Jim Hopkins: Bureaucratic waffle does little to make driving safer

Allo, 'allo, 'allo. What have we got here, then?

"Nuffink, copper. Nuffink at all, right?"

"Then you won't mind if I pat you down, will you, sir?"

"Do what y'bleedin' like. I don't care. 'Cos y'wastin' y'time, inn't ya? You coppers, you're all alike. Why don't y'go and finger a few speeding motorists instead of harassing decent, law-abiding criminals what ain't done nuffink wrong?

"Ain't done nuffink wrong, have we? Well, in that case, Sir, perhaps you can explain this nice little Quota I've just found concealed about your bureaucratic person."

"What Quota? I don't know nuffink about no Quota. It's a fit-up, innit? I bin framed, in't I? You planted it, din ya? Straight up! Not once, guv'nor, I swear! So 'elp me! If I 'ad, I'd cough, wouldn' I?"

"Well, maybe you would. And maybe you wouldn't. I don't know. But what I do know is ... you're nicked, sunshine!"

With a reassuring click of the trusty cuffs, our spluttering felon is led away to be served an unpalatable helping of his just desserts.

If only it were that simple, folks.

If only we had someone like the ever reliable Dixon of Dock Green who could catch this elusive gang mob-handed, as they say.

If only old Dicky (or his latter day counterpart) could spring 'em in flagrante detecto, camera in hand, Quota in pocket, actually doing the evil deed.

Then it would be easy. Then we could get Detector Inspector Morse to patiently grill some blubbering underling until they eventually and inevitably crack.

Morse: (Gently sliding Exhibit A, an oft-folded Quota in a plastic bag, towards the snivelling wretch beneath the single bulb) "Come on, Constable X. I'm giving you a chance to walk away from this. It's not you we're after. It's the people who supply this filth. The shadowy figures who give the orders. They're the ones we want. Not you, son. All we want from you is some names."

Quivering Wretch: (Perspiring freely) "Oh, Gawd, they'll kill me if they find out. Promise you won't tell 'em I grassed, Morse! (Morse nods) All right! I'll talk. It's Head Office! They put out these 'directives', see. And the Regions get 'em and turn 'em into Quotas, or Performance Targets as they call 'em. But it don't matter what name they give 'em. They still get inside your brain and drive you crazy at the end of the month if y'ain't got enough.

"Please, Morse. Make it stop. That's all I ask. I just wanna feel clean again, know what I mean?"

Morse nods sympathetically and turns to his trusty lieutenant.

"Right, Lewis. Time for a high speed, Prime Ministerial trip in the Jag, I think. There's a few police chiefs who've got some questions to answer!"

Alas, such a scenario is as unlikely as Commissioner Broad telling his Minister it might be a good idea if they held separate press conferences, if only to avoid the disquieting impression that the nation's law enforcers are comfortably nestled in the politicians' pockets.

Instead, we saw them both this week, side by side, Mrs King and Mr Broad, each bearing an uncanny resemblance to school kids with a guilty secret, each hotly denying the existence of anything remotely resembling a Quota.

Excessive enthusiasm was the Commissioner's explanation, deftly exonerating himself and his Minister.

A few of the chaps have misunderstood our "directives". That's all.

In which case, he or one of his chums might like to explain why it is that their "directives" are so ambiguous that sporting rozzers out in the regions can apparently make them the basis of a quota-topping contest.

Mr Broad might also like to crack the Police Department piggy-bank in order to extract sufficient funds to buy a pencil with which he could write a "directive" so clear and precise that no one misunderstands it.

For example: "It is our job to reduce road accidents not issue tickets and every officer will use their discretion in every situation to ensure this happens."

Until he does, Mr Broad must accept that he has a very big problem.

Most New Zealanders don't believe him. Rightly or wrongly, as a result of personal experience and/or various leaks in recent years, the great majority of those he serves are convinced the police do use Quotas, or "performance targets", or "officer optimising operational indicators" or some equally waffly bureaucratic measure when they're out and about on the nation's roads.

And that his real or imagined focus on "targets" is distorting police efforts to make driving safer by encouraging officers to concentrate on easy pickings.

While this may not be true, and Mr Broad certainly asserts it is not, the fact is that his denials are not widely believed.

That is not good for the police and the man in charge needs to understand that.

He needs to realise that every time people in high places - the latest being the Cabinet messenger who stole a vital telecommunications document - don't get prosecuted, the public become a little more cynical and suspicious.

And he needs to appreciate that embarrassed fudging such as we've had this week only exacerbates the problem.

If Mr Broad wants to convince us he's a fair cop, he should start by saying, "It's a fair cop", then tell us what he's going to do next.