by Dale Brown
“Almost doesn’t seem worth it,” Paul said.
“Getting a little war-weary already, rook?” LaFortier asked, amused. “A few hours on the street and you’re already feeling frustrated? Welcome to the world. Don’t worry about the prosecution-worry about the arrest and the evidence. Cops blow more cases from sloppy field work than DA’s blow in court-or at least that’s what they like to tell us. Let’s get this guy booked and get back on the street.” Paperwork in hand, LaFortier and McLanahan escorted their prisoner through the booking process. The place was packed, so it was a slow business.
First, a nurse did a quick medical examination. Old hypodermic needle track marks were found on the guy’s arms, so he had to submit to a blood test for HIV antibodies. After another twenty-minute wait, they escorted him to the booking window, where they presented the arrest and evidence reports to the booking sergeant. The prisoner was booked, strip-searched once again by sheriff’s deputies, and placed in a special isolation holding cell to await pictures, prints, and the results of his AIDS test to determine whether he’d be placed in a cell with other prisoners or segregated in a medical isolation cell. With that, LaFortier and McLanahan headed back out to the garage.
“We need to cut that booking time down to less than an hour, rook, and that includes driving time,” LaFortier said. His radio squawked. LaFortier listened, heard a familiar voice say something about a power failure at the Sacramento Live! entertainment complex, and turned his radio volume knob down so he could talk to his partner. “I’m taking time with you because you need to learn this stuff and do it right and develop good habits and all that shit. But we belong on the street, not in the jail. So we’ll be hustling from here on out to get our booking times down.” He noticed a faraway expression on McLanahan. “You okay, rook?”
“The jail gets me down a little, I guess,” McLanahan said. “Hauling them in like bags of garbage, strip searches, paperwork, putting them in the system like rats in a cage… it seems so dehumanizing.”
“Never seen the jail before, have you?” Paul shook his head. “That should be required for every applicant. It gets everybody down, rook. The only alternative to processing them and putting them in the system is putting a bullet in their head when we catch them, and we don’t want that, do we, rook?”
“No.”
The big FTO saw that Paul’s somber expression didn’t change. “Why’d you join the force, McLanahan?” LaFortier asked. “You’re a damned attorney, for chrissakes. Passed the California bar and everything. We got lots of guys on the force going to Lincoln Law School nights, and lots of guys who have even graduated, but you’re the only cop I know who’s actually passed the bar exam-and on the first try too. You could be an assistant DA, make more money, wear a decent suit, work in a nice office or do that telecommuting thing, and never have to look up a perp’s diseased bunghole. Is it because of your old man? Is it a family thing? Because if it is, you won’t make it one more friggin’ night on the streets…”
“No, it’s not,” McLanahan said resolutely.
“Then why? The prestige? The uniform? The famous badge you get to wear? The gun? Certainly not the money. It has to be because of the old man, some sort of responsibility you feel to put another generation of McLanahans on the force because your older brother’s not a cop…”
“I did it because I want to help, Craig…”
“That sounds like academy brainwash propaganda, rook.”
“It’s not propaganda, sir,” McLanahan said firmly. “This is my city, my home…”
“It’s that guy’s home too, rook,” LaFortier interjected. “It’s all those guys’ homes in that jail, even the illegals and the transients. They all have rights, you know. They have a right to do whatever they want…”
“They don’t have the right to break the law in my home,” McLanahan said angrily. “We follow the law in my home. My family follows the law. My neighbors follow the law. We all depend on the law to help us live in peace. It offends me, it pisses me off, when someone breaks the law in my city!…”
“All right, all right, be cool, rook.” LaFortier held up his hands in mock surrender. “You’re preaching to the choir here. In my book, there’s only one reason for being a cop-it gives you the authority, the responsibility, to protect your city and your neighbors from criminals. You knew that. So I know there’s hope for you. All you need to do is remember what you just told me. Forget about the diseased A-holes and the rats in a cage and collecting the garbage. You’re here, now, tonight, to protect your city. Don’t lose sight of that. Got it, rook?”
