The Archangel Drones

by Joe Nobody

  Young Jacob Chase had a chance at justice, but it was slim. In the last year alone, 600 complaints of police brutality had been filed against the Houston Police Department, only four having ever made it to a grand jury. Even when cops reported on their fellow officers, something that occurred over 180 times per year, the fraction of policemen facing a judge was less than 1%.

  But the advent of cell phone videos and cruiser dash cameras was changing the game. Adam thought they would at least get a judicious hearing, perhaps remove what he now considered a dangerous individual from his position of authority.

  As he observed the proceedings, it was clear that Jacob was sticking to his original narrative. The lawyer watched as the two detectives became more frustrated, almost taking it as a personal challenge to cross the kid up. Gone was any desire to uncover the truth, honor being thrown out the window along with all of the moral implications of the story being told. The kid’s consistency was a professional affront to their decades of experience and skill. Despite all of the tools in their significant bag of tricks, Jacob held true to his account of the event.

  While on the surface it appeared as if information was flowing only in one direction, in reality Adam was gathering his own intelligence and evidence. The two officers were pressing hard – pulling out all the stops – going far beyond the call of duty. That told the attorney something, exposing the fact that important people were worried about Jacob’s accusations. Good, he thought. They should be.

  After two hours, Adam finally spoke up. “That’s enough guys. I’ve sat here without saying a word for 120 minutes, listened to you rehash the same questions twelve ways from Sunday. My client has been hospitalized, is still suffering post-stress syndrome, and has been nothing but cooperative up until this point.”

  Detective Dapper’s head snapped in Adam’s direction. “Are you hindering our investigation, Counselor?” he challenged.

  “Are you trying to put my client back in the hospital, Detective? I’m sure you two could eventually wear him down, trip him up after what – another 16-20 hours of non-stop interrogation? East Germany fell several years ago, gentlemen. We don’t operate like that around here.”

  Both men bristled at the comparison, but neither replied.

  “I have one last question for Mr. Chase,” said Detective Paunch. “Do you really want me to ruin those officers’ lives, young man? Do you really want us to take everything they’ve worked for and throw it away?”

  Jacob reached into his pocket and pulled out the rejection letter from the college, sliding it across the table at the two interrogators. “No one seems to care that my life… everything I’ve worked for has been thrown away because of a bully hiding behind a badge. I’ve lost all my friends, my chance at an education, and I will probably be permanently disabled. So now it’s my turn to ask a question - shouldn’t someone pay for that?”

  The two investigators packed up their briefcases shortly afterward, exiting the Barlow law firm without another word.

  Jacob sat quietly in his chair, his gaze focused on some point in space above the conference table. His parents, regulated to watching the entire event from the back of the room, hurried to comfort him.

  After ensuring Jacob was okay, Gabe approached Adam, naturally curious regarding the lawyer’s opinion of how the session had gone for their side.

  Sandy stayed with her son, congratulating him on being strong and sticking to his guns. No one seemed to notice his lack of enthusiasm, even the normally perceptive mother writing off his reaction to exhaustion from the effort.

  Once in the car, Gabe and Sandy chatted non-stop as they struggled to process the influx of data obtained from the encounter. Neither of them had any experience with legal issues, and making sense of the afternoon’s events put both of them on cognitive overload. Jacob dejectedly peered out the window as his dad navigated rush hour traffic. “They don’t believe me,” the teen whispered under his breath. “No one believes me.”

  Jacob excused himself after the Chases arrived home, seemingly unable to share the sense of progress his parents were feeling. “I’ve had enough for today. I’m gonna head to my room,” the teen announced.

  Kissing his mother on the cheek, he said, “I love you,” and then hobbled to his father, extending his arms for a hug. Again, the young man muttered those same three words.

  “Are you okay, son?” Gabe asked, detecting something odd in the teen’s demeanor.

  “I’m just tired, Dad. That whole thing just really wore me out today.”

