May 6th, 2012
When you were in high school, if, during career day, a man in a nice suit and tie asked you to become a part of his company, which has good pay and excellent benefits, you'd probably listen to what he had to say.
If the same gentleman told you, "That aside from the great benefits, there is little upside to the position I'm offering you. You'll probably have to work the night shift on weekends, holidays, and special occasions. Anniversaries and special events will probably come without you being with your loved ones. Your life expectancy is five years below the average American age of seventy-eight because the stress will cause health issues. Most people working in the field will self-medicate to help cope with things they see. And more than likely, you'll be a divorce statistic."
My guess is you'll tell that lovely-dressed gentleman to go "pound sand." And yet there are about 700,000 cops in America that listened.
There are other things you sacrifice in this job besides the possibility of losing your life and special events. You sacrifice your family life as well. I knew that. I never had anyone to tell me otherwise.
When I had to work the 7 P.M. night shift on my birthday, I didn't pout. There just wasn't any celebrating that night.
"There'd be other birthdays," I said to myself. Like every other time, I had to work on a special event.
The good thing is my birthday was only a partial washout. I took Mimie on a police ride along with me tonight. We'd spend time together answer some calls then have dinner together.
Our policy and procedure manual states that we have a lunch break during our twelve-hour shift, but that is not guaranteed. You are constantly subjected to recalls while you eat your meal. Most of the time, if it isn't a major disaster or violent crime, a fellow officer will step up for you and take whatever mundane call dispatch gave you so you wouldn't have to leave your meal.
The night was moving slowly, which was a surprise given Mimie's reputation as the "shit stirrer of crime" when she rides with me. It's summertime, and the heat in Florida tonight is sweltering.
The air is thick. It's so heavy that it languishes without much dissipation. The air is so wet it sticks to you like a Florida Beggarweed that sticks to your clothing when you walk through high grass. I guess it's so miserable that not even criminals want to play. So dinner was on without interruption.
We stopped in a now-defunct restaurant called Beefeaters.
The only decent place to eat for any kind of special occasion within my city at the time. The restaurant was nice inside. Brick arches as you walked in. Nice linen tablecloths. A roaring fire; Ithey didn't check the night's weather report. We enjoyed that night together. Good food and great conversation. Can you ask for anything more?
But the truth is Mimie and I could always talk for hours on end; we'd talk. That's what I miss about her most now. No matter what, we'd always talk. Whether we were getting along or not, she was my confidant. I truly miss our conversations now.
After dinner, we drove around the city looking for anything that "went bump in the night." But tonight was a wash.
The outside air immobilized anyone who dared to venture out in it. So at about 1 A.M., Mimie decided she wanted to go home. I drove her back to the police department so she could get her car. She got in and drove off. I decided to follow her car in my marked police car halfway to the condo we shared. It was a close distance away.
We did not get far from the police department when I noticed something unusual.
My city is like "Copland" for police officers. They like to reside here. Especially our own. My supervisor at the time was one of them. He bought his house from another cop who lived there, and it was passed down from generation to generation.
As Mimie turned her white Honda Civic down the main street. I followed close by in my black and white Crown Victorian police car. The road was dark. The street lights are not on.
The darkness cast itself on the houses like a blanket, hiding the face of a scared child. The pitch black made it hard to see through unlit streets and house lights. However, the shapes of cars and objects in the driveways were easy to make out.
I patrol these streets every night. The continuous repetition of driving up and down these roadways day in and day out gives me a tactical edge over the bad guy. I can figure out what should and shouldn't be there, especially at 1 A.M. in the morning.
When I saw a large dark SUV back into my boss's driveway, who was working with me that night. I was suspicious.
I divert my eyes to his driveway and think, "He has his boat hooked up? I guess he's going out on the boat as soon as he gets off this morning, but whose SUV is that, family?'
As I drive a little more past the house, I notice a large cover on the ground in between his house and his neighbor's home.
"Those are his twin motor engine covers for his boat.
I put a little more distance from the house and my police car, and I saw an object or person trying to use the thick of the night as cover and the trees as concealment. The object was all orange.
I knew it was orange because the orange spectrum seemed to glisten off the dampness of the air.
"Well, that's odd," I say.
The orange then disappears like being swallowed by a black hole. I grab the police radio microphone mounted to my car's dash interior.
"Delta 1(my radio identifier) Palm's West (dispatch),10-55 (contact other units), 118 (My supervisor)."
Palm's West:
"He's 10-12 (present with dispatch) Delta 1."
Delta 1:
"10-4 (message acknowledged) Palm's West. Does anyone have permission to take your boat?"
My eyes are fixated on the red tail lights of Mimie's car getting further into the darkness. The red ambient light is about to be swallowed by the creeping in of the blackened street.
Palms West:
"10-9 (repeat your last) Delta 1"
The dispatcher says with a giggle in her tone.
Delta 1:
"Did he allow anyone to take his boat, Palm's West?"
I said impatiently
Palms West:
"He said 10-54 (negative) Delta 1"
Delta 1:
"Well, tell him they're stealing his boat now Palm's West. I'll swing around."