“Roger that,” Paul said, his energy resurging. The jail was a necessary part of the job, Paul decided, but it wasn’t the job. Being out on the street, helping those who needed help and nailing the predators was his job. He went around to the passenger side of the car, got in, and strapped in.
“You ready to go, rook?” LaFortier asked.
“Yes, sir,” Paul said, his enthusiasm genuine.
“Ready to hit the streets? Ready to nail some more bad guys? Ready to enforce the laws of this fair metropolis?”
Paul registered the rising sarcasm in LaFortier’s voice and realized the big FTO was still standing outside the squad car. Then it hit him. Sheepishly, he unstrapped, got out, and walked around to the trunk. LaFortier tossed him the keys, and McLanahan retrieved their weapons.
“Next time, rook, it’ll cost you dinner,” LaFortier said, strapping on his sidearm. “The first time you forget your gun when you’re on your own, sure as shit you’ll be involved in a bad situation. Don’t forget again. Now we’re ready.”
They drove out of the parking garage, then waited on the ramp for the steel roll-up door to close behind them. “We’ll grab a coffee-at Starbucks, not the shit they serve at the jail or at headquarters-then take a swing past Sacramento Live! before heading back to the south area,” LaFortier said to his partner as they pulled out onto the street.
“Sacramento Live!? Why?”
“A buddy of mine is doing an off-duty gig there, and he told Dispatch something about a power failure. We’ll just pop in on him for a minute or two.”
“Did he ask for any assistance?” McLanahan asked. “I didn’t hear the call.”
“No, he didn’t ask for assistance, rook,” LaFortier said. “But I’ll tell you right now, and you can take this to the bank: There is nothing that feels better, except maybe for some big-titted brunette sitting naked on your lap, than seeing a squad car pull up to your scene. Even if you’re Code Four and didn’t ask for backup and are completely in control of your situation, it feels damn good to see another cop out there with you. Same goes for sheriff’s deputies, security guards, ambulance drivers, street sweepers, waitresses, and convenience store clerks, anyone who has to work the graveyard shift…”
“But how can you do that? You can’t be everywhere…”
“You listen and you observe and you pay attention to everything,” LaFortier said. “First of all, when you hear it on the radio, you should pay attention-since we do most of our communicating on the MDT nowadays, a guy using the radio is away from his car, on foot, and usually confronting a suspect, so if you’re available and nearby, swing on over to his location. Listen to the cop’s voice, his tone-that speaks louder than his words. Listen to background noises-if you hear lots of voices in the background, shouting or crying or screaming, the cop might be outnumbered or up to his eyeballs, and he sure as shit wants a little backup even though he might forget to ask for it, or he might be too afraid of the crowd’s reaction if he calls for help. When you see a cop on the street confronting someone, even if it’s one-on-one, check it out. Let him Code Four you on your way if he doesn’t need help.
“You’ll understand all this soon, especially after your probationary period, when you’re on the street by yourself,” LaFortier went on. “This little city can seem awful big and lonely at night, even for the toughest veteran cops. Rusty’ll probably ream us out for wasting our time s
nooping on him, but take my word for it, everyone appreciates the swing-by.”
The obstetrician strode quickly into the room and went directly to Wendy’s bedside, checking the readouts on the vital-sign monitors, then beginning a digital exam. Wendy didn’t seem to notice him; her head lolled to the side and her dry lips were parted slightly. An extra blanket covered her up to the chin, but she still shivered occasionally.
