December 8, 2016
When was it when he knew that he had hit rock bottom? Was it the cold steel of the handcuffs pressing against his wrist? Or it may have been the unforgiving firmness of the double-strand handcuff metal that rubbed against his wrist bone that caused his dangling hands to stiffen.
I just arrested this guy. He had crack cocaine. Until this point, this lily-white guy's only crime was wearing a Polo collar shirt, Khaki cargo shorts, and white sneakers. But in his defense, his style wasn't different from any other white guys in 2000.
While patrolling the streets, I saw him walking away from a known drug house. They call drugs dope for a reason because this dope thought he was the only one who knew where to score cocaine at 2 in the morning. The only thing that stood out differently in this neighborhood other than this dude was a house with a nicely manicured lawn.
Looking at him, I knew he was a man in an uncommon time and place for others. He was "committing, about to commit, or had committed a crime." I approached him as he passed under the only working streetlight, that one light that lit the corner of 5th and Main. I could tell he wanted to run. But where was he going to go? He was a fish out of water with nowhere to swim. He was in a pond. He was defeated before I even uttered my first word. I had won. And he had lost. His only place to go was in my handcuffs.
So now here he was in the back of my police car. The crack rocks in his pocket were now in an evidence bag that I rested on the front passenger seat of my police cruiser. I nestled it between my police bag and paperwork. My criminal nestled himself in the corner of the right rear backseat cushion, and his right shoulder pressed against the passenger door. The cost of his freedom rested not far from him while he stared at me from behind the cold steel partition that separated him from me. His freedom slipped by the clear glass windows as my car drove off, passing the very drug house where he bought his addiction that would eventually cost him his freedom. The occupants inside the home were none the wiser about his arrest and did not really care anyhow because they were paid in full. Only in America, a drug dealer can enjoy their 4th Amendment right to commit a crime.
"Where do I go from here," he muttered.
"Do you mean the process of the arrest? Or where do you go from here in this life?" I asked.
I stared at him from my rearview mirror. He was a defeated man. He had nothing else to say, so he stared out the window. His life was as dark as it is night.
"Can you turn up for me?" He asked.
"This song?"
"Please. It just reminds me." His voice trailed off.
"It's your ride, my man."
I reached out to the radio, removing my hand from the 2 o'clock position of my steering wheel.
The guitar intro made the song very memorable. The flute made it unmistakable. It was The Marshall Tucker Band, "Can't You See?"
I nodded my head to strum with the beat of the song. My arrested guy tilted his head back against the flat portion of the bench seat. And he began to belt out the lyrics. I exercised my right to remain silent and drove, allowing him to have this moment. After all, he was headed to the rock bottom of his life, and that was county jail. Was he thinking about a loved one while he belted out the lyrics to this song? Or was the crack rock his woman, "Look what she's done to me." I never asked.
Our drive was just a straight shot with tiny bends and turns. The steel wheels turned on my police car. His steel handcuffs pressed around his wrists. They weren't forgiving him for his sins. But at that moment, he didn't care; he just sang. Silently, I sang with him, mouthing the words to the song without interfering with his fall toward rock bottom.
"Can't you see, whoa, can't you see
What that woman, Lord, she been doin' to me?
Can't you see, can't you see
What that woman, she's been doin' to me?"
744 words
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