One Department

by Thomas A. Young

  Elena was shivering from the cold as she spoke to Vincent again. “She says her life is still in danger, and she’s very glad you’ve volunteered to help,” he relayed to Randy.

  “She’s glad I what?”

  “Let’s go, stitches time.” They began walking toward Vincent’s full-size Bronco. Randy was perfectly able to walk on his own, but Elena wanted to help anyways. She pressed close to give him a little support, and herself a little warmth.

  “Look, I only did this to save a life,” Randy said, unsure who he was talking to.

  “Don’t be stupid Randy,” Vincent replied. “Superman does it for all the right reasons too, but anyone who thinks he doesn’t kiss the girl now and then is just naïve.”

  * * *

  It was pushing 3 a.m. when Vincent finally arrived at Randy’s place to drop off him and Elena. The two of them got out, and Randy leaned down to the window. “I think you better stay too. How else am I gonna talk to her?”

  “You got a Spanish-English dictionary?”

  “Probably…”

  “Ain’t nothin’ in the world like pillow talk with one of them things.” He drove off and left them.

  Inside the house, Randy led Elena in the door and turned the lights on. He turned up the thermostat, then took his coat off of her and hung it up. “Welcome to my casa,” he said. She gave a short little gasp, and pointed toward the hallway. Randy looked, and Kemo and Ninja were both sitting there, wondering who the stranger was. Randy took her over to them. “This is Kemo, and this is Ninja,” he said, pointing to each. Elena reached down to pet them both. Kemo reacted by turning her nose up and walking away. So she reached over to pet Ninja, and Ninja responded by wrapping her claws and teeth around her hand. Elena gave a little yelp, but Ninja’s bites never hurt.

  Randy had her sit down while he went to the fridge and made her a turkey sandwich. She devoured it in a few bites. Then she finally said something. “Cuanto tiempo?” she asked. Randy remembered what he needed then. He went to his bookcase, found the translation dictionary and gave it to her. She looked up the words and pointed them out to him.

  “Oh, how long? Can you stay?” She seemed to understand and nodded. “I don’t know, long as you to need to I guess. We’ll talk about what’s going on with you and we’ll figure that out.” She nodded, and Randy reached down to pull up one of the couch cushions. Elena looked down and saw the hide-a-bed beneath the cushions. She snatched the cushion away from him and put it back, mashing it down with her foot. She clearly wasn’t going to be happy with guest quarters. Oh oh, Randy thought.

  Elena saw the radio sitting beside the television, and she went to turn it on. It was tuned to an oldies station, and the song playing at that moment was Jason Mraz, I’m Yours. It’s a song that a lot of couples claim as theirs, and for good reason. The pleasant guitar strums and the sense of longing for togetherness that it evokes make it hard to resist. When Elena heard it playing, a smile blossomed on her face, and she grabbed Randy around the waist. She grabbed him just a little too close to his stitches and he had to bite his tongue for a second, but then she began to sway back and forth. It seemed like an awfully strange moment for dancing. But that’s what she wanted to do, so Randy went along, and there they danced in his home, to the sound of that song which was destined to become theirs as well.

  When the song finished, Randy shut the radio off and Elena pulled him down on the couch beside her. Then she started flipping through the dictionary, reading one word at a time. “You,”… flip flip flip… “have”… flip flip flip… “nice”… flip flip flip… “eyes!” Nothing in the world indeed like pillow talk with a Spanish-English dictionary, Randy thought.

  She smiled at him, and he smiled back, his heart genuinely warmed. “Oh, it’s gonna be a long night…” he said.

  Chapter 5

  Backlash

  May, 2006

  Opinion-Editorial from the Forest Hill Gazette – May 2, 2006

  Our View: Police Reforms Are Needed Now

  Late last month our town had a near-catastrophic intervention by police in the case of a woman who appeared to be in medical distress. Readers will recall that it was, in fact, the subsequent intervention of patrons of the nightclub where the incident took place that ended up saving her life. Saving it from police, that is.

  The ringleader of that intervention, Randolph Gustin of Forest Hill, gave an interview to this paper afterward in which he detailed his reasons for acting when he did. As the situation was developing, he recalled a nearly identical episode that took place in Riverside, California in 1998. A 19-year-old woman was found unconscious in a car, with a gun nearby. No one could wake her. Police were called, and when they were likewise unable to wake her, they smashed the window and grabbed for the gun. Accounts differ from that point, but the end result was that either she woke up frightened and reached for the gun, or police believed she did, and she died in a hail of bullets.

  The cousin of that woman, who first called 911, like many others in his family and his neighborhood, has vowed never to do so again. Police, they believe, do not have their interests at heart. And who can blame them? When one faces a situation they can’t handle themselves, when people are in need of help, are they not expected to call the professionals? And are the professionals not expected, and entrusted, to make things better instead of worse? Where are you to turn for help when the people you call to help someone are so willing to end the life of the person who needs it?

  It is with no small measure of disappointment that we have printed reports about the refusal of our police chief Burt Grandstone to take any corrective measures in his department’s policies. To the contrary, he defends the actions of his officers as being justified for both their protection and the protection of the public at large.

