An Assignment

I was a uniformed volunteer policeman in Haifa from 2007 through 2022. Prior to that I was also a uniformed volunteer policeman in Rehovot from 2001 through 2004. And this accident was one of my assignments. 

When I arrived at the scene of the accident on Hail HaYam Street next to the red and white railroad barrier beyond the track crossing, a Magen David Adom ambulance was already there with its own flashing lights. Zim Square was ahead of me in front of the Rambam Healthcare Campus, and the heavily guarded entrance to Haifa Port was to the right of the square. The police radio dispatcher had sent me the incident at the direction of the traffic shift commander. An automobile had struck a bicycle. The driver reported it to the emergency call center. There were no other details. I parked my cruiser, its motor still running and its blue and red lights flashing overhead, behind a large blue Buick stopped on the right side of the street behind the ambulance. A rusty old red bicycle lay on the ground off to the side. To our left in the street, heavy semitrailers stinking of diesel exhaust that overwhelmed the faint scents of the adjacent Mediterranean Sea carried shipping containers to the docks, rumbling past the group of paramedics and civilians who had gathered next the ambulance. According to police regulations, volunteers were not supposed to work alone, but because the traffic branch was understaffed, and because I had many years of experience on traffic duty, the shift commander had decided that I should work without a partner on that bright sunny spring morning. Carrying a clipboard of incident report forms that I had designed and printed for accidents, I joined the group. My blue uniform bore honorary ranks, so no one would know that I was merely a volunteer unless I chose to tell them.

Next to the ambulance were three paramedics looking after a guy in the back and two civilians loitering nearby. "Good morning," I said to no one in particular in the crowd. "What happened?"

An MDA uniformed paramedic around 30 years old, bearded and speaking in Russian accented Hebrew responded. "This guy was knocked off his bicycle by a car," he said pointing to a short man with cropped gray hair about 70 years old, dressed in shabby shorts and a tee-shirt in the back of the ambulance. He was scraped, and I could see a bruise on his forehead.

"What's your name? How are you feeling?" I asked the man in the ambulance.

The guy just stared at me and didn't answer. "He doesn't speak Hebrew," said the paramedic. "I can translate to Russian."

"Is the driver of the vehicle that struck the bicycle here?" I asked the crowd.

"Yes, that's me," said another elderly man dressed in neat business casual attire who was standing nearby with his passenger.

To the paramedic I said, "Please, look after the bicyclist for a few minutes. Try to get some ID. I'll be back to ask him what happened." To the Buick driver I said, "Let's go over to your car to talk. Please give me your driver license, vehicle license, and insurance documents."

Next to the Buick, I took a statement from the driver, examined his vehicle, and I recorded all of the information in the incident report. Returning to the ambulance the paramedic gave me the man's name and ID number. By this time the man was standing outside of the ambulance.

"What's his condition?" I asked. It was a standard question that we were required to record in the incident report.

"He's lightly injured, but I think that he should go to the ER to be examined. He refuses to go. I can't force him."

"OK, let me talk to him. Please translate."

"Grigory," I said. "How do you feel?" The paramedic translated.

Grigory said something in Russian. "He says that he feels fine," said the paramedic.

"Grigory, you should let the paramedics take you to the hospital. It's right here," I said and pointed to Rambam just across the street. The paramedic translated again.

"I want to go home. I don't want to go to the hospital," said my translator.

The paramedic raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

I could see that Grigory was unsteady on his feet, and he appeared to be confused. "Grigory, I want you to listen to me. Are you listening?" The paramedic translated, and Grigory said "Da".

"I am a policeman, and I am ordering you to go to the hospital in the ambulance. You don't have any choice. You must go with the paramedics. Do you understand what I am telling you?" The paramedic translated to Russian.

Grigory sighed and responded "Da". Of course, I had no authority to order him to go the hospital. I was depending on his Russian/Soviet background and ignorance of Israeli norms to achieve compliance to a policeman's orders without question. If word got back to my police superiors that I had ordered him to the hospital against his will I would be reprimanded at the least. Looking at the bump on his head I had decided that it was more important to get him to the doctors than to follow the rules.

I gave the police incident number to the paramedics, told them to take him to the hospital, and then I released the driver of the car that had hit the bicycle. I finished completing the incident report, recording that Grigory had been taken to the hospital in the ambulance, omitting that it had been against his will.

At the end of my shift back in headquarters, I turned in my paperwork to the shift commander. I asked if he had heard anything about Grigory's condition.

"Yes," he replied. "The doctors discovered a subdural hematoma. It could have killed him, but they treated it in time. He will be fine."

The beautiful spring morning had turned into a lovely afternoon.