug intoxication and/or withdrawal.
Dividing practices of discrimination
Deprived of their liberty whilst in police custody, detainees are reliant on custody staff to provide them with the things they need, including at a minimum access to health care and family visits, to be informed of the time, and even sometimes to be taken to the toilet. For the majority of young men in this study, delayed or ignored responses to requests for such things were the norm, with most believing the treatment they received was neglectful, uncaring and unfair. Participant accounts highlight how discretionary practices of power functioned to establish who deserved just and respectful treatment and who did not (Skinns, 2019; Soss & Weaver, 2017). Underpinned by stigmatising assumptions about their status as users of drugs, repeat offenders, members of families involved in drug use and crime, and/or as Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders, these practices made possible their constitution as undesirable social deviants and made them undeserving of basic human rights.
Feeling constantly targeted by the police and the subject of frequent surveillance and adversarial treatment had been a common feature of most participants’ teens and early adulthood. Social marginality, histories of injecting drug use and criminal justice involvement, including for many, continuous youth supervision orders or community corrections orders since their teens (when not incarcerated), were contributing factors—a finding also mirrored in other studies (Ilan, 2018; McAra & McVie, 2005; White, 2015). Young men’s accounts illustrate how these discriminatory practices flowed into the police custody environment and produced deleterious effects on their health and wellbeing.
Being perceived as untrustworthy and the “usual suspects”, and being blamed for crimes they did not commit, just because they used drugs, were common experiences. Seb’s account speaks to how being a known “ice user” in the community made possible his constitution as “worthless” and “no good”, and thus the target of poor treatment: Yeah, the cells was a place where we were known so well. Like I just became this known person they’d target. Just treat [us] like shit, like every time, ‘cause they knew we were part of the ice community, the ice users, ya know. And ice users are up to no good! That’s just what it is, ya know? So, if you’re on drugs you’re immediately assumed as no good! Worthless! A target pretty much, yeah. At least when you get [to prison] you see a doctor, psychologists. [But] there’s no health care in the cells. Aw, they give ya a withdrawal pack … pfftt … [Last time] I was so sick. There’s no medical care. I’ll ask for a doctor [but] it could be three days before you seen one! And [staff] don’t listen you know. They don’t care. They just think you’re trying to get drugs, so all they ever offer you is Panadol … I’m in a lotta pain ‘cause of the drugs and that you know, but they just don’t care. Like ya get like one of us junkies ya know, that have been in and outta the cells, and in prison all their lives, ya know … It’s like “Treat this cunt like shit!” It’s like, “Hang on mate! Like, I’ve explained what I want, what I’ve asked for, yeah! Don’t just palm me off because you can’t be bothered, ya know. It’s your job.” … They’ve got a duty of care, you know what I mean? Like it’s just human rights, basic human rights really. Like everybody has the right to be treated justly and that sort of thing … Like just ‘cause we’re junkies, and we’ve been in out all our lives! What, we don’t matter? Our rights, like we have no rights! … I’m labelled a career criminal, that’s how they put me. That’s followed me around all my life, ‘cause as I said, I’ve been in police custody heaps of times, and my dad went to prison when I was ten. I was locked up at a young age, ya know. Like I said, [custody staff] just look at me as an ex-prisoner with a drug record, even though all I ever did was sold drugs! You gotta understand, my dad came from a big crime-syndicate family and he was in and outta prison all my life [until he was 13, when his dad was murdered]. So, when I’m in the cells they just know me from that … Yeah, they always treat ya like shit just ‘cause of who your family is! Nah, the cops there aren’t a big fan of ours … Yeah, they know all my family, ‘cause everyone’s been to jail – aw, not my mum! But all my brothers and sisters and my dad. Yeah, they always just treat us fellas like shit!
Through young men’s ascribed status as “drug users”, “ex-criminals” and Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders, we maintain that their subjectification as an underclass of innate deviants was made possible (Ilan, 2018; McAra & McVie, 2005; Schinkel, Atkinson, & Anderson, 2019). Findings highlight how subject positions and identities, rather than being pre-determined or innate, are shaped and constructed through practices of government. Accounts reflect how criminal stigma becomes a force that envelopes individuals regardless of their actual transgressions, or indeed whether their guilt has even been established (Soss & Weaver, 2017, p. 581). The enforcing of this social stigma, we argue, functioned to legitimate and authorise practices of discrimination (Wacquant, 2010).
