by Tom Swyers
When his turning arrow finally changed to green, he made a left. Now there was another siren. He checked his rearview with a sinking sensation. There was a dark sedan flashing a red and white strobe light riding his rear bumper. The high beams flashed. David understood. They wanted to pull him over.
“Police,” David muttered as his stomach dropped to the floor. He knew if they ran his plates they’d stumble across his FBI rap sheet and it would be game on. Yeah, he hadn’t been convicted of anything, but it did not matter. They’d still find it and it would raise a red flag because he was sure that the sheet didn’t reflect the dismissal of charges against him. David had meant to take care of that. It was on his to-do list. But paying the feds eighteen dollars to correct their mistake, after all that they put him through, rubbed him the wrong way. So he had put it off and now it was going to bite him in his behind.
The matter of Phillip’s rap sheet crossed David’s mind, as well. He hoped to God it showed Phillip was released from Kranston and not still serving time there. The last thing he wanted was to be gunned down with Phillip for aiding his escape from prison.
Phillip looked over his shoulder, peering between the seats. Droplets of sweat began to form on his forehead. David could see the red veins in back of his eyeballs as he strained to make out the car. For thirty years, Phillip had worried about his own skin and that was it. That’s all he could think about while he struggled to survive each day of solitary.
David pulled his car into the parking lot of Bruno’s Pest Control and waited for the officer to approach.
“Well, this is a first,” David grumbled.
“What do you mean, Mr. Thompson?”
“I told you to call me David. You’re not in prison anymore.”
“Sorry, it’s a habit.”
“No need to apologize,” David sighed as he stared at his side-view mirror. A man in blue emerged from the driver’s door of the dark blue sedan. “It’s just that I’ve never been pulled over by the police.”
“I see,” said Phillip. “Turn off the engine and put your hands on the dash.”
“On the dashboard?”
“Yes, so he can see your hands.” Phillip laid his trembling hands flat on the dashboard above the glove compartment. The big, veined hands showed a multitude of scars from prison. David placed his hands on the dash but wondered if Phillip should put his in his pockets. They looked like battle-tested weapons.
The officer stood behind David and knocked on his window. David carefully removed his left hand from the dash and rolled the window down. He looked up to see a young officer dressed in a navy uniform, visor cap, and sunglasses. The sun’s glare and his wraparound shades hid his facial features from David. The cop flipped open his wallet to show his brass badge and quickly closed it. “License and registration, please.”
David leaned forward and slowly pulled his wallet out of his jeans back pocket. He eased it open to reveal his license tucked behind a clear plastic window.
In the passenger seat, Phillip rubbed his leg against the door. The subtle motion reassured him, as he felt the sheathed carving knife that was tucked in his sock and riding up the side of his calf.
“You can take it out,” the officer said to David.
Phillip froze. For a second, he thought the cop was talking to him about his knife.
David removed his license and handed it to the officer.
“Registration?”
“It’s in the glove compartment.”
“Okay, go ahead and get it.”
David glanced at his passenger before he leaned over and reached into the glove compartment. A drop of sweat ran down Phillip’s face as he stared at David’s open window with his mouth agape. His hands hadn’t budged on the dashboard. David retrieved the registration and handed it to the officer.
“You know why I pulled you over, don’t you?”
“No, officer, I don’t.”
“Oh come on, Mr. Thompson,” the officer shot back.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know.”
“New York Penal Law, Section 195 point 16: Obstructing emergency medical services.”
“You mean back at the red light?”
“So you do know then,” the officer snapped.
David banged the back of his head against the headrest. Phillip placed his left hand on David’s shoulder. “Let it go,” he whispered before removing his hand and setting it back on the dashboard. It was the first time that Phillip had touched someone for as long as he could remember. The human contact felt good.
“I’m sorry, officer,” David said. “It’s just that—”
“Never ruin an apology with an excuse, Mr. Thompson.”
David shook his head in frustration. The source of the ambulance siren had become clear after it was too late. He didn’t intentionally block the paramedics. There was no option to move his car anywhere else. He felt the officer was pushing his buttons; he wanted to give him a piece of his mind.
But before he could retort, Phillip bent down to catch his eye. David looked over to see Phillip silently mouth, “Let it go.”
Phillip hated tickets. In prison, inmate misbehavior reports were also called tickets. The COs routinely wrote Phillip up tickets for misbehavior. A few times they were justified—Phillip even would admit that to himself—but most times they weren’t. He had successfully appealed many of them. He could go for years without getting written up for a ticket, but when the solitary confinement committee reviewed his status every month, it didn’t matter even if he hadn’t had a ticket in five years. There was no reward for good behavior. The decision was always the same: “Continuation in solitary is recommended. There have been no significant events to warrant a change in segregation status.”
Phillip’s hands formed fists on top of the dash. He didn’t want David to say anything to upset the officer because he knew he was a split second away from pulling out his knife and cutting up the man dressed in the all-too-familiar blue uniform. As his face turned crimson red, Phillip once more pleaded with David and silently mouthed, “Please let it go.”