Although he didn’t show it, Patrick was a frazzled mess inside. An alarm on the fetal monitor kept going off, and a nurse would come in, hit the quiet button, and leave. He didn’t know whether she was taking any real notice, because it had been going off regularly for at least half an hour and he was afraid she’d gotten desensitized to it by now. He could do little for Wendy. An hour ago an anesthesiologist had finally installed an epidural line into Wendy’s spine-it was the only procedure that Patrick was told to leave the room for-so she was no longer in body-numbing pain. Unfortunately, she was also not very responsive. The oxytocin had taken over her contractions now, and she was being racked with one every two or three minutes. There were so many tubes and wires hooked up to her and the baby that she looked like some weird science experiment. This was definitely not the way they wanted to deliver this child.
“What’s going on, Doctor?” Patrick asked when the obstetrician had finished his exam.
“It’s time to act. The baby’s pulse rate is high now and his blood oxygen level is low, and it looks like his head is banging right up against the cervix-but she’s still dilated only five centimeters. I’m afraid we don’t have any choice-we need to do a cesarean.”
“We talked about that already,” Patrick said angrily. “Wendy can’t do a cesarean, because of her injuries…”
“We don’t have any choice in the matter, Mr McLanahan,” the doctor said. “You’re going to lose the baby if this keeps up. We can’t increase the oxytocin any further. We’re coming up on twenty-four hours since her water broke, so the chance of infection is climbing. Any more delay, and we could lose both of them.”
“Then…”-Patrick couldn’t believe he was going to say this, but he had to-“… if the surgery is too risky, we should… we have to abort the delivery.”
“I’ve been speaking to Dr Linus since you gave me permission to get details on Wendy’s injuries,” the obstetrician said. “I think she’s strong enough to handle a cesarean. Dr Linus and I disagree…”
“Then we should go with Dr Linus’s recommendation.”
“I’m the attending physician now, and I’m here and he’s not,” the obstetrician said firmly. “And I’m the one responsible. I don’t know the extent of her injuries, but I don’t think Dr Linus does either-apparently you’ve been playing this secrecy game with him too.” Patrick averted his eyes. It was obvious that he felt the awful pain of having to choose between maintaining some government secret and the health and well-being of his family, and was now discovering that he might have made the wrong choice. Sometimes, the obstetrician thought, these guys play the loyal little tin soldier routine too seriously, forgetting that there are real lives at stake.
“Frankly speaking,” the doctor went on, “you two took an awful risk by continuing this pregnancy, with the horrendous medical history Wendy has. The chances of mother and baby coming out of this pregnancy in good health were never better than fifty-fifty. You should have been advised of that…”
“We were,” Patrick admitted. “But it was a miracle Wendy got pregnant at all, so we decided to go ahead with it.”
The doctor gave Patrick a faint smile. “Well, sir, now we all have to live with the consequences of that decision. It’s a tribute to her that she stayed in such good health through this pregnancy, and that is a definite plus in her favor-but we’re in trouble now. The worst has come true. You need to make a decision, Patrick.”
“All right,” Patrick said, reaching over and taking Wendy’s hand. She stirred but did not return his gentle squeeze. “What are my options?”
“The only way for us to ensure that we’ll deliver a healthy baby at this point is to do a cesarean right now,” the obstetrician said. “The only way to ensure Wendy’s health is to terminate the pregnancy. We can wait and hope that Wendy dilates to ten, but we risk injury or death to your baby because his head is pounding against her cervix and he’s showing obvious signs of distress, and we also risk the chance of infection for both mother and baby. We can go ahead with a C-section and risk Wendy’s health, although I’m fairly confident that she can come out of it all right. Or we terminate the pregnancy to save Wendy. That’s about it.”
Patrick looked at his wife, but she was out of it. You have got to help me on this one, sweetie, he told her silently. I can’t make this decision on my own.
As if in reply, she opened her eyes and managed a weak smile. She swallowed, took a ragged breath, and said in a low voice, “You are going to make a great father, lover.”
“Wendy, listen to me. I have to ask you-the baby’s in trouble, you’re in trouble. I think we need to… to abort it, sweetheart.”
Wendy’s expression never changed but she raised her chin confidently. “You won’t do that, Patrick,” she said.
