by Frank Zafiro
“Or you’ll be arrested,” Carson answered.
The driver laughed. “You? Little girl like you take me to jail?” He shook his head and said something in Russian. The three of them laughed.
Carson considered her options. She wanted to rip the driver out his window, slap handcuffs on him, and take him to jail. See if that wiped the sneer off his face. But she wasn’t sure she could manage that one on one, much less if his two friends decided to jump in.
She could demand the documents again, but it was pretty plain he wasn’t going to give them up to her.
What she didn’t want to do was continue standing at the driver’s door like an idiot, so she mustered the firmest tone she could and said, “Wait here.”
He snorted, but made no move to pull away.
Carson walked back to her patrol car to get the driver’s name off the vehicle registration. As she reached her door, another patrol car cruised up next to her. The driver engaged his overhead take-down lights and aimed his spotlight on the gold Honda. The passenger window descended. Carson leaned in and was surprised to see that Battaglia was alone.
He must have read the question in her eyes, because he immediately said, “Sully got sick and went home.”
“Is he okay?”
“He’s Irish,” Battaglia said with a shrug, as if that should explain everything. “Whattaya got?”
Carson motioned toward the Russian driver. “He’s being difficult.”
Battaglia’s eyebrows went up. “Really?”
She nodded. “He won’t give me his name, reg, or insurance. Says he wasn’t speeding, so I don’t have the right to ask.”
Battaglia pursed his lips and said nothing.
Carson swallowed and spoke quickly. “Of course, I know he has to, but instead of getting into a fight right away, I figured I’d check the registration and see if that turns up his name. Maybe once he knows I already know, he’ll be more cooperative.”
“Maybe,” Battaglia said doubtfully.
“If not, he’s going to jail,” Carson said.
“Yeah, huh?” Battaglia gave her an approving nod. “Not taking any shit? Good for you.”
Carson felt a twinge of gratitude for the support.
“You want another car here?” he asked.
Good officer safety tactics clearly dictated that Carson should have a third officer present, just in case the passengers got squirrely. But she also knew that there was the academy way and there was the way it rolled on the street. She’d never lose respect doing things the academy way, but she’d never make her bones, either.
“I think we’ll be fine,” she told Battaglia. She tried to appear casual, but she was glad that he’d let her make the call.
Battaglia shrugged. He turned his attention to the threesome in the car. Carson left his window and slid into her driver’s seat. A message was waiting on the mobile data terminal on the console. She pushed the “read” button and a message from the dispatcher appeared, consisting solely of the vehicle registration.
Carson smiled. One thing she’d learned early on about the dispatchers was that they definitely took care of their officers, in large ways and small. She scrolled down the registration information; the legal and registered owner was William J. Bryan, with an address in nearby Cheney. She scowled. Bryan didn’t sound much like a Russian name, but maybe—
She scrolled down a little further and saw the words “report of sale,” followed by the date of June 10.
She sighed. That meant Mr. Bryan sold the car back in June and notified the Department of Licensing of that sale. Unfortunately, the new owner hadn’t transferred the registration into his own name yet. Carson scoured her memory. How long did he have to do that? It was one of those two-tiered statutes that had some sort of grace period, after which there was a fine. Was that fifteen days? And when did the second time limit expire, making it a criminal offense for failure to transfer ownership?
She shot a quick glance over at Battaglia, but the veteran officer remained intent on the car in front of them. That was his job as the cover officer and she knew that they took their roles seriously on this shift.
She reached for her ticket book and removed her cheat sheet. She ran her finger over the codes, searching for the particular charge regarding ownership transfer. When she reached the bottom of the page she flipped it over and scanned the back as well.
Nothing.
Carson scowled. It had to be there. She must have missed it. She turned the paper to the front and checked once again, this time more slowly. Two thirds of the way down, she found the listing. It was an infraction after fifteen days, a misdemeanor crime after forty-five. She sighed. That meant it was only a ticket, not an arrest.
Carson stepped out of the car and leaned in Battaglia’s window. “The car has a report of sale,” she told him.
“Over forty-five days?”
She shook her head.
Battaglia shrugged. “So we pull him out and you write him some tickets, then.”
“Yeah,” Carson said. Somehow, she didn’t think it was going to be that easy.
Battaglia exited his patrol car and stood by, waiting for her to take the lead. Carson didn’t hesitate. She strode back up to the car and shined her flashlight on the sneering driver’s face.
“Step out of the car,” she said forcefully. “Now.”
The driver muttered something in Russian, but surprised her by opening the car door. Carson took a step back to allow him room. She motioned for him to follow her back to the front of the patrol car. He paused, casting her a disdainful look, but eventually followed.
Carson maneuvered into position at the side of her car while he stood at the nose. Battaglia positioned himself at the front of his own car, within two easy strides of the suspect driver.
The driver stared at Carson with cold, hard eyes.
She opened her notebook. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Why I have to tell you?” he shot back. “I no do nothing wrong.”