David nodded. He was leaning toward Phillip’s suggestion the first time he asked him to let it go. David didn’t want to escalate matters and put both of their rap sheets into play. Things could get ugly then.
But now the sight of Phillip trembling, sweating, making fists with his face all red, made him realize he had to listen to Phillip’s plea. David had never seen this side of him before; it made him scared for both of them. Luckily, the officer never even glanced at Phillip.
“I apologize, officer,” David said, mentally biting his tongue.
It seemed like an eternity passed before the officer said anything else. Phillip tried not to think about how he’d carve up the cop but he couldn’t help himself. He figured he’d slash him just like Garcia had cut him up. He always thought the COs should have had time to remove his cuffs before Garcia attacked. And he believed it took the COs far too long to respond and intervene when he was trapped in the cage with Garcia. Phillip always wondered if COs had set him up for the attack. The COs said they searched Garcia twice before he entered the rec cage but didn’t find his shank.
“Good,” the officer finally said. “I’m going to let you both off with a warning this time. But I’m going to keep my eyes open for both of you. Same goes for my partners back there in the cruiser.” David looked back in his rearview. Another man sat in the passenger seat, sporting sunglasses. The third guy leaned forward from the back seat, with his head poking out over the console. David thought he recognized the cop in the back seat before he sat back and his face disappeared from view. “When you guys make a move, we’ll be there to take you down.” With that the officer handed David his license and registration and walked back towards his police cruiser. The cops sped off with Phillip watching in the rearview, while David fumbled to slide his license back into his wallet.
“Now there’s a cop with an attitude issue,” David said as he dropped the regist
ration back in the glove compartment.
“Ain’t a cop,” Phillip said, with a deep shuddering breath, slowly peeling his sweaty hands from the dash.
David started the car as Phillip spoke, but now he wasn’t going anywhere. “What are you talking about?”
“For one thing, that Crown Vic had a red and white bubble-light suctioned to its roof.”
“So, what of it?”
“Only emergency vehicles like fire engines and ambulances can use red and white lights in New York.”
“How do you know that?”
“I read it in a law book. Vehicle and Traffic law, I think,” Phillip said, wiping his brow.
“Really? I didn’t know about the light law and I’m a lawyer.”
“Let’s just say I had plenty of time on my hands to read while doing my bid. It’s not like the prison library had a great selection for me to choose from. You know, it takes more than a decade for a book to be approved for the prison library. Law books were allowed. I used to read them cover to cover to keep the demons away.”
“Don’t police cars use red and white lights too?”
“Yeah, they do. But they are allowed to use blue lights too.”
“But they don’t have to use blue, correct? I think I’ve seen some without blue.”
“Right, that’s another thing, though. In this town, I’ve seen all the marked and unmarked cars use blue. Some lady got run over crossing Central Avenue one night last week. I saw it out my window. All the cop cars—marked and unmarked—were using red, white, and blue lights. By the way, the car that pulled us over didn’t have any markings.”
“Maybe this was an older, unmarked car? A spare in the fleet?”
“It had a bubble light suctioned to the roof. This town doesn’t have those on their cars—not the ones I’ve seen. They have these really bright array bars on top and in the windshield—even in the grille. This car didn’t have anything close to that.”
“You mean LED lighting?”
“Yeah, I think that’s what they call them. Anyway, how many times have you seen three cops to a car?”
“Not very often, I guess.”
“You bet. The cops I saw the other night were one to a car. When I was growing up, I think it was two to a car in my neck of the woods. But three?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he was a trainee, or maybe a ride-along. You know, Phillip, you’ve been cooped up in a cell for a long time and the system may have taken its toll on you. Did anyone ever tell you that you might be a bit paranoid?”
Phillip thought for a second. “After what I’ve been through, I’ve got reason to be paranoid. I guess that kind of thinking is good for me. I’d say the choice I had in the box was to not think at all or to be paranoid. If my thinking is paranoid, it means that I still want to live. I think paranoia makes me stronger.”
David couldn’t believe his ears. But at the same time, Phillip’s twisted point of view made sense to him.
There’s one more thing though--about those supposed cops,” Phillip said.
David sighed. “What’s that Phillip?”
“I’ve seen that badge he flashed at you before. That’s a Bureau of Prisons badge for COs in New York State.”
David looked down, put his hand to his forehead and began to rub the growing ache between his eyebrows. “What are you saying, Phillip?”
“I’m saying that was a gang of COs looking to send us a message.”
“Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.”
“You think these three would put their careers at risk by impersonating police officers?”
“They are peace officers and what they did was legal. Trust me, I’ve learned a lot in prison about what COs can do, what they can’t do, and what they can get away with. As peace officers, they can pull over cars if they witness a misdemeanor. Obstructing emergency medical services is probably a misdemeanor.”
“Let me guess, you read it in a law book.”
“Uh-huh.”
“If that’s true, I doubt the Bureau of Prisons would look too kindly upon COs pulling over civilians for traffic violations.”
“Yeah, I suppose there may be a liability issue. But I call ‘em as I see ‘em,” Phillip said matter-of-factly
“You sure do, Mr. Jailhouse Lawyer.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“I’m just joking around with you, Phillip. You need to learn to loosen up a bit.”