“I can’t risk your life, Wendy…”
“I’ve had my life already, Patrick,” Wendy said. “You’d be denying a new life. You won’t do that.”
“But we have other options, Wendy,” Patrick said, pleading with her. “We can adopt. I can’t risk losing you…”
“Patrick, sweetheart, we have a life right here, right now, that we must decide about,” Wendy said. “There are no other options. It’s us three right now. You know what you have to do.”
Wendy’s smile never dimmed as Patrick’s eyes filled with tears. He reached down, kissed her on the forehead, pressed her hand, and nodded. She nodded in reply and closed her eyes as another wave of contractions, more painful than the last even through the epidural, washed over her.
Patrick turned to the obstetrician and said, “Cesarean.”
“All right, let’s go,” the doctor said. Nurses came in to get Wendy ready to move to the pre-op area.
“I want to be there,” Patrick said emphatically. “I want to be with Wendy. I’m not leaving her side.”
“You’ll be there,” the doctor said. Patrick was handed a package with a thin plastic surgical gown, cap, and shoe covers. “Put those on. We’ll have you wait outside the pre-op area until she’s been taken into surgery, and then we’ll bring you in. Don’t worry.”
The speed at which the nurses and doctor were working told Patrick that the greatest battle of their lives was just beginning.
LaFortier drove past the main entrance to Sacramento Live!, then parked the car across the street half a block down. LaFortier put the car in park but did not shut off the engine. He sat thinking. “Why don’t we just give the guy a call on the radio and have him let us in?” Paul McLanahan asked.
“It’s dark inside,” LaFortier said.
“They had a power failure, Cargo.”
“But the battery-powered emergency lights are off too,” LaFortier pointed out. “One or two lights out, I can understand-but all of the emergency lights malfunctioning at the same time?…”
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that Rusty’s probably pretty pissed off right now,” LaFortier said. He picked up the radio. “Security One-Seven, One John Twenty-One.” No reply. LaFortier tried again; still no reply. “I’ll get Dispatch to beep him. He might be in the can or something.” LaFortier swung the Mobile Data Terminal toward him and typed, 1JN21 TO POP3 REQ PLZ BEEP SECURITY 17, a request to activate the beeper on the off-duty officer’s radio, a loud tone signaling the officer to check in right away.
“Should we get some backup?” McLanahan asked.
“Not just yet-let’s see if Rusty checks in,” LaFortier replied. He put the car in drive and rolled farther down the block, out of sight of the front of the building.
“Er bewegt sich
in nцrdlicher Richtung auf der Seventh Street,” the lookout reported. A gunman, fully outfitted with body armor, helmet, and several heavy automatic weapons, was stationed at each entrance, monitoring the outside with night-vision goggles.
“Verstanden,” said the one in the staircase. Three others were taking cover in the staircase, hidden behind the half-open door. Still another was just dragging the body of the off-duty police officer away from the security desk, out of sight of the cash room located just opposite the security desk. The gunport in the door of the cash room was still closed-apparently the men inside hadn’t heard the commotion outside yet.
“What is the procedure when they open the door, Mullins?” one of the gunmen asked in heavily accented English.
“They’ll call out first on the phone, Major,” said a man in a security guard’s outfit. “Then they’ll look out the gunport. The security chief is supposed to stand in plain sight before the door is opened. Then they’ll…” Just then, a loud beeping sound came from the security desk.
“Is that the call?” asked the gunman identified as the Major, obviously the leader of the group. He was clad in thick Class Three bulletproof Kevlar armor protecting every part of his body except his head; his ballistic Kevlar infantry helmet, which had an integral communications headset, red-lens protective goggles, and a gas mask, was in his hand. His combat harness was arrayed with ammo pouches, grenades, and a large-caliber automatic pistol in a combat thigh rig. He scared the hell out of the security guard.
“No-that’s the cop’s radio,” the guard replied. “Dispatch is asking him to check in.”