“Answer her,” Battaglia rumbled, “or you’re going to jail.”
The driver met Battaglia’s gaze with an unimpressed stare of his own. The two men locked into a brief battle of wills while Carson stood by, realizing that control of this stop—her stop—was slipping away from her.
She opened her mouth to ask the driver for his name again, but the sound of car doors opening and slamming shut cut her off. Recognition, followed by a wide smile, spread slowly across the driver’s face. He shouted something in Russian that sounded like a greeting.
The two passengers in the suspect vehicle exited and began walking calmly toward the driver.
“Get back in the car!” Carson called to them, but they ignored her.
She glanced at Battaglia, but he’d followed the driver’s gaze to the rear of their patrol cars.
Five white males walked toward them, approaching in a loose semicircle. A shot of fear exploded in Carson’s stomach and reverberated up into her chest. Her breath quickened.
The driver said something in Russian and one of the approaching men grunted in return. Then he turned his attention to Carson. “I still going to jail, suka?”
Carson swallowed, then nodded. “Yes,” she said, her voice wavering. She winced inwardly at how weak it sounded. “You’re under arrest for failure to cooperate. Turn around and put your hands on your head.”
The driver laughed, that same sneer plastered on his face. “I think we leave now.” He turned away.
Fear pulsed through Carson’s veins, but a small patch of anger bubbled up from the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t believe this was happening. She was the police. People were supposed to listen to what she said, and do it. She was the one with the badge and the—
Carson drew her pistol and stepped toward the driver. She leveled it at his face, her jaw set. “Don’t move!” she said. “You are under arrest!”
The man blinked at her, no fear registering on his flat mien. Carson could feel the te
nsion ratcheting up. Battaglia stood absolutely still.
“Take him into custody,” she directed.
Battaglia took a step toward the driver. Almost as a single creature, the surrounding men took a step forward as well.
Battaglia stopped. The driver smiled at Carson. “So maybe you can to see now?”
Carson licked her lips and swallowed, but she held her gun steady at the man’s chest. “Don’t move,” she said again.
“Or vaht?” he said. “You will shoot me for speeding ticket? I not think so.”
Carson stared at him, struggling to think what to do. The driver stepped toward her until his chest pressed the muzzle of her gun. “Shoot,” he urged her quietly. “Shoot me, you little suka.”
Carson’s finger twitched, but she knew she couldn’t do it. Her mind raced for options. All of this over a traffic ticket?
Battaglia’s hand moved to his radio. The driver fixed Battaglia with a deadly stare. “You call for more police?” he asked, then shook his head. “You do that, they no get here soon enough. Not for you two.”
Battaglia lowered his hand.
“Good,” the Russian said. “Bad for you to end up in hell tonight.”
Battaglia drew his gun and held it to his side. “So how many of you fucks are coming with me?” he growled.
The driver chuckled. “None, I think. Not tonight.” He turned away and walked back to his gold Honda.
Carson tracked his movement with her gun, but kept her finger off the trigger.
He’s right, she thought. I can’t shoot him for a speeding ticket.
All of the other men fell back and got into their respective cars. A moment later, the two cars pulled away and sped up the road, the taillights dwindling in the distance.
Carson stood still for a moment. The whirring of her patrol car’s rotator lights and the clacking of Battaglia’s flashers filled her ears. Then her hands began to shake. She put her gun back into her holster carefully, snapping the security clasps into place with trembling fingers.
Battaglia stood bathed in the red, white, and blue of their emergency lights, his pistol still clenched in his hand at his side.
Carson turned away and turned off the emergency equipment. When she looked again, she saw that Battaglia had done the same. He slid into the driver’s seat of his car.
“Clear your stop,” he said abruptly, “and meet me in the church parking lot two blocks south.” Then he goosed the accelerator and sped away down Post.
Carson nodded. She was unsure if he was angry at her or at the situation. She got back into her car and typed the appropriate clearance code into her mobile data terminal. Then she dropped the car into gear and followed Battaglia.
His car was in the center of the empty church parking lot. His headlights were off, but the parking lights were on. She glided in next to him, putting their windows right next to each other.
Battaglia’s eyes burned. “Are you okay?” he asked her.
Carson started to nod, then half-shrugged. The beginnings of tears prickled at her eyes and she tried to force the emotion aside.
“Scared?” he asked.
She nodded.
He nodded back. “Holy shit. Me, too.”
“It didn’t show,” she said, remembering his bold statement.
So how many of you fucks are coming with me?
He took a deep breath and let it out. “Yeah, well, you can never let that show. Not ever.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Son of a bitch. I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Never?”
He met her eyes, then shook his head resolutely. “No. Do you know what just happened there?”
Carson swallowed. “What do you mean?”
“I mean just what I said. Do you know what the situation was?”
She didn’t sense any frustration in his voice. “I think,” she said, “that if we would have forced the issue by arresting the driver, his friends would have jumped in.”
