A Man on the Brink of Ruin and His Dog (Letter to the Depths)

It was around 12:15 a.m. when I met John at the police station. His bald head bore a dried blood stain and a scar resembling a tree branch with its jagged ends. A few gray streaks of hair adorned his temples. He wore a shirt that once seemed dashing but was now worn out. His bare feet were in plain slippers. We entered one of the empty rooms in the Narcotics division, and I closed the door. I shook his hand and introduced myself. “I’m the lawyer assigned to you by the bar association,” I said, handing him my card. We talked for a while. A police officer peeked in, casting a look as if to say, “Are you still talking?” before leaving. We continued.
John was tense. He was eight years older than me but looked at least 20 years older. He was high and jittery, understandably stressed, and in shock from the incident. As we talked, he began to relax a little. We discussed the case. John and Denis were staying as guests at Michael’s house when the raid occurred. Michael was the homeowner. All three were taken into custody. Two types of drugs were found in the house, and John was considered a suspect in drug trafficking.
John said, “Man, I can’t talk to the prosecutor or judge tomorrow the way I’m talking to you now.” He knew that withdrawal from the substances he’d been using would hit him hard, and he feared facing the prosecutor and judge in such a state.
I explained the legal process he was in. He listened, and perhaps due to his increasing anxiety, he began to speak more quickly but also more openly. He spoke of his sisters, his brothers, and the orphaned children who relied on him. He explained that his family hadn’t heard from him for three months and had filed a missing person’s report.
The topic that excited him the most, though, was his dog. He kept steering the conversation back to the dog. When he was taken by the officers, they had called the dog’s previous owner. The man had come and forcibly taken the dog, beating it in the process as it refused to leave John’s side.
I told John there was a possibility he could be detained. “Man, that dog’s in love with me, can’t live without me. If I’m detained, what will happen to him?” he said. I was surprised. It was established that over 100 grams of different drugs found in the house belonged to him, and he admitted ownership. He was going to spend the night in detention in those slippers.
Just moments before, he had told me about his five sisters, his deceased wife, the orphaned children, his unregistered marriage, and a child he had. Later, I would learn of a woman he loved who lives in far east. Yet, all John could think about was what would happen to his dog without him.
Between 1:00 and 2:00 a.m., I left Narcotics division. On my way out, I shook John’s hand again, disregarding the risk of infectious diseases. “Take care,” I said. The futility of an atheist entrusting a suspect to God’s care was irrelevant at that moment. John remained in detention. If he managed to sleep, he slept.
At 11 a.m., we gave his statement to the prosecutor. Afterward, John addressed the prosecutor with a trembling voice: “Sir, I had a dog. He loved me dearly. They took him away yesterday, beating him in front of me. He can’t live without me. It would be great for both of us if you don’t detain me.” The prosecutor said nothing, and we left.
Later that day, at around 1:30 p.m., I returned to John. I brought him soda and water. I waited for him to drink the soda, hoping the sugar would give him some relief. He was about to appear before the judge, and this was our final conversation before the potential detention. We quickly discussed the statement he would give. “If you’re detained, give me a family member’s number so I can inform them,” I said. “Okay,” he replied, but his mind was elsewhere. Soon, it became clear where his thoughts were.
His eyes welled up, and he swallowed hard. In his weary eyes, deprived of the two substances he regularly consumed, the lights of the courthouse corridors glimmered.
“Man, I got that dog as a pup. He loves me. If I go to the bathroom, he waits by the door. He doesn’t leave. He’s protecting me by doing that. Yesterday, his old owner took him away, beating him in front of me. It broke me. If I’m detained, who will take care of him? Who could? What will he do without me?” His voice trembled as he spoke, nearly breaking into tears.
We entered the hearing, which concluded quickly. All three men were detained for drug trafficking.
As we left the courthouse, the officers allowed the three detainees to smoke a cigarette. I offered cigarettes to John, the other two men, and another lawyer, and I lit one myself.
Standing in front of the vehicle that would take the detainees to the local high security prison, there were three handcuffed detainees, two narcotics officers, myself, and another lawyer smoking together. John told me he’d give me a phone number. Borrowing a phone from the officers, he noted down Rose’s number—his youngest sister. The phone’s battery was at 7%, but given where he was going, it was irrelevant.
“Man, should I tell your sister what you’ve been detained for?” I asked. “Yes, tell her,” he said. “She loves me. She’ll come right away as soon as she hears.” Then his thoughts shifted back to his dog. He believed Anthony couldn’t care for the dog properly and wanted me to arrange for a woman named Selene to look after it. I took down the numbers even though I couldn’t promise anything. I didn’t want to upset him. Perhaps out of compassion.
Occasionally, John would plead with the officers to loosen his handcuffs, saying they were too tight. We smoked another cigarette. Then another. He handed me some cash. “Man, take this back. You’re going to prison,” I said. “Is this money going to save me in prison?” he laughed.
I didn’t insist on returning the money. I was broke that day anyway. We were having our final conversation. He would be detained for an indefinite period and was living his last moments in the open air. When I ran out of cigarettes, John asked for one from the officers. He likely feared running out of cigarettes on his first night in prison and smoked as much as he could before boarding the vehicle.
John kept asking the officers to loosen his handcuffs while I was growing weary. “I’ll talk to your sister. We’ll figure out the dog. I’ll visit you next week,” I said. Once again, I entrusted John to God’s care. I wished the other detainees well and bid the officers good luck before leaving the courthouse.
That evening, I called Rose. “Sorry for disturbing you at this hour. I’m calling from Muğla. I’m Attorney Narko Polo. I’m calling about John, and unfortunately, I have some bad news. He was detained today.” She was calm and polite. She asked what he had been detained for. “Drug trafficking,” I replied. “I knew he used, but I didn’t know he sold,” she said. “It doesn’t seem like he did. The house he was at got raided while he was there,” I said. She asked about the case’s progress and how she could contact John. I explained. We agreed to stay in touch and meet when she came to my city.
As for John’s dog, the following week, I contacted Anthony, who had taken the dog away by force. He messaged me, “Who are you?” “I’m John’s lawyer. I’m reaching out about the dog. Are you Anthony?” I replied. “That’s me,” he wrote back. “Can you give me an update?” I briefly explained the situation. “Anthony, this man loves his dog dearly. He’s worried about it. I’m going to visit him. How’s the dog doing? Is it with you?” He replied in a tone that seemed mocking to me, “No issues at all. The dog’s fine. Besides, it was my dog to begin with. I gave it to John when it was a pup.”
A week or two after John was detained, I visited him in prison. I asked how he was. “I’m not doing well. I feel like cutting myself,” he said. He must have been going crazy from meth and weed withdrawal. He looked terrible. He didn’t even ask about his dog this time. He wanted to discuss his case. While in prison, he had been caught using meth again. Another case was opened.
During our previous conversation—outside the vehicle that would take him to the prison—John had still been able to laugh. It was as if his battered body was telling me he’d get back on his feet, reunite with his dog, and one day bring smiles to the faces of the people he had hurt and worn down. I wanted to believe that. At the time, he’d told me, “If I’m detained, I’ll lose my mind and hang myself in there,” but I wanted to believe John would try to survive in prison somehow.
Because, like me, he must have known that wounds and scars heal over time and that he couldn't go on without forming a deep emotional connection with life.