Producing acts of protest
Feeling they had no legitimate recourse in an environment where requests for care and complaints about a lack thereof were not taken seriously, young men used unruly behaviour and self-harming to convey despair and frustration, and to gain authority in a place in which they had very little control (Fiske, 2016; Nieminen, 2016). This behaviour we argue, also operated as a form of resistance to dominant truths imposed upon them as worthless subjects, undeserving of fair and just treatment.
Self-harm in response to unattended requests for care (including medication for chronic pain, mental health issues and developmental disabilities, and opioid substitution therapy (OST) for heroin withdrawal), became a mechanism for exercising power and re-establishing their civic right to such things. Noah was one of at least seven interviewees who self-harmed (including punching and headbutting concrete walls, cutting and hunger striking). He described how requests for medication for chronic pain (that was unrelieved by analgesia in the withdrawal pack) were ignored and how he self-harmed to gain the attention of staff: I ran as hard as I could, and BOOM, into the little slit of the door. Yeah, split my head open to try and get some attention. Yeah, if you’re bleeding, they have to give you medical attention … but all I got was a couple of valiums [and] stitches … Yeah it took all that! To split me head open with a three-inch gash across the top of my forehead with fuckin’ blood all over the floor to get their attention! I was hanging out bad. I was on suboxone and had my script valid for that day [but because] they wouldn’t take me to [the cells] ‘til seven at night, the chemist was shut. Like I kept telling them, “you need to get me my dose!” I had blades on me. I ended up cutting, and I got twenty-two stitches. They took me to hospital, drugged me up, then they took me back to the cells.
Although self-harming was a strategy to make visible young men’s need for more care and compassion, and proof of their despair and suffering when legitimate requests were perceived as being ignored, mostly these acts reinforced their positioning as deviant subjects who threatened the safety and security of the system, and thus worked to justify even more punitive responses. Sam’s extract speaks to this. He was withdrawing from daily ice use, experiencing symptoms of schizophrenia and in need of medical attention. He described how requests to see a mental health practitioner were ignored and pushed him to self-harm. Instead of receiving the medical care he believed he needed, he described being placed in a rubber-walled room with nothing but a drain hole in the floor that he believed had been used for urination (because of the stench). He felt humiliated and degraded, that his mental health needs remained unaddressed, and he did not see a mental health worker until he arrived at the assessment prison: I kept asking the [staff], to um, speak to a mental health worker [but] they kept not bringin’ him to see me. And so, well I kept kickin’ up about that, and started headbutting the fibreglass windows … The officers made a joke about how it was fibreglass and wasn’t gonna do me no damage, so I headbutted the brick wall instead. They dragged me outta the cell and made it seem like … they were taking me to see a mental health worker. If you’re headbutting a brick wall, I dare say it’s probably who you should be speaking to! But instead, they put me in a padded cell with a suicide blanket. I can tell ya, I’m not doing that again!
In an environment where young men had little control, unruly behaviour such as kicking doors, yelling and speaking back at staff were also actions for exercising power and making visible their protest when requests for medication, care and other needs were perceived to be delayed or ignored. Although no law requires detainees to show deference to custody staff, not doing so (which sometimes even included questioning or challenging the neglectful or abusive treatment they received) was perceived as challenging authority and often resulted in punitive responses. These varied from harassment and threats to physical assault and violence (including the use of pepper spray while restrained, forcing detainees into cells, inflicting bodily injury via striking or shoving detainees, and solitary confinement). For example, one young man said he was hit on the head with a torch for laughing and sneering at custody staff because they did not have the evidence to charge him with a crime. Like others, he said he did not seek medical attention because he believed “lagging” (reporting) on staff would bring more abuse. Another participant who complained about missing his court appearance because of overcrowding in the police cells was told to “Shut the fuck up or you’ll have a shitload more to complain about!” William described how protest in the form of unruly behaviour was the only means available for exercising his power when requests for health care were ignored. Such acts reinforced his positioning as a threat to the safety and security of staff and the facility and served as evidence of his assumed dangerous criminality, subjectivities which legitimised a punitive response: My [cellmate] had schizophrenia [and] was going absolutely loopy, flipping out. He had a script for [medication] just to calm him down [and] we just had to try and get the point across to [staff] to give him his medication ‘cause he was going absolutely mental, talking to himself. But the [staff] wouldn’t listen … They wouldn’t even let him speak to his parents! So, we started throwing toilet paper over the camera to get their attention. Yeah, we trashed the place!
