June 14th, 2012
I was just released from my field trainer and was finally on my own after two months of road patrol training in my new police career.
Being new, a rookie, you are regulated to the night shift. It’s part of the process. Paying your dues on nights while gaining the respect of the veteran officers who already did their time, working the late shift and “humping calls.”
That’s what it’s all about. Proving your worth in the field.
The veteran officers considered me a good guy since being hired; it didn’t mean I was on the easy street with them, though. There is more than being a good guy utilizing your personality to make friends. You have to prove yourself in other ways by using everything about yourself.
Do you have common sense? Are you going to get involved or sit back and do nothing? Are you a team player?
I would tell Mimie that I wanted to be a good backup officer because if the officer I was backing up trusted me, I defeated half the battle of proving myself by being a good cop. The backup officer was essential to keeping everyone safe.
There are two types of backup police officers. The first officer does what he or she is supposed to do. Be his backup. They don’t intrude on your call. He or she allows you to control it, and they watch your back if you’re the lead officer in case someone tries to ambush you or you overlook a weapon the lousy guy is concealing. It’s a pretty simple role.
Then, there’s the backup officer everyone dreads. The one you would rather cancel than have them arrive on your scene. He or she is the one who steps on your toes and tries to take over the call that you are currently the lead on. You just can’t trust them to play their role.
I just wanted to be that guy you could depend on. The one that gives a cop’s mind relief when I arrived at the scene to back him up. The other half of being a good officer is not backing down when another officer is distressed. Being there, side by side, no matter what. If we were battling Arnold Schwarzenegger and he threw me off his back well, I would get back up and jump on the pile again. It’s just the kind of dedication you want to see.
On my first day alone, I didn’t think it would be the veteran officer making the mistake. A mess that I would have to clean up. But I got what I was looking for, complete respect. Even if it was at his expense.
It was day one and the start of my twelve-hour shift. Only three more to go in my four-day work week. I had been on this schedule during my training and was beginning to enjoy it, but you’re exhausted by the fourth day of your shift. Your body feels like it’s always in constant jet lag.
On this, my first night alone, I was dispatched to a domestic disturbance where I would have the first confrontation that would test me and my ability as a new officer and how I would be perceived by other officers in the future. I was about to prove my self-worth.
You either have it or you don’t.
I was the backup officer, backing up my field trainer, who arrived before I did. I was standing in the living room of a small house. The room didn’t feel any larger than a walk-in closet. I did my job as backup and stood by with my field trainer as he poked with both parties.
My trainer has been on the job for almost twenty years. He was burnt out after all his years of service. He drank, off duty, chained, smoked, and held on to what little hair he had left way too long. His body was not what it was ten years ago. Years of bad eating killed off what he once was.
Willie, subject number one, was sitting at the table. He was talking incoherently, his eyes practically closed. He was wearing a dark T-shirt and blue jeans. He was a crack addict, but he was clean-cut, for now. His black hair was cut so short you could see the chocolate skin covering his skull. His black skin was made darker from the hot sun, burning the flesh during the day when he worked as a day laborer. He was wearing no shoes. The only thing I could make out was “damn women” as he went on a tangent of lost words.
His wife was standing near the kitchen, our subject number two. She was pissed. I don’t know if she was more pissed about a knife incident that she was trying to explain to us after she dialed 911 or just fed up with his crack smoking. As the backup, I just sized them up the entire time.
It wasn’t too late that night, but Willie’s wife was already in her pink bathrobe. She still had heavy makeup on her face, overtaking her black skin tone. She wore a large wig that made me think of Whoopi Goldberg in Ghost. With her arms crossed, she stood defiantly before us while Willie talked a big game.
“Shut the fuck up, Willie shut the fuck up.” She would shout at Willie between explaining what was happening and why she called us there.
“He’s mad ’cause I didn’t buy him no food when I went to get dinner,” she said.
“Bitch I done told you…” Willie shouted with his eyes closed.
“Shut the fuck up, Willie, Shut the fuck up, anyhow, so when he woke up, he was mad and pulled a knife on my ass.”
“I ain’t crazy to pull a… (Willie)
“Fuck you, Willie; I called the police here.”