With that last transmission, I approach a four-way intersection guarded by four stop signs. With a flash in my mind, I wonder.
"Did they know I saw them? Are they watching me to see if I saw them?'
"Fuck it, I'm turning around." I use the entire intersection to make a wide U-turn.
When my car was making its u-turn, my sergeant left his seat in dispatch so fast that the chair he was sitting in was still spinning on its ball-barring axis. He ran out the door and down the long corridor. From what I am told by a witness that day, his feet pounded so hard on the ground that it gave a rousing echo off the high ceilings, reverberating the windows and doors with each strike of his heavy Bates work boot.
Another officer said that before he could turn around from his desk and leave to rush to the potential 'boat caper,' his vision caught a blur. His body was a breeze from the unrecognizable object, followed by a slamming back door.
I completed my U-turn and decided to drive as fast as possible. I knew the bad guy or guys knew I had seen them.
I stomped on the gas pedal hard until the flat metal rectangular plate was flat on the car's floorboard. The front of the car raises as the engine revs. The rear-wheeled vehicle digs its tires into the pavement, pulling back everything in the car like a slingshot. As the tires gain traction, the car lunges forward. The G force kept me glued to the back of my seat. The car races down the street. I'm about 20 houses away. I know they see me now; there is no going back.
15 houses
My mind races to what I'll find when I get there. How many people are there? What will I encounter? Will they ambush me? If they run, how will I give chase?
11 houses
The large SUV came into my vision more clearly. I'm ready, I think. My adrenaline is pumping. My head feels lightheaded as all my blood rushes to my lower extremities, preparing for a foot chase or a shooting.
7 Houses out
Like clockwork, I grab my police radio and announce:
Delta 1:
"Palms West, I'm going 10-97" (on the scene)
I drop the mic with my right hand. With my left hand, I grab the handle of the giant spotlight mounted to the left side window. With my left top thumbnail, I flick the little lever that activates the light.
I light up the once-darkened street.
3 houses
Click off the seat belt with my right hand.
2 houses
Move my right hand from the base of the seat belt and grab the steering wheel.
1 house
Scan the area for the bad guys. Focusing the light on the front lawn of the house.
The light is very bright. It illuminates the whole area, and I see 3 potential suspects.
My eyes immediately trained on one suspect wearing all orange. The orange that foiled their plan. I begin to turn my car partially into my boss's driveway. The headlights add more light to the already chaotic scene. The three suspects begin to scatter like cockroaches startled by the kitchen light being turned on abruptly.
I placed my car in the park before it could stop by itself with the brakes applied. The transmission grinds, and the vehicle lightly skids. The car slides.
I take my left hand off the spotlight handle and grab the car door handle. I push the door open with my left foot and use the car's momentum to jump out of the vehicle. As my foot hit the concrete driveway, the car came to a complete stop. I pivot, drag out my right foot, and plant it solidly on the ground. I turn my body to the left and extract my 6-foot 2-inch frame from the car. I take 2 to 3 steps forward, my head and eyes stay turned toward the guy in orange. I do a semi-circle around my opened car door. At the same time, I reach down with my left and un-holster my handgun. My body clears the door and the safety of my car. MY gun clears the holster flawlessly, and I extend my gun forward at the bad guys.
"GET ON THE GROUND!" I shout with authority.
"GET THE FUCK ON THE GROUND!" I say in case they doubt my sincerity.
There is hesitation on their part. Their mind conflicted that maybe they could get away. But the cooler side of their thought process prevails, and they obey my order to get down.
All three suspects eat the dirt while my sergeant/homeowner drives up. His car was not yet in the park when he jumped out of the car and ran up to the suspects.
His gun drawn, he shouts, "YOU PICKED THE WRONG HOUSE, MOTHER FUCKERS!"
The cavalry arrived while he was telling the bad guys how he felt about them. Just about the whole team was there, and we secured the bad guys in handcuffs. We briefly stood around and gave each other high-fives for a job well done.
"Okay," I say to break up the awkwardness. "Hey, did anyone check the SUV to ensure there was nobody inside it?" I ask.
We all look at each other dumbfounded.
"No", one of the officers said as he shook his head.
We all turn around and light the truck's cab with our 24,000-candle-bright maglights.
In the rear of the SUV, a male was sitting quietly. He tried to use the driver's side seat as concealment with the hopes we'd never discover him.
"Shit", I said.
"Get on the ground, get out, get on the ground!" We all say in unison.
He complies with our demands and is handcuffed once he gets out of the car and lays on the ground.
"Oops," one of the officers said." Guess we should have checked the car."
Like that, a night of boredom for a birthday ends with a five-minute adrenaline rush. When we were on the scene, Mimie called me on my cell phone.
"Hey, just wanted to say thanks for a good night," she said, the tiredness in her voice. "Even though nothing really happened tonight, dinner was great."
"Yes", I said to Mimie.
"Usually, you're my shit-stirrer, but tonight, nothing really happened. Just another boring birthday. But hey, I knew what I was getting into when I signed up for this job. Have a good night. I love you."
2,217 words
Christopher Fusaro. The author of Captain Imperfecto.
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