[Lady Justice 01] - Lady Justice Takes a C.R.A.P.

by Robert Thornhill

  There’s nothing like being naked in front of strangers and having your body parts probed by a Neanderthal in rubber gloves to give one a sense of humility. As I left the academy, I was feeling pretty humble. But I had passed.

  Two down and one to go.

  All that was left was the oral exam by the review board. I had received a call from Shorty asking me to come by his office. He frankly told me that the review board had concerns about my admittance. They thought I would have washed out by now, but having passed the written and physical exams, all that stood between me and the CPP was the review board.

  “Walt,” he said, “you know you have my support and several of the other captains are on the fence, but Captain Harrington wants you out. He’s going to give you a rough time at the review. If you can’t provide answers to his questions, you won’t pass.”

  Shorty explained that it was the board’s job to make sure that any new recruit could handle himself in dangerous or life-threatening situations, and he gave me a few hints as to what questions would be asked.

  Most cops you see on the street are young, strong, and physically capable of handling the confrontations they face on a daily basis. I was none of those things. While I was quite fit for a man of my age, I knew that the specter of a hundred and forty-five pound cop with gray hair wouldn’t exactly strike fear into the heart of a bad guy.

  I didn’t see myself beating criminals into submission. That’s not my style. I was counting on the experience and savvy that comes with age to make up for my physical shortcomings. I knew that if I was going to succeed, I would have to use the tools that God had given me. If I couldn’t beat them up, I’d better be able to outsmart them.

  At home that evening, I shared my trepidations with the professor. He thought for a moment about my upcoming confrontation with Captain Harrington and simply said, “Wise man never play leapfrog with unicorn. Forewarned is forearmed.”

  Captain Short had told me what was coming. I had to figure out how to get past it.

  The next morning, I arrived at the academy and was escorted to the conference room. Seated around the table were the captains of the various squads—narcotics, vice, canine, foot patrol, et cetera. Shorty introduced me, and each captain in turn asked me questions about my background and my motivation for being part of the CPP.

  So far, so good.

  Finally it was Captain Harrington’s turn. He had been staring at me with obvious disdain throughout the entire process. Harrington was all muscle and swagger, and he demanded the same of the men in his command. He was the living prototype of the tough cop.

  “Mr. Williams,” he began, “it is my opinion that you have no business taking part in this program. First, you’re too damn old. My father is your age. If you are so determined to give public service, you should volunteer at the senior center. All you are going to do is get in the way and get yourself hurt.”

  I noticed the other captains had lowered their heads and were embarrassed by his belligerent attitude.

  “Think about it, old man,” he continued. “Let’s say you are making a routine traffic stop. You ask the driver for his license and registration, and he says, ‘Screw you.’ You ask him to step out of the vehicle, and he does, all 250 pounds of him, and he’s got a blade in his hand. What are you gonna do?” he bellowed. “What are you gonna do, old man? What are you gonna do?” He jumped up from his seat and started toward me.

  Well, it’s all or nothing, I thought. Without a word, I reached into my pocket, pulled out a Benford #5 taser, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

  Two small probes attached to the taser by high voltage insulated wire struck the captain squarely in the chest and delivered a 50,000-volt electric shock. His body tensed, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he hit the ground like a sack of dog food. The other captains looked on in horror as Harrington lay writhing on the floor. In a moment their shock subsided, and I thought I detected smiles forming on their lips. Suddenly their smiles turned to outright laughter, and a round of applause circled the table.

  At that moment, one of the professor’s witticisms popped into my mind: “Man who behaves like an ass will be the butt of those who crack jokes.”

  Shorty stood, took my hand in his, and said, “Congratulations, Walt, and welcome to the CPP.”

  CHAPTER 3

  I had been dreading the next step in my induction process—PT, that’s physical training, an acronym for getting your butt kicked.