  But what about the protection of the unconscious woman they were called to help? Far from being a threat to anyone, she was sleeping. She had gotten lost, was falling asleep at the wheel, and had no choice but to find a place to park and get some sleep. And being as vulnerable as she was, she had every right in the world to put a pistol in view to warn away possible attackers. If police were unwilling to help her without such an egregious disregard for her life, they should have driven away and left her alone.

  We take a similarly dim view of the treatment that was afforded last year to one William Stendahl, who is a member of the “open-carry” movement. Those who read this paper will recall how he, his wife and son were taken down at gunpoint based upon specious allegations, then publicly humiliated, and subsequently charged with nothing. Whether or not one agrees with the purpose of this movement, the fact is that if you are breaking no laws and threatening no one, you have a right not to be threatened. Especially by those who are paid to protect.

  There are people who believe that law enforcement policies for dealing with the public are not aimed at providing the best outcome for people; they are aimed at asserting police omnipotence. That is a cynical view to be sure, and yet it appears to have been the case in these two instances.

  The woman in this latest episode, who has asked not to be named, is currently staying with Mr. Gustin, who is attempting to help with whatever issues led her into that situation. We consider that a far better example of public service, and we wish her the best.

  It is also our wish that our police chief begin taking this matter seriously and implement reforms to insure this doesn’t happen again. Because to be frank, none of us on this editorial board wants to be the next person they come to “help”.

  * * *

  Chief Grandstone looked up from his newspaper to check the clock. Speech time was still an hour away. He took a drink of coffee and read on.

  This newspaper, and the media in general, was becoming less and less friendly to him and his department. But it didn’t hurt his feelings that much. It was, after all, what he expected. Doing what was necessary was frequently not popular, and public opinion was an issue he would have to contend with. But it was also an
issue that he had the solution for. People were simply going to learn to see things his way.

  That wasn’t the sort of policy he could exactly go out and announce however. Finesse was required, and that was something he had in abundance.

  * * *

  The morning assembly meeting took place in the lunchroom of the station house every day at 7:00 a.m. About twenty people occupied the seats, including all of the dayshift officers plus the graveyard supervisors.

  Chief Grandstone came in and took the front of the room. “Good morning gentlemen and ladies,” he began, as he always did. “As you are aware, we have come under a great deal of criticism for our handling of situations that involve armed individuals, or other potentially threatening individuals. I regret to inform you that some changes will need to be made. These changes will address the primary concerns we face, those being the negative press and public response we have been contending with.”

  Robin Frisk raised her hand. “Chief, what about the actions and policies that led to all that bad press? Are we addressing that?”

  “Glad you raised that,” Burt replied. “There will be no change to our current policies for actually dealing with these situations. Anyone who could be a threat, will be treated as one.”

  “So, what’s changing then?” Robin asked.

  “Our handling of the public and the media afterward,” Burt replied. Robin found it hard to hide her dismay, but she did so anyways. “We’re bringing in a special instructor who will hold a seminar for us. This seminar will cover report writing, testimony, interviewing witnesses and media interactions so as to structure people’s perceptions of what happens in ways that they’ll accept as justified. It will also cover creating court defensible records for both training and use of force incidents, not to mention how to lay the groundwork to win in cases of lawsuits or prosecutions, whether or not they should have happened to begin with.”

  “So basically,” Jack Hayward asked, “it’s a class on how to get away with murder?” A laugh went around the lunchroom.

  “Pretty much, but as far as you know I never said that,” Burt replied with a smile. “Community policing had its day, but more and more we’re facing threats that look like acts of war, which means we need to start treating this job like one. And the citizenry is just going to have to understand that our right to be secure while doing that job is absolute.”

  “What about all the people who are involved with protesting our actions?” Robin asked. “How are we going to appease them?”

  “We’re not going to allow them any victories whatsoever, is how,” Burt retorted. “However, in keeping with our new image management policies, those of you who were involved with the “sleeping bimbo” episode will unfortunately have to report to my office to be yelled at. As far as I’m concerned you all did what you were supposed to, and in the same situation, that’s how I want you to handle it again. But at the moment, we have to placate the masses and the media.” He held up his thumb and forefinger, half an inch apart. “Just a little though.”

  * * *

  Later in the morning, Preston was riding shotgun in the patrol car that Robin was driving. The day was cloudy but the sun was shining between the clouds at the moment, and Preston spotted the Forza coffee place. “Hey, want to pull in there? I’ll buy.”

  “Sure.” They parked, walked inside and took the customary table by the window where law enforcement sat. Cindy came to take their orders.

  “Hey guys! Been kind of a lively week, hasn’t it?” She said.

  “That it has…” Robin replied. Cindy took their orders and left them. “So how did your ‘reprimand’ go?” she asked Preston.

  “’Bout all we did was laugh about it and slap each other’s backs. But, now he can tell the press we’ve been reprimanded.”

  “What did you think of how that situation was being handled?”

  “I didn’t like it, I just didn’t have any better ideas. Besides which, I wasn’t in charge,” Preston replied. “But what else could we do? If we just left her there and she died or something, we’d get the blame. We had to act.”