(Willie)…knife on that crazy bitch because I…
“See what I mean? That crack got Willie all fucked up.”
… don’t even smoke crack.” (Willie)
Their bickering words were running into each other like radio waves, and it was hard to decipher what the hell had happened. My field trainer decided to separate them and had Willie’s wife step outside. I stayed inside to watch Willie.
Willie sat there and began to put on his shoes. I still couldn’t make out a damn thing he was saying. Only pieces of his story.
“I didn’t, didn’t...no knife,” He would say as he placed a sock on his foot. “I’ll just fucking leave, I’ll fucking go. Ain’t...get me no food, bitch.”
Even though they were both separated by a concrete wall and a solid wood door, I could still hear his wife’s voice cutting through as if she were still standing in the kitchen.
“Fuck that shit, he’s going to jail! He pulled a knife on me! That motherfucker is going to jail!” She was yelling.
Willie was so preoccupied with his own hell he was oblivious to what his wife was yelling just a short distance away.
“I mean, officer,” Willie would begin for the tenth time, “I’m just gonna leave this place, man.”
“Fuck that he’s going to jail!… (Wife)
“I wanted food, but I ain’t pulling a knife on that bitch”, Willie mumbled.
…Jail, J-A-I-L, he’s going to Jail!…(Wife)
“I was...sleep, anyhow, the knife was already on the table”, Willie said, half asleep.
…. I don’t care, officer, take him, take him.” (Wife)
I stood there and didn’t say a word. As far as I was concerned, Willie wouldn’t hear me anyway. I mean, he didn’t even hear his wife, who was clearly adamant about his incarceration. I just stared at him. He was sitting in a chair by the kitchen, leaning over and tying his shoes.
The front door opened, and walking through was my field trainer. He looked at me, threw his hands, and shrugged his shoulders. “Well, guess he’s going,” he said to me.
I followed behind him as he passed me, expecting to make the arrest without setting him off. Basically, walking up to him and telling him to stand up before giving him an indication he was going to jail. Everyone acts differently when they are placed in handcuffs. They either go willingly or they don’t. Some get caught up in the fight or flight syndrome.
“Get up, Willie,” my field trainer said as he reached into his front pouch to remove his handcuffs.
“What? What?” Willie said, looking confused as he stood up from his chair. “I’m going to jail?!” He shouted, his eyes wide like saucers. He clearly wasn’t happy.
“Yup, turn around.” My field trainer said.
My eyes began to open as wide as Willie’s. I couldn’t believe my field trainer, a cop for almost twenty years, showed our cards before us being prepared to arrest him. I was green, but even I knew not to do that. From Willie’s demeanor, he wasn’t going peacefully.
Willie started to push back from us, placing his back against the wall. His big hands were in front of him, his arms stretched out. The palms are facing forward, and his fingers are spread wide. He stood like he was ready to push back. I saw it. Did my field trainer?
“Wait, wait, wait”, Willie said. Finally, something I could understand clearly other than his actions.
“Turn around, Willie, just turn around,” The field trainer said, sensing that he had made a big mistake. His twenty years finally caught up to him in one big “oh shit” moment.
Willie had no intention of turning around; he put his head down and rushed forward, crashing into my field trainer. The force so hard his momentum threw him to the ground. With all the grace of a Matador, I stepped aside, moving his cape to distract the raging bull. Willie made a move towards the door. As he passed, I gripped his right shoulder, pulling him back. I lunged forward, wrapped my left arm around his left shoulder, and jumped on his back. I pulled his torso back with all my might, like a horse jockey pulling on the reigns of his horse until we both fell back.
I swung the momentum back in my direction, like a championship team going on a scoring frenzy. Our combined weight threw us backward toward the ground, our bodies crashing through a glass coffee table. I landed on my back, and Willie’s back landed on my chest. I tried to crawl out from under him, driving my feet into the glass-riddled ground and pushing backward as hard as I could. But Willie’s weight was too heavy, so I took him for the ride.
Willie could break my grasp, and he turned his body to me. I placed my arms behind me to brace myself. I started to get up, using my arms to spring forward from the ground, but Willie drove his shoulder into my chest, blasting me backward into his couches.