  By this time, ten of the original twenty-seven had made the cut, and we gathered in the gymnasium. Two guys came into the room dressed like ninjas and lined us up around a mat on the floor. They explained that their job was to teach us some basic hand-to-hand combat skills so we could protect ourselves and subdue the bad guys. Unfortunately, my reputation preceded me, and they made me leave my taser in the locker room. I was on my own.

  The two ninja guys squared off and began the demonstration with a series of intricate ducks and parries and jabs. Then it was our turn. I watched as the instructor attacked the first recruit. The kid was soon flat on his back gasping for air.

  “Don’t hold back,” the ninja said. “This may well be a life or death situation. Don’t worry about hurting us. Protect yourselves.”

  One by one each recruit took their turn getting their rear ends handed to them on a platter.

  Finally I was up. If these young studs are getting the crap kicked out of them, what chance do I have? I wondered. Then I remembered my strategy, If you can’t whup ‘em, you’d better outsmart ‘em.

  The Yoda character from Star Wars popped into my mind. May the force be with me, I thought as I took the mat.

  I was dancing around the mat doing my best to avoid physical contact --- you know, ‘float like a butterfly, sting like a bee’ --- when I remembered a scene from a movie I had seen. What I needed was a distraction. Then I could move in for the kill. I pointed down to his feet and said, “Be careful; I think your shoe’s untied.”

  Instead of looking down as I had hoped, he delivered a roundhouse to the side of my head. Some guys just can’t follow a script.

  In the comics I read as a kid, when some character was whacked, he always saw stars. I thought that was really funny.

  Not so much.

  As I lay on the floor, it suddenly occurred to me in which movie I had seen that particular diversion, The Three Stooges.

  My first attempt at using brain instead of brawn hadn’t turned out well.

  There I was in a fetal position waiting for the ninja to come in for the kill. Think! Think! Then it came to me, If you can’t be a grizzly, be a possum, and I remembered a quote from my mentor: “Man who gets kicked in testicles left holding bag.”

  The ninja guy stood over me and yelled, “Get up, old man.” He gave me a kick in the ribs. I lay motionless on the floor. “I told you to get up.”

  Nothing.

  Fearing he had crippled a senior citizen, the ninja spread his legs apart, straddled my body, and bent down to see if I was still breathing. I kicked upward with all my strength and hit pay dirt. He moaned, grabbed his crotch, and fell to the mat. I was immediately on top of him, my forearm pressed against his throat, bearing down with all my hundred and forty-five pounds.

  Out of all the recruits that day, only the old dude whupped the Ninja.

  If Yoda was around, I’m sure he would have said, “Well done, Obe Wan Knobe.”

  My last obstacle was to be certified with a firearm. We were taught basic handgun techniques and had to qualify at the range to get our permit to carry. I wasn’t too concerned about qualifying. I had been hunting since I was a kid on my grandpa’s farm. The 45mm Glock was the standard police issue. We went to the firing range, put on our ear protection, and the range officer handed me the Glock.

  “Wow! This thing must weigh ten pounds,” I said.

  I chambered a round, held the gun with both hands, aimed at the target, and pulled the trigger. Blam! The recoil forced my arms up about a foot, and my hand jer
ked on the trigger, firing off another round that took out a light in the ceiling above the target.

  Needless to say, the range instructor wasn’t impressed with my marksmanship.

  I could see that qualifying with this bazooka was going to be a problem, so back to my old pal, Shorty. After studying the regulations for the CPP, he concluded that the requirement was only to qualify on the range. No specific handgun was mentioned. It just so happened that I had my own revolver.

  When I was a young dude and had just moved to Kansas City from my hometown, I was awed by its size and honestly a little bit scared, so I went to the local pawn shop and bought a .25 caliber semi-automatic, just in case.

  At that time, I lived in a small efficiency apartment above Schuler’s Drugstore at Forty-fifth and State Line. Fortunately, by the time I returned home, the drugstore was closed. I unpacked my .25, loaded the clip, slammed it in, and pulled back the slide. When I let go, blam! I shot a hole in my coffee table, and the slug penetrated my floor, which coincidently, was also the ceiling of the drugstore. I heard a crash below. That wasn’t supposed to happen.