Entitlements such as access to family visits or exercise were sometimes enacted as privileges, rather than rights, that could be withdrawn as punishment and sanctions for “bad” behaviour. Although detainees are permitted “a visit from family or friends at least twice a week” (OPI, 2008, p. 7), most said they did not receive them. Many were transferred to locations far from family due to overcrowding, others said they were simply told visits were not allowed or were not made aware of these rights, and others were reportedly denied visits as punishment. TJ, for example, believed custody staff denied him family contact because last time he was detained he had been intoxicated, and because he was amongst a group of detainees they simply “didn’t like”. His parents had travelled from interstate, with the intention of visiting him in the cells following his court appearance. Anger at the perceived injustice of his treatment, which he believed was illegitimate, pushed Seb to violently self-harm as a form of protest: I thought I was gonna be able to hug ‘em, and go “fuckin’ thank-you for coming”, but I didn’t get to see them at all … I got back to the cells and they go, “Got good news for you mate! We’re not gonna let you see your parents”. That’s what the cops said! And I FUCKING lost it. I swear I broke my hand. I was bleeding everywhere, and yelling and fuckin’. Like I said, they didn’t like us. Like from the start, they didn’t like us … Yeah, he just smiled, and flicked the blinds so I couldn’t see them. And I just went BOOM, BOOM, BOOM on the door … [They] wouldn’t even let them leave a letter for me!
Although the Government declares it will “make sure vulnerable children and young people are kept safe” (Victorian Government, 2018a, p. 21), our analysis of young men's accounts illustrates how the protection of some is made possible over that of others. Not only were these vulnerable young men not afforded protection and safety, but as accounts illustrate, neglectful punitive practices made possible the production and exacerbation of physical, psychological and social harms, including family disconnection, injury from violence and self-harm, and painful and distressing withdrawal symptoms.
Concluding remarks
Bacchi’s (2009, 2016) WPR approach has provided a lens through which the governing practices of police custody have been magnified. Our analysis of young men’s accounts of the treatment they report to have received there disrupts taken-for-granted assumptions about its purpose as a place to simply detain people awaiting court and/or transfer to prison. Health and social vulnerabilities were seemingly magnified through dividing practices of differentiation and subordination, neglect of their treatment and care needs, and the direct production of other harms. Participant’s accounts illustrate how self-harm and unruly behaviour were mechanisms of protest at the perceived lack of justice experienced but also acts of resistance to imposed subjectivities (Bacchi & Goodwin, 2016). We also highlight how contestation reinforced their positioning as “disobedient violent Others” and therefore potentially helped to justify the neglect of their health and wellbeing needs.
We have teased out assumptions underpinning Victorian police custody practices and directed attention to the discourses and meanings that made possible young men’s subjectification as “dangerous” and “undeserving”. Findings illustrate the ways governing practices install certain assumptions about particular groups that make possible and justify their harmful treatment. We argue that the Government’s mission to “crack down on crime” in order to “keep the community safe” relies on segregation and exclusion, whereby marginalised at-risk populations are identified and earmarked as threatening to community safety, in contrast to those who need to be protected from such groups (Drake, 2014). Challenging the types of thinking that are foreclosed when we subjectify individuals as Other, we have highlighted how political conditions and structures enacted via governing practices not only sustain but encourage further inequality, violence and harm (Skinns, 2019).