  “Okay, buddy. Go upstairs and get some rest. I’ll take Manny and you out later for ice cream to celebrate if you’re up to it.”

  Nodding with a half-smile, Jacob made for the stairs, the effort of climbing to the second story seemingly more and more difficult with the crutches.

  He closed his bedroom door, staring at his bed with disgust, dreading another afternoon on the once-comfortable mattress. He limped toward his desk instead, opening his laptop and bringing up the social media site Manny and he used to communicate.

  “I’m tired from the interview today. Those guys were pretty rough, but everyone said I handled the questioning well,” he typed. “I’m going to give you the day off,” he added, ending the statement with a smiley face. “I love you, Manny, and no matter what happens, I want you to remember that. My parents and you are the only people who believe in me, and that means everything. I love you and always will.”

  He sent the message, aware that Manny wouldn’t be able to see it until she was heading home – knowing it was against the rules for students to access their cell phones on school property.

  Rising, he shuffled to his dresser and slid the top drawer open. In the back of the bin, he located a pair of rolled up socks, his lucky game pair from his last season. He turned the outer sock as if he were going to wear it, and a handful of pain tablets tumbled onto the dresser. He’d been collecting the powerful medication and hiding the unused pills from his parents.

  At first, he’d stashed an occasional dosage because the medications hurt his stomach, and he didn’t like how the narcotics made his head spin. The pain in his body was the lesser of the two evils. His mother made such a fuss if he tried to refuse the pills, so stashing them in his socks had been his chosen solution.

  Later, when the mental pain began outstripping the agony of his physical injuries, he’d taken to putting the meds back for a rainy day – just in case.

  After the lawyer had failed in getting the charges against him dismissed, Jacob had started looking at his now-significant pharmaceutical stash as a last ditch move to avoid going to jail. “I’ll take them all before I go to prison,” he’d vowed.

  That pledge had directed the young man down a different path of reasoning. What is so different about losing my freedom behind bars, and the future I now face? Both options restricted his choices. Both meant a life where his once honorable reputation was tarnished beyond repair. Both were filled with day after day of nothingness.

  And then there was the pain and suffering he was causing those around him. He’d limped downstairs a few nights before and overheard his parents while they were discussing the cost of his lawyers, medical bills, and the upcoming trial. They were being ruined financially, and the thought of his folks living in poverty or not being able to retire was a huge burden to bear.

  Then there was Manny. He knew she was paying a heavy price for her loyalty to him. A perverted version of the truth was circulating all over social media. What kind of life could he promise her without college? What kind of provider could he be? With all of his mom and dad’s funds earmarked toward keeping him out of jail – a higher education was out of the question.

  And now, today, there were the policemen who might have their lives ruined because of him. Jacob realized they had just blindly followed the sergeant’s lead. They probably have kids, and some of them might even be my classmates, he mused. They might have sat across from me at the lunch table or have had my back on the cour
t. Should those teens’ lives be wrecked, too? How would those kids feel if their fathers lost their jobs or went to prison because of one mistake made in the early hours of a confusing morning? Where will all this pain and devastation end?

  No, everybody was better off if he just faded away - ceased to exist.

  His resolve was bolstered by adolescent analysis, mental exercises that predicted years of surgeries, tons of pain, and months of being confined to a bed that was, in reality, nothing more than a prison bunk.

  Jacob moved slowly to the display of trophies covering a specially mounted shelf. He gently touched a few of his favorites, the metal’s cold surface unyielding under his fingertips. A grimace formed on his face, a wave of disgust welling up inside. Why had he wanted these useless trinkets so prominently displayed? Why had he felt a sense of pride and accomplishment over such meaningless symbols celebrating something so unimportant? So fleeting? So immaterial in the grand scale of life? He was embarrassed by how naïve he had once been.

  He limped to the bed, managed to bend and sit without the ever-present crutches. Reaching for the bottle of water on the nightstand, he began swallowing three or four pills at a time, the handful of tablets taking several gulps to consume.