  “What a load of horseshit,” they heard. Robin turned, and a couple booths down an elderly gentleman put his newspaper down. “How in the hell can you point that many guns at some poor girl and claim to give a flyin’ fuck about her life?” Around the coffee shop, eyes began to turn toward the conversation.

  “I hate to point this out sir,” Preston replied to him, “but the man who did what I was about to do was wounded. Not badly, luckily, but he as easily could have died.”

  “Yeah, but he didn’t, an’ thanks to him neither did the girl. If you’da done it though, yer buddies’d have blown ‘er to pieces an’ then told jokes about it fer the next month or two. But instead o’ letting that happen, he took the risk, an’ that makes ‘im a better man than you. No badge required.”

  Robin cut in. “What he did was still exactly what we were going to do, minus the protection,” she said. She was a little surprised to hear herself defending that plan, considering what she thought of it herself. Maybe she wasn’t as immune as she thought she was to the call to stick by your comrades no matter what.

  “Maybe if y’all wasn’t breathin’ down their necks like ye were, the folks in that place coulda’ come up with somethin’ better,” the old man said.

  “Really? Like what?” Preston asked.

  “Like how ‘bout callin’ a damn locksmith? You could open the doors on both sides at once an’ she wouldn’t ‘ave a chance o’ gettin’ the gun. You or yer boss think o’ that, or was you in too big a rush t’ prove how almighty you was?” Robin and Preston were a little short on answers at that point, but luckily Cindy chose that moment to return with their drinks. “Hey, sorry fer interruptin’ y’all,” the old man said. “You folks enjoy yer coffee and have a good day.” He picked his paper back up, as Robin turned back around in her seat.

  “Wow…” she said, “ways to go yet on the damage control.”

  Cindy set their drinks down. Preston paid her, and threw in a nice tip. “You don’t think we’re evil, do you?” he asked her.

  “No, of course not!” she replied. “But… oh, never mind.” She started to leave, and Preston stopped her.

  “Wait! But what?”

  “Well…” she began. “If you found me passed out in a car, would you point guns at me too?”

  It really stung to hear that question coming from her, but Preston kept it hidden. “You? Never.” Cindy smiled and walked away.

  Preston and Robin both stared down at their cups for a long and very uncomfortable moment. Everyone in the place turned back to their own drinks, laptops, conversations, personal introspection, or whatever else they were doing before, but it wasn’t hard for the casual observer to tell where their minds were. Preston looked at his watch. “What do you say we get back on the road?”

  To Robin, that idea sounded great.

  * * *

  Around 6 p.m. Randy’s truck pulled into his driveway. It was spring now and leaves were growing on the trees in his yard, which reminded him that he needed to finish raking up last year’s leaves. Elena was sitting at his picnic table, with his laptop in front of her. She was learning to use computers and the internet, and had started getting the hang of it pretty quickly once she discovered all the cool stuff there was to be bought online.

  “Honey, I’m home!” Randy yelled as he got out. He was kidding of course. She wasn’t his wife, and given their fifteen-year age difference he didn’t see her taking a serious interest in changing that.

  “Como fue su novia dias?” she asked in reply.

  “Knock that shit off!” he yelled back. Elena laughed, and Randy joined her.

  “Sorry Randy, it’s too much fun to mess with you.” The whole no habla ingles act had gone down the drain the morning after she arrived. That was when she’d asked to borrow his phone. He said sure, and pushed *67 first to make sure she knew he didn’t want his number being given out. Sh
e understood perfectly, and took it outside. Randy hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but he walked out and she didn’t hear him coming. At least not before he heard her saying You come after me and you’re dead. Busted though she was, she wouldn’t discuss what she had said any further. Randy understood and didn’t press it. Everybody has some kind of dirty secret they’d rather keep to themselves, and that sort of wish was best respected.

  Randy bent down and gave her a kiss. Nothing too long or deep, but real enough. They didn’t have anything in the way of a serious love affair going on, but for the time being she was his girl. It wasn’t the reason he’d brought her home, nor was it part of any deal she’d made in exchange for his help. Maybe it was simply gratitude, maybe it was her way of insuring his continued helpfulness, who knew. But beginning on the night when she had arrived, she had simply claimed him. With full benefits. Which, in Randy’s view, was a pretty sweet deal.

  Randy glanced at the laptop. “What’d you learn how to do now?” He looked closer. “Oh no, not Street View…”

  “See that house?” she asked.

  “Uh huh.”

  “That was my parent’s house. That’s where I grew up.” Randy looked closer. It was modest, but it looked like home. And it was, to date, the most personal detail she’d shared about herself. Maybe that was progress.

  * * *

  Not much later, they were eating dinner. Randy had never much cared for any kind of food more Mexican than a taco, but Elena turned out to be a pretty good Mexican cook and she was making him learn to like it. In front of him was ceviche (a Mexican seafood salad) and some burritos de carnicia, (beef burrito). Randy was ravenous from a long day at work, he devoured everything she put in front of him. Then, he decided, it was time for them to talk.