David was trying to take his own advice by making light of the situation. Taken one at a time, each of Phillip’s points made sense to David, but his conclusion was hard to swallow.
David kept thinking about the man in the back seat who looked familiar. He kept trying to put a name to the face as he shoved the Mustang in gear and drove off down New Karner Road on the way to his house. COs or not, he was glad that it was over and that neither of them had ended up in jail.
Phillip stared out his window as he tried to process what had just happened. In the madness that reigned in the Kranston solitary confinement wing, there were moments when he could talk to his immediate neighbor—even though he couldn’t see him. He could also share his thoughts with other inmates by writing notes and “fishing” them—that’s what they called it—under the bottom cracks of cell doors by using long threads from his bed sheets. He missed these interactions.
Since his release, Phillip realized he had more in common with his cellies back in solitary than he ever would with anyone on the outside. He missed them, as he didn’t really have anyone else to relate to—except maybe David, who had done a little time in protective custody while he was being held county jail. Phillip thought in the back of his mind that he’d like to go back and visit a few men in solitary. He knew they’d appreciate the company. It was always a big day when any of them had a visitor. And visiting them might even help him to ease his survivor’s guilt.
But he wasn’t going back now—not after his encounter with the rogue COs in the parking lot. He swore to himself that he’d never go back to Kranston or any prison either as a visitor or as an inmate.
Phillip hated the violent thoughts that surfaced when the COs pulled David over. If prison brought out the worst in him, he decided then and there that he wanted to stay away and live the rest of his life as a free man.
Chapter 4
“How do I look?” Phillip asked when they pulled into David’s driveway. He wanted to make a good impression on Annie. He hadn’t seen a woman up close, in the flesh, in years and hadn’t had lunch with one since he could remember.
“You look fine,” David said, wondering if Phillip’s tan cargo pants and deep violet-blue turtleneck looked a bit dated. David had done the best he could in his role as Phillip’s personal shopper. Modern clothing from Kohl’s or Boscov’s was rejected by Phillip in favor of clothing from SALs—the Salvation Army Thrift Store. David’s efforts had at least moved Phillip up a decade in clothing style from what he wore when he showed up at the Thompson doorstep a week ago, but that wasn’t for lack of trying on Phillip’s part. Fortunately, SALs didn’t have any ‘70s or ‘80s clothing that would fit him in stock that day.
Over the past week, Phillip had lamented to David that he couldn’t find his “street legs.” There was no way he would miss the screams of lost souls in Kranston’s solitary wing, but he wasn’t used to the quiet of his motel room either. He was afraid to venture outside into a world that offered no physical boundaries; he kept looking over his shoulder to see if there was anyone behind him. With nothing more than a sink-or-swim support system buoying him, David feared that Phillip was almost guaranteed a return ticket back to prison.
David had recently earned a big fee when he settled a personal injury case for his client, Ben Prior, so he thought he could afford to give back to someone in need like Phillip Dawkins. But it couldn’t hurt to have some moral support from Annie and Christy to help the cause. Besides, he didn’t want to handle Phillip in secrecy, behind his family’s back. Not that this
would be an easy thing to do when his law office sat in the basement of his home. Sooner or later one of them would find him out.
Concealing things from Annie and Christy was something David had done in the past to protect them both, as well as to make his own life easier. When David was fighting tooth-and-nail to save the town’s baseball league, he didn’t tell Annie about all the nasty things going on behind the scenes nor did he tell her about his crazy plan to physically defend the field from those who were determined to crush the league. He also didn’t tell either her or Christy about how the law was trying to pin a murder rap on him in the death of his good friend and expert witness, Harold Salar.
Each time Annie learned about David’s shenanigans after the fact, she didn’t explode as he feared. She might have been disappointed, but she was always supportive in the end. David felt bad afterward and thought, perhaps, that he should trust his wife to be stronger and more understanding. Phillip was his test case for this new approach in his relationship with his Annie.
Annie was a very generous woman. As a child, she once decided to help her mom by rearranging her typewriter keys in alphabetical order. Recently, every charity in the country had gained a foothold in the Thompson’s mailbox—and for good reason. With Annie, everyone who held out a hand palm upward was entitled to a check. Eventually, all the charities would become pen pals with the family and would invite themselves back on a regular basis, eagerly asking for more. The charities were also considerate enough to follow up with a telephone call—conveniently during dinner—just to make sure their most recent mailing arrived.
In established, well-oiled marriages, harmony comes from checks and balances that often operate behind the scenes. When David retrieved the mail from the box at the bottom of their sloping drive, he’d deposit all the charity solicitations into the large recycling can by the garage before they ever entered the house. The charities could send all the nickels, dimes, return address stickers, pens, pencils, notepads, and calendars they wanted because it all went directly into the green and yellow bin unopened. It wasn’t that he was uncaring of the needy, he just knew that when Annie got the mail, she’d more than make up for his neglect. He simply offset his wife’s incredible generosity without having to confront her about it and risk a fight. In his mind, what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her and would go a long way to ensure that a happy wife gave him a happy life.