  He lay on the pillows, the fresh smell of dryer sheets bringing a smile to his face. Mom was at it again, laundering his bedding while he’d taken a shower. “I’m doing this for you, Mom. I am doing this for you, Dad, and for you, too, Manny. You’ll all be better off without me,” he whispered. “I love you all.”

  Sleep came before any effect of the narcotic, Jacob’s troubled mind finally finding comfort with the act of taking control of his own destiny. He had made a decision. He was in command, and it felt good. It had been so long since he’d experienced such a state, and now the pain would finally stop.

  Manny cursed her stupidity, noting her phone’s battery was dead after exiting the school’s main entrance. Rushing for her bus, she was worried, knowing that Jacob would be upset when she didn’t text him right away. Her stress doubled after remembering he was being interviewed by the cops early that afternoon.

  She rushed into her house after the 30-minute bus ride, yelling a quick “I’m home, Mom,” and heading directly for her room and the cell’s charger.

  Trying to decide which was faster, booting her computer, or getting enough charge on her phone, she chose to juice up the mobile’s batteries.

  Back down the stairs she galloped, making a beeline for the refrigerator, pausing momentarily to give her mother a hug. The two girls chitchatted about the day’s events while Manny downed a large glass of orange juice.

  “How’s Jacob doing?” Amanda asked, bringing her sometimes scatterbrained daughter back to reality.

  “Oh, crap. My phone. Be right back!”

  It took a bit for the cell to boot, another few moments for Jacob’s message to show up on the screen. “Now that’s weird,” she whispered, reading the odd text for the second time. “He must have had a really bad day.”

  Manny wasn’t sure how to react to her boyfriend’s unusual words and phrasing, something troubling about the finality of his last statement. “I better let mom look at this,” she mumbled, bouncing back down the stairs with urgency.

  Amanda took one look at the message and grew pale. “Call Gabe and Sandy, right now!” she barked, scaring her daughter with the outburst.

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Just call them. Tell them to go check on Jacob…. Never mind. I’ll do it.”

  In a flash, Amanda pulled her own phone out of her purse, fingers flying through her contact list until Sandy’s number appeared. It seemed like an eternity before Mrs. Chase answered.

  “Hi, Amanda, how are you?” the cheerful greeting piped through the line.

  “Manny got a really weird text from Jacob this afternoon. Sandy… you better go check on him… it sounded… well… troubling.”

  “Oh. No. Oh, Lord… thank you, Amanda,” and then the call went dead.

  Gabe saw a look of sheer terror cross his wife’s face as she set down her phone. “What’s the matter?” he tried to ask, but she was already darting for the stairs. He followed, some sixth sense telling him why his wife was in such a rush.

  When Gabe crossed the threshold, Sandy was leaning over Jacob’s bed aggressively shaking her son with the strength of desperation. “Is he breathing?” the boy’s father managed.

  “He’s cold, Gabe. Oh my God…. Oh, my God. No, Jacob. Noooooo!”

  Gabe’s phone was out of his pocket, his shaking fingers managing the 9-1-1 buttons. “Yes, this is an emergency! My son… I think he’s tried to kill himself….”

  Sandy’s uncontrollable screams and hysterical sobbing made it difficult for Gabe to manage his own home address. “Okay, sir, I’ve got an ambulance on the way.”

  “What do I do?” he pleaded with the emergency operator. “Tell me what to do.”

  “Please be calm, sir, and be ready to let the EMTs in when they arrive,” the hollow words echoed in Gabe’s mind.

  Officer Kirkpatrick walked into the restaurant, immediately spying the large table of cops at the back of the dimly lit dining area. It’s never difficult to find your party when in uniform, he mused.

  Zigzagging through the occupied tables of diners enjoying the locally well-known Tex-Mex fare, Dole was surprised to spot a few different faces at the table. His apprehension was further elevated when he noticed quite the assortment of “stripes and pipes,” a reference to the rank insignias represented among the gathered throng.

