by Joe Nobody
“There’s a balance, Gabe,” the attorney responded. “And I agree, Marwick shouldn’t be on the streets. But if you go posting that video, you’re going to hurt every cop, good and bad alike. Aren’t they innocent until proven guilty as well? People only see the uniform, authority, and the capability to alter lives. Citizens lump them all together. The general public doesn’t look at individual faces or badge numbers.”
“If you were in my shoes, what would you do, Adam? I can’t let Jacob’s death become another meaningless statistic. I need to associate some meaning to his loss.”
The attorney was normally the one asking questions, Gabe’s turning things around catching Adam off guard. He toyed with his fork, pushing small bits of food around on the plate while he contemplated a response. He seemed almost embarrassed not to have a good answer to his client’s query. With a hesitant voice, he ventured, “I suppose you could donate money to the police so they could buy body cameras and better dash cams.”
“Marwick had a dash cam, and that didn’t help. Besides, they all know how to defeat the cameras. You told me that they practice huddling and piling around suspects so any cameras can’t see what’s going on.”
Adam sighed, “I can’t really tell you how to change the system. But I do understand your need to do something. Post the raw video from an anonymous account if you must. Don’t go near the modified version we used at the trial because they would know in a heartbeat who had access to that. For now, that’s about the best advice I can give you.”
Sandy answered the call on the second ring. “How are you, Gabe?” she said with a warm tone.
“I doing okay, I guess. I miss you terribly, you know.”
“Is it over? I will come home the moment you tell me it’s over,” she said gently, a wisp of hope in her voice.
He didn’t answer the question, choosing instead to ramble on about investments, the yard crew asking for a raise, and the neighbor’s new car.
She listened politely, occasionally posing a question of clarification, letting her mate jabber as if she were just down the street or out shopping for the afternoon. Finally, when he’d exhausted the small talk, she gently submitted her question again. “Is it over, Gabe? Can we move on… together?”
Gabe hesitated, despite having known the question was coming. He had rehearsed the answer a dozen times in his mind. “No, my dearest, I won’t lie,” he finally managed. “Our victory in court… the money… it was hollow. Until that man is off the streets, it won’t be over.”
“That might be a long time,” she answered sadly. “That might be forever.”
“No, I won’t let it go forever,” he promised. “But it burns inside of me, Sandy. It is a fire I have to extinguish before I can have peace. I hope you still understand that. I pray you still love me.”
“I’m afraid that fire is going to burn you up, Gabriel darling. It’s a scorching, unbearable inferno too hot for me to stand beside, or I’ll be consumed as well. I hope you understand that. I pray you still love me.”
“I do, Sandy. I swear I do. I know this is hard for you to understand. I know you are healing your grief in an entirely different manner.” Like a wordsmith considering his next query, he paused to ensure that every phrase was selected to perfectly convey his meaning. “I wonder… is it too much for me to ask if you will give me more time to work through this?”
Now, it was Sandy’s time to reflect on her husband’s words. She sighed and then responded, “Yes, of course I will wait. I have faith you’ll come out the other side as the man I fell in love with. I know you need to quench this fire in your belly. But then I want you to come back to me as the man I love. I just wish I were strong enough to be there and help you. Understand I’m not that brave or strong just yet. But I hope you will never doubt my love, Gabriel William Chase.”
His heart warmed at her understanding, his voice cracking slightly at the depth of affection and insight from her words. “Do you need anything? Money? Anything from the house?”
Her gentle chuckle was reassuring, the highlight of the call. “No, I don’t need anything except my husband. I’ll be waiting, Gabe.”
DA Sanders saw Tony approaching, her first reaction being to duck into the ladies room in order to avoid the junior prosecutor. As tempting as the maneuver was, she resisted the urge. There was a long list of people she didn’t want to see these days. So many in fact, there were days when relocating to a remote desert island seemed her only viable option. Wonder if I could telecommute? I would avoid gridlock, and with what I saved on parking, I could afford a little seaside cabana, she mused. Only when she contemplated the inaccessibility of Texas barbecue did she dismiss the passing thought.
“Good morning, ma’am,” the young attorney greeted.
Karen merely nodded, her eyes sweeping the busy foot traffic moving through the courthouse hall to make sure no one was listening. “Morning.”