  I wrapped up the .25 and hotfooted back to the pawn shop. “This isn’t going to work,” I told the clerk. “I nearly blew off my foot. Don’t you have anything else?”

  “I’ve got just the thing,” he replied. He went to the back room and came out with a revolver that looked just like the one Roy Rogers carried.

  Perfect.

  “Wow, six shooter,” I said.

  “Not really,” he replied. “This shoots .22 caliber long rifle shells, and because they are a smaller shell, there is room in the cylinder for nine bullets.”

  Cool!

  I dropped by Schuler’s Drugstore the next morning. Mr. Schuler was mopping the aisle.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Darndest thing,” he said. “When I opened up this morning, Pepto Bismol was all over everything. Looks like the display just exploded.”

  “Wow, that is weird,” I replied. He never figured it out, and I never told.

  I loved that gun. I had hunted rabbits and squirrels and other varmints with it over the years and had become a pretty decent shot. Now I was ready for varmints of the two-legged variety.

  I showed up at the range the next day, qualified, and was ready to begin my new career in law enforcement. Lady Justice, you can rest easy now. Walter Williams is on duty.

  “Hi Ho Silver, awaaaaay!”

  CHAPTER 4

  The next day I reported to the squad room at police headquarters at Twelfth and Oak in downtown Kansas City. Captain Short introduced me to the squad and explained my presence there in the CPP program. I was greeted with a smattering of applause, a few finger waves, and, unfortunately, a few frowns. Apparently not everyone was as excited about my new career as I was. Some glared at me. Most didn’t give a damn.

  After roll call and daily assignments, the room emptied except for me and one other uniformed officer.

  “Walt,” Captain Short said, “I’d like you to meet your new partner, George Wilson.”

  This huge guy stood up and started my way. He was a full six feet, two inches, and had to weigh at least 220. He was barrel-chested, and his uniform buttons strained to hold in his bulging muscles. He reminded me of Dr. David Banner just as he’s turning into the Incredible Hulk.

  He held out his huge hand, which completely engulfed mine, and said, “Just call me Ox. Everybody else does.” And so began a partnership and friendship that has endured the test of time.

  Ox was a twenty-two-year veteran, all as a patrol officer. He had never sought nor had he been offered a higher rank. He was not the sharpest tack in the corkboard, but with twenty-two years on the streets of Kansas City, he knew his job. As a private citizen, Ox was the kind of cop I would want standing between me and the scum that roam the streets. His primary duties included regular patrol duty in the downtown K.C. area, crowd control at crime scenes, and the service of bench warrants from the court.

  We walked to the motor pool, and Ox opened the door to a black and white Crown Vic that looked like it had been in service as long as he had. “Welcome to car fifty-four,” he said, and we were on our way.

  We cruised the streets of downtown Kansas City, hoping to deter crime by our mere presence. Ox waved at the newsstand boy, the boy with the hot dog wagon, and the meter maid. He was a regular fixture on Grand Avenue.

  Suddenly the two-way radio erupted, “Domestic violence reported in the eighteen hundred block of Campbell. Woman screaming. Any units nearby please respond.”

  Ox keyed the mike, “Unit fifty-four at Fourteenth and Grand responding. ETA six minutes.”

  “Roger that, fifty-four; over and out.”

  With that, Ox flipped on the lights and siren, and in five minutes we were on Campbell. It wasn’t difficult to find the disturbance. As we cruised the block, a woman’s shrill scream erupted from the second floor apartment at 1814 Campbell. We parked and ran through the entrance and up the steps to the second floor.

  Ox knocked on the door. “Police! Open the door, please.” No response. This time he gave a louder knock. “This is the police. Please don’t make me bust down your door ‘cause I am coming in.”