The larger of the two couches was snug in the corner of the back wall, with the right armrest parallel with the side wall where the two wells met for an “L.” The love seat was on the far side wall, which in this small room wasn’t far enough. The back of the smaller couch was against the side wall, the front right armrest facing the left-sided armrest on the oversized couch.
The force from Willie’s half-tackle shook the room. Our large bodies rocked the couches upwards. When it settled in place, the oversized couch landed on my radio holster, and the smaller couch landed on my gun holster, pinning my hips to the ground.
Exposed and defenseless to Willie, I reached up and bear-hugged him, pulling him into me, trying to immobilize him. I felt his body pressure increase as we both made a collected “oomph” sound like the air had just been purged from our bodies. My field trainer had joined the pile, jumping on Willie’s back. I was thankful for the help, but no, the extra two-hundred and fifty pounds of weight added to Willie’s already two-hundred and thirty pounds on top of me.
I could feel Willie attempting to land punches into my sides, but I was able to guard against them by staying as close to the inside of him as possible. It is not the easiest for a guy who is also six foot two inches, two-hundred and twenty-five pounds myself. I decided I would fight back.
I did my best to get him off of me. Yelling to him, “Willie, just give up, Willie, give the fuck up!” When that didn’t work, I met his force with my own. I tried punching him in the ribs as hard as I could. It didn’t work. It seemed to make Willie more aggressive. My field trainer decided to use a weapon.
On my back, I couldn’t see much. I was tucked into Willie’s chest as much as I could. I needed air. I tilted my head to the right of Willie’s left shoulder to get a peak and take in some air.
“What the fuck!” I shout.
My field trainer had used his pepper spray on Willie while I gasped for air. I took in a considerable amount of cayenne pepper as I breathed in. We were all blinded by the spray. The pepper opened my airway to allow more oily residue into my system. The burning went from my nostrils and throat down my esophagus and trachea, burning everything it covered. I continued to punch at Willie even though I couldn’t see and could breathe even less.
During the confrontation that seemed to be taking forever, Willie bit my field trainer’s arm, forcing him to drop the pepper spray. Willie then reached out and picked it up from the ground. He made a loud yell, like Tarzan from the jungle. He placed both arms firmly on the carpet and did a push-up, lifting my field trainer and tearing his shirt from my grasp. When I fell back, I saw why none of my punching on Willie’s sides was working. Willie had on a thick back brace. I was punching plastic until my knuckles bled.
My field trainer was yelling for help on the police radio. In between transmissions, I heard him yell at Willie, “I’m going to shoot you, I’m going to shoot you.”
I yelled, “Shoot him, I’m exposed; shoot him.” I would have shot him myself, but my gun was pinned under the couch.
I looked up at Willie as he looked down at me. Our eyes locked into each other. My face was totally exposed, and I was tired from all the punches I threw into his back brace. It was a stand-off between him and me. Even though my field trainer was on his back, this was going to be between him and me. It seemed like we were waiting for the first to make their move. Suddenly, I took my right hand and used my palm to strike him in the side of the neck. It stunned him. I felt his body go limp. I then hit him again. This time, pushing my hand into him, peeling him off of me. I slid away, dragging the couches with me. Willie went to the ground. My field trainer rolled off his back.
I got to my feet and pushed the couch off my gun belt. I fell forward, and now I was on top of Willie. Grabbing at his arms, I was able to finally get him in handcuffs as the cavalry came running in.
I pushed off of Willie and fell back onto his couch. Sweating profusely, I sat there exhausted. I didn’t move anything but my eyes. Surveying the damage that was in his living room. I glanced down at Willie, who was looking at me. Our eyes locked again, but I was on top this time, the victor in this melee. My field trainer lay on the ground, exhausted. I got up and walked over to him. Extending my hand, I pulled him up from the ground. He smiled.
“Good backup man, good-back up” is all he could muster.” I smiled at him, “That’s all I wanted to be.” I said. “You earned it today, Chris, welcome.” He replied.
I looked about the room at all the cops that were there. They all nodded their heads in their way of saying excellent job, kid, welcome to the club.
2,757 words
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Christopher Fusaro. The author of Captain Imperfecto.
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