“Is now a bad time? I hate to be a pest, but I’ve been trying to get with you for three days.”
Karen frowned, “Really? Three days? I know I’ve been busy, but I didn’t realize that much time had passed since we’d talked. Let’s find someplace a little more quiet.”
The duo continued on, strolling through a chorus of footfall echoes bouncing off the highly polished, marble floor. They smiled as they passed a judge’s clerk scurrying with an armload of folders, subconsciously nodded at a pair of chatting pedestrians, and then dodged a crime reporter for the local paper. Both avoided making eye contact with the big league defense lawyer working a high-profile criminal case.
Tony wasn’t stupid, immediately recognizing his boss’s strong desire to avoid addressing his ever-growing list of needs. As they walked, he tried to prioritize and weed out the lesser demons. The tension grew thicker with every step. No way he could avoid the burgeoning elephant in the room.
Finally, they approached an empty courtroom, DA Sanders closing the double doors after they’d entered the vacant space.
“What’s up?” she asked innocently enough.
He quickly ran through three items needing his boss’s attention, receiving her agreement on a plea bargain, approval of a sentencing recommendation, and finally the reset of a pending hearing. It was the fourth topic that both of them dreaded. “Did you have a chance to look over my brief on the Marwick case?”
Karen’s eyes dropped to the floor, but she still responded. “Yes, I’ve read it, and to be blunt, I keep shuffling it to the bottom of the stack.”
Tony understood, his supervisor’s response not totally unexpected. “Normally, I wouldn’t press on a case like this, but somebody keeps agitating the local press and poking social media with a cattle prod. This one’s not going to drift quietly away in the night. I received an email just this morning from the Houston Post, asking why the case had not been added to the grand jury’s docket.”
“I know, I know,” she fumed, clearly frustrated. “But like most of these brutality incidents, we’re between a rock and a hard place. I thought the civil settlement would tamp this down, but obviously it hasn’t.”
The problem the DA’s office faced was well known by both of them. This was a no-win scenario, regardless of the outcome.
The DA depended on the police, worked with them every single day. In private, most cops would admit one of their own had crossed the line in this instance but wouldn’t want Marwick prosecuted. They were dealing with an organization that saw repeat, violent, offenders released with a mere slap of the hand – why shouldn’t the good guys wearing a badge receive the same altruism?
Every day, policemen watched the revolving door of “justice” as it returned hardened criminals to the streets for a variety of reasons. Technicalities, sleazy defense tactics, injudicious rules, or misled juries resulted in the more-jaded cops referring to themselves as fishermen. “We catch and release,” the world-weary officers touted as their feeble battle cry. Karen understood the grievance of good men who risked their lives for the public
welfare, only to watch robbers, rapists and murderers walk free. For the DA to drop the legal hammer on one of their own would classify her as someone who lacked the capacity to understand the frustrations and dangers involved in law enforcement. If the prosecution against an officer were successful, she would earn the title of “cop hater.” And ultimately, her office’s primary objective to represent the public would suffer from the black eye a media frenzy would prompt.
Not only would internal department morale be damaged, the public’s interaction with street cops would be impacted as well. It had been well documented that once a cop had been convicted, the public became more aggressive and resistant to the local officers. Witnesses were hesitant to come forward. Informants dried up, and a more belligerent attitude prevailed toward the men and women in blue.
But merely slapping Marwick on the wrist could backfire as well. Public outrage could result in ever expanding rings of negative events. In previous, highly publicized cases, vigilantes had assassinated officers on the street. Demonstrations, some violent, others peaceful, had occurred in numerous metro areas, the cost to the taxpayers mounting into millions and millions of dollars in police overtime, lost business revenue, and frustrated citizens.
“I’m going to take the easy way out, for now,” Karen finally declared. “We’re going to use the tried and true tactic of stalling. Tell your curious reporters that the grand jury dockets are stuffed to the gills at the moment. Assure them that we are going to pursue this case to the full extent of our official capacity, and we want to make sure that a thorough presentation is made on behalf of our citizens. You know the public relations drill, Tony. Do me proud.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Gabe’s mornings were spent online, searching local new outlets for any sign of action against Officer Marwick. This morning produced the same result – disappointment. It had been the same, day after day.