  The normal crew of “dawn patrol” cops had been supplemented this evening, some incident evidently holding the second shift boys over. After a few nods and hellos, the patrolman took the last, open seat and began perusing the expansive menu.

  The table’s in-process conversation consisted mainly of frustrated remarks by the second shifters, a semi-trailer full of hazardous material having overturned on I-45 just as rush hour was in full swing. It had been a mess, half a million angry commuters joining a dozen fire trucks and a small army of DOT cleanup experts in the gridlock.

  The waitress appeared, stopping the in-progress rant dead cold. Policemen didn’t like outsiders hearing their private conversations, no matter how innocent the interruption. It was a habit, born of hard lessons, and the never-ending isolation men wearing the badge experienced every day.

  With all the separate-check orders taken, the attractive server hustled off toward the kitchen, apparently unfazed by the burden of tallying one ticket per diner.

  After watching the gal sashay away, one of the two-stripers smirked and asked, “Hey, Big Jim, is that gal that just took our order the holster bunny you were telling me be about?”

  Several heads at the table turned quickly to double check the waitress’s backside as she disappeared around the corner, a few heads nodding in approval. All seated knew the reference, a “holster bunny,” or sometimes “holster hugger,” being a woman who sought sex with men in blue uniforms.

  “So I hear,” Jim answered. “According to a couple of the constables I know, she’s damn friendly on occasion. One of them even went so far as to claim she intentionally kept a headlight out just so she’d get pulled over.”

  Everyone cackled at the remark, one of the third shift patrolmen pretending to pull his notebook out and scribble a reference. The banter and subsequent laughter continued.

  Kirkpatrick didn’t have any funny anecdotes or clever comments to add. Besides being the junior man at the table, he was a naturally quiet soul. Instead, he chose to study the older, more experienced cops around him. Especially those he hadn’t worked with in the past.

  Big Jim Marwick was there, the sergeant’s attendance at any sort of social gathering both unusual and intimidating. Rumor had it that the large-framed cop was up for a promotion, which translated into most meals being taken with his superiors, not the precinct’s lowly patrolmen.

  “Hey, Jim, do you remember that kid that tried t
o evade you a few months back? You were working our shift on a swap,” asked one of the owls.

  “Yeah… I remember getting my ass chewed,” growled the big man. “Internal Affairs is still looking at the cluster fuck, so I’m not out of the woods just yet.”

  “Well, I heard that kid committed suicide yesterday. Overdosed on pain meds.”

  The table grew quiet, many of the men seated having processed the scenes of teenage suicides. Such events never resulted in a pleasant day. About the only thing worse was when one of their own decided to end it all, which happened more often than any cop wanted to admit.

  But Jim didn’t seem to be concerned, waving off the foul air that had suddenly formed over the table. “Doesn’t surprise me. He was weak. Most of those rich, white kids are a bunch of uppity, privileged little shits who think the world owes them a smooth sail. They grow up believing that mom and dad will bail their little, spoiled asses out when the occasional wave does rock their boats. When life introduces them to the real jungle, a lot of them crack up and go over the edge.”

  “Aren’t the parents threatening a civil suit, Jim?”

  “Yeah… just like everybody else we put cuffs on these days. You look at them funny, and they scream abuse. Fuck, what’s this world coming to? I’ve gotten in trouble for supposedly beating up a couple of punks. Those pussies wouldn’t have lasted a week in my old man’s house… if you crossed him, you learned what a true ass whooping was all about.” Marwick replied with a grimace. “Nowadays, my dad would probably get brought up on child abuse charges. Yet all my brothers and sisters have done well in life and managed to stay out of the prison system. Imagine that.”

  The discussion paused, many of the men sitting around the table unsure of what to say next. The long dissertation was unusual for any senior cop, especially on a topic such as pending litigation. Big Jim sensed the uneasiness, quickly deciding to move things along with a joke. “Do you guys think I should send flowers to the funeral?”