Battaglia nodded slowly. “Yeah, I’m sure of it. Only I don’t know if all they would have done is jump in. I think that there were guns that we just didn’t see yet.”
“So we did the right thing?” Carson asked.
“Yeah,” Battaglia whispered. “We did the smart thing. It was either let them go or get into a gun fight over a traffic ticket.” He paused. “Fuck!”
“Should we call a sergeant?” She figured Sergeant Shen would want to know about this. Plus, other officers should be aware.
“No!” Battaglia snapped.
The force of his voice made her jump. The shock broke loose her pent-up emotions. The tears of fear and anger welled up in her eyes, burst, and flowed down her cheeks. She looked away in shame.
“I’m… I’m sorry, B.J.,” Battaglia said, his voice softer.
She turned back to face him. “Why don’t we call a sergeant?”
Battaglia sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe we do. But if people hear about this, we’re going to get Monday morning quarterbacked to death. Everyone is going to wonder how we just let those two cars drive away like that.”
“But it’s like you said,” Carson argued. “It was either that or—”
“It doesn’t matter. Cops are critical. They’ll eat us alive.”
“I still don’t see—”
“Just trust me,” Battaglia said. “I’ve got enough juice to maybe survive this kind of hit to my reputation, but you’re…”
He paused.
“I’m a rookie,” Carson finished for him.
“Yeah,” Battaglia answered, but she could see there was more.
“What is it?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Plus you’re a woman.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What, you want to live in make-believe land where that particular fact doesn’t matter? You know exactly what I mean. It’s why you didn’t ask for a third car.”
Carson didn’t reply.
“We have to sit on this,” Battaglia said. “We have to keep it a secret.”
“I don’t know…”
Battaglia shot her a hard glare. “What’s to know? You want this for your rep?”
“No,” she answered. “But don’t we have a responsibility to the other cops out here? So they know what might happen?”
“Yeah,” Battaglia said. “We do.”
“Then we have to tell a sergeant so that—”
“You just let me worry about that part, okay, rookie?”
Carson stopped short. Battaglia’s words should have seemed cutting, but there was a softness to the tone. She hesitated, taking a deep breath and running her fingers through her hair. She didn’t want people on the job to think she was weak. She couldn’t afford that. But what could she have done differently? What could any of them have done?
She knew Battaglia was right. Away from the actual event, most of them would come up with a solution. They’d feel superior to her. And they’d think badly of her. After all, if she couldn’t even control a simple traffic stop, what good was she as a cop?
“I’ll take care of it, B.J.,” Battaglia said quietly.
She believed him.
“Trust me,” he whispered.
“Okay,” she whispered back.
FOUR
0844 hours
Day Shift
Renee scanned field interview reports while sipping her coffee. After she read each one she quickly entered the salient parts into her computer database, then set the actual report aside for later filing. She was nearly through the stack when she came upon an interesting FI from Officer Battaglia on graveyard shift.
Spoke with confidential informant (CI). Stated Russian gangs are directing members to disobey officers on traffic stops. Driver will stall while passenger uses cell to call for assistance. Once the group outnumbers officers, members are directed to push matters to a head by refusing to allow anyone to be arrested. Warned not to do anything that would warrant officers using
deadly force. Just disobey and walk away. CI usually pretty reliable.
Renee read the brief report again. This was exactly the kind of thing she’d been trying to warn the chief about. It needed to go into the daily intelligence flyer so that officers could be aware of this possibility; she set the report aside from the rest for that purpose.
River City was growing. There’d been a time when the population was easily ninety percent white. Since she’d come to work for the police department in the late 1980s, though, the city had begun to diversify. Small populations of numerous racial and ethnic groups had filtered in and slowly grown little neighborhoods across the patchwork town. She guessed the vast majority of about two hundred thousand residents was still Caucasian—say seventy percent or so—but even in that category, they had a variety of cultural groups. Like the Russians she’d just read about.
Renee reached for her coffee. She didn’t identify much with any particular group, and while that probably took away from being able to have any sense of cultural pride, it also made her appreciate all of the cultures that were out there. In her off time, she liked to frequent different bars and restaurants, particularly those run by some sort of ethnic owner. She enjoyed getting to know more about all of them—Italian, Greek, Russian, Polish, Turkish, Chinese, Vietnamese, Mexican, you name it. What she found was that her favorite motto was almost always true: People are just people, everywhere.
That sentiment sat well with her, especially since the people she spent her days reading about and analyzing were almost exclusively bad people. If she hadn’t had some of those nice experiences all around town, she’d start to get a little bit jaded about some people.
Which brought her back to the Russians. Somewhere between twelve and fifteen thousand lived in River City. Several hundred were clearly involved in crime. That was pretty much on par with every other group she took the time to look at. It didn’t change her concern, though. And with Battaglia’s report, she was all that much more worried.
“Renee?”
She looked up to see Charlotte at her door. “Yes?”
“The chief would like to see you.”
“Now?”