  We heard a muffled voice and a whimper and a bolt slide on the door. A large, fat man opened the door. He was wearing a dirty T-shirt that strained against his beer belly. His hair was greasy. He hadn’t shaved for days. He was holding a carton of Chinese take-out. He looked at us through yellow eyes. “Whadda you want?”

  “Sir, we had a domestic disturbance call at this location. We need to come in and check things out,” Ox replied.

  “The hell you will,” he said.

  We peered over his shoulder and saw a slender woman in a worn housedress cowering in the corner. Her eye was black. Her nose was bleeding, and she was holding her ribs. “Ma’am, are you all right?” Ox asked. “What’s going on here?”

  “This ain’t no big deal,” the man said. “I was just teaching the little lady here a lesson. I told her to order cashew chicken, and the dumb bitch got chop suey. She’s gotta learn.”

  “Sir, step aside. I’m coming in,” Ox ordered.

  Instead, the man launched the box of Chinese food right at Ox’s head. Ox ducked. He’s incredibly fast for a big man. The box exploded on my chest, and I was covered from head to toe with gooey chop suey.

  I don’t even like Chinese.

  No more Mr. Nice Guy. Ox launched himself at the fat man, hitting him square in his beer belly. He let out a “Whoooof,” and down he went. Ox rolled him onto his stomach and was in the process of cuffing him when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the woman coming at Ox’s back with a lava lamp poised over her head.

  Having seen Ox in action, I figured I’d better do the same. My intent was to tackle the woman before she bashed in the back of Ox’s head.

  Unfortunately, I did not take into account the slippery chop suey on the floor. My feet went out from under me, but my momentum carried me right into Ox.

  As we both went down in a heap, the woman was on the downswing. With Ox no longer there, the lava lamp smashed against the fat man’s greasy head and exploded. Runny blue glop covered his head and shoulders. I always wondered what was in one of those things.

  As we all lay there on the floor, it occurred to me that there really is justice if you help the blind lady along.

  The woman was screaming, “What have you done?”

  “I think we just saved your bacon,” I said.

  “The hell you have,” she said. “Now get outta here and leave us alone.”

  “But don’t you want to press charges?” I asked.

  “No, now get outta here!”

  I looked at Ox, and he just shook his head. “I’ll never understand,” he said. “These poor women get the crap beat out of ‘em on a regular basis. But they just keep coming back for more. They can’t seem to break away without a lot of intervention.”

  Fortunately, the law says
that in the case of domestic violence, if the victim will not file a complaint, the officer on the scene may do so at his discretion. I was more than happy to file my first complaint for assaulting a police officer with a deadly weapon.

  That chop suey was nasty!

  We cuffed the fat guy, hauled him down to the station, and got him booked. Ox gave the name of the woman to Social Services. We could only hope that she got the help she needed.

  I was in the locker room changing into clean clothes when a uniform stuck his head around the corner and yelled, “Hey, Williams! How about bringing me an order of chow mien? Maybe you could throw in an egg roll.” And off he went, laughing his fool head off. Word gets around fast in the precinct.

  By the time we finished the paperwork it was lunchtime. As we munched sandwiches from the vending machine in the break room, I reflected on my first morning in uniform. It certainly wasn’t earthshaking, but sometimes justice comes in small doses. I felt a sense of pride in what we had accomplished. It was a start.

  We stuffed our wrappers in the trash can and were off again to serve and protect the good citizens of Kansas City.

  About mid-afternoon a call came through to all units in the downtown area. There had been an armed robbery at the stockyards building in the West Bottoms.

  Kansas City is the hub of livestock distribution and sales in the Midwest. Farmers from several surrounding states bring their cattle, hogs, sheep, and other four-legged creatures in to market. Large packinghouses like Swift and Armour purchase many of the animals for slaughter and meat processing. The animals are kept in corrals surrounding the multistoried Livestock Exchange Building.

  When we arrived on the scene, detectives were busy securing the area around the building. The detective in charge from the robbery division was Bill Grainger. “Good to see you guys,” he said as we drove up. “We could use you two to help cordon off the area and keep the gawkers back.”