Our analysis reveals how police custody, while serving a utilitarian purpose of housing people awaiting sentencing and imprisonment, has little to do with administering justice and much to do with reinforcing dominant ideologies that protect the interests of some while disregarding the rights of Others. As Drake (2014) argues, “although the safety and protection of society may be a taken-for-granted central purpose of the law, in practice it serves to protect only some people and only from some kinds of harm” (p. 134). Narratives highlight how practices with respect to members of one group (detainees) divert attention from the members of another (those responsible for their health, wellbeing and safety). For, as McCulloch (2004) states, By concentrating predominantly on […] crimes that are generally committed by relatively disadvantaged and powerless members of society, law and order politics distracts attention from the crimes and other behaviours [such as acts of violence and abuse targeted at police detainees] committed by more powerful members of the community and state agents, like police, that may cause greater social harm. (p. 89) Trade-offs between liberty, human or civil rights and security are justified and deemed as necessary, and the harms associated with such trade-offs, as well as the question of whether such trade-offs actually result in more secure conditions, remain unconsidered. (p. 126)
By challenging the types of thinking that are foreclosed when we subjectify individuals as Other, as Bacchi’s (2009) approach advises, the social, political and economic conditions and structures that sustain and encourage inequality and marginalisation are opened up for contestation. That is, systemic issues such as prison overcrowding, the over-incarceration of Indigenous people, the lack of housing and drug treatment options for people leaving prison, and the under-resourcing of health staff to manage the complex health issues of people detained in police custody remain overlooked (Ombudsman, 2014; OPI, 2010). By locating the “problem” within individuals, attentions are drawn away from the structural systems that shape policing practices, and the political and social forces that produce crime and drug use (Dixon, 2005).
If indeed, as is claimed in the Policing and Human Rights: Standards for Police Cells toolkit, that “all persons deprived of liberty must be treated with humanity and with respect for the inherent dignity of the human person” (OPI, 2008, p. 1), an investment and commitment by government to enforce these standards is necessary. The work of Skinns and colleagues (Skinns, 2018, 2019; Skinns et al., 2015) on good policing practices offers important insights. Furthermore, the Australian Government’s ratification (in 2017) of the United Nations (UN) Optional Protocol to the Convention Against Torture and Other Cruel, Inhuman or Degrading Treatment or Punishment (Australian Human Rights Commission, 2018), which will require police custody facilities to be independently inspected and monitored by a UN Subcommittee, also has the potential to bridge the gap between rhetoric and practice. For as findings highlight, whilst policies and human rights standards may exist as a guide for delivering fair, transparent, respectful treatment to police detainees, it is in the practice of such principles and the ability to administer these standards that real human rights can be claimed to be upheld.
This study has several limitations. First, we acknowledge findings are focused only on detainees and do not include the perspectives of those who manage and look after people detained in police custody in Victoria. Second, we concede that results are non-representative of all detainees, or indeed all custody facilities, given custody management policies and practices differ across jurisdictions. Finally, it was beyond the scope of this article to explore in detail, the contrasting experiences of Indigenous and non-Indigenous detainees. The disproportionate over-representation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders in the criminal justice system (and indeed within our study) underscores the need for research focusing on their unique experiences as a “lack of discussion about the racializing consequences of the criminal justice system serve[s] to stymie meaningful debate” (Parmar, 2016, p. 35) and hampers understanding of how forms of oppression intersect and shape one another. Nonetheless, we believe our analysis fills a significant gap in the literature, raising important insights about the damaging effects of police custody for highly vulnerable people detained there, and in doing so poses critical questions about human rights principles and practice.
Footnotes
Acknowledgements
First and foremost, we would like to thank the young men who shared their stories and insights for this research. We would also like to thank Campbell Aitken for editorial assistance and the journal editorial team and anonymous reviewers for comments on an earlier draft of this article. Finally, we would like to acknowledge the Victorian Department of Justice and Community Safety for supporting this study.
Declaration of conflicting interests
The author(s) declared the following potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article: The researchers publicly state that material contained in this article cannot be considered as either endorsed by the Department of Justice and Community Safety in Victoria or an expression of the policies or views of Corrections Victoria. Alfred Health, Curtin University, and the Victorian Department of Justice and Community Safety gave ethics approval for this study.
Funding
The author(s) disclosed receipt of the following financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article: This study was supported by an NHMRC Project Grant (GNT1029915). Shelley Walker was supported by an Australian Government Research Training Program scholarship. The National Drug Research Institute at Curtin University is supported by funding from the Australian Government under the Substance Misuse Prevention and Service Improvement Grants Fund, and the Burnet Institute receives support from the Victorian Operational Infrastructure Support Program.