He tried desperately not to become obsessed with the topic, but it was a difficult struggle, and he was losing. He’d resigned from his job months ago, the interest income from the settlement providing more revenue than his upper-middle class career had ever produced. The cleaning lady came once a week, even that frequency seemingly overkill as his bachelor lifestyle and tidy personal habits produced little in the way of filth. At least she can keep the dust bunny population in check, he mused.
He’d sold Jacob’s Honda, sick of seeing the reminder in the driveway on the few occasions he did venture beyond the front door. Then there had been the random conversations on the phone with Sandy, his honesty and wife’s perception leading her to believe he still wasn’t “ready to let go of this.”
The rest of his time was spent studying every aspect of law enforcement’s use of force.
He monitored dozens of activists’ websites, groups or individuals who reported, blogged, and opined on the topic. He subscribed to news feeds from every major national and regional outlet. He dedicated a significant portion of his day to internet voyeurism, lurking in forums designed specifically for law enforcement officers, online sites designed to allow cops a medium to share common experiences and frustrations.
At first, Gabe had delved into the dark side, convinced that there were fundamental flaws in America’s system of criminal justice. While that notion proved to be true, his analytical mind also had to admit that several issues existed throughout the massive infrastructure, some of which worked against the cops.
Over time, a realization set in – most police officers were professional, even-handed servants to the public. They were asked to perform a nearly impossible job for little pay and even less respect by some segments of the population.
That admittance hadn’t been easy for the still-grieving father to accept.
After three months of anxiously waiting for justice to be served against the man who he believed had ended his son’s life, Gabe found himself as perplexed as Adam had been that day at lunch. He was struggling for an answer, determined to make a difference, committed to the cause of solving the problem. But how?
Glancing up from the computer screen, Gabe noted two squirrels chasing each other around the trunk of a front yard pine. Their movement held his attention, the distraction from web pages and streaming news video a welcome rest for his digital-weary brain.
The cause of the fur-commotion was unclear, each squirrel taking turns pursuing the other. The scuffle appeared pointless as well, neither animal seemingly capable of catching or besting the other. “Why are you guys wasting your time and energy?” he whispered.
On and on the contest continued, small streaks of brown fur and bushy tails flashing round and round the trunk, first this direction, and then in reverse. On the few occasions the two combatants did pause, they remained on high alert, eyeing each other with nervous suspicion.
It occurred to Gabe that he was doing the exact same thing, wasting his time and energy on what was proving to be a fruitless chase. He was circling the tree, just like his yard mates. He had to do something different. He wasn’t a squirrel.
Wandering to the kitchen with thoughts of eggs and toast on his mind, a clarity of sorts entered his otherwise clouded mind. Somehow, that morning, he realized that to address his concerns, he must first find a solution to one simple dilemma. How to identify the bad cops while leaving the good guys alone? And furthermore, that identification process must provide proof – beyond any shadow of doubt when a white hat became corrupt.
“Brilliant!” he informed the cooking eggs. “I think I’m finally seeing the forest and not the squirrel-infested trees.”
Gabe felt a sense of accomplishment with that epiphany, proud of himself for eliminating all of the clutter and rising above the many nuances and dichotomies that had plagued his rational mind for months.
Even that small amount of progress brought him relief. He decided to occupy his mind with something else for a time. He would give himself a break from months of swirling emotion and find another project for the time being.
He returned to his list, penned so many months ago. Most of the items had been crossed off, but a few remained. There, toward the bottom of the page, was the one task that had troubled him the most. “Clean out Jacob’s room.”
He sighed heavily, resigned that today was the day to accomplish this task. Enough time had passed. Everyone keeps telling me that time heals all wounds. Guess I will test out that theory, he contemplated. Anyway, Sandy would appreciate the gesture as a sign he was moving on.
It took more fortitude to climb the steps that he had anticipated; several folded, moving boxes cradled under one arm. His hand froze on the knob, uncertain if he really felt comfortable enough to do the job. “Maybe I should ask Manny to come over and help me?” he whispered.
But that wouldn’t be fair. The young girl had suffered just as much, if not more, than anyone. Why drag her through the mourning process again?
For a moment, the father thought his heart might explode, the organ beating so hard that he could easily count the beats per minute. His skin was clammy and his knees weak. Once your heart has been broken, I am pretty sure you can’t be at risk for a massive coronary, he consoled himself. Building the confidence necessary to engage the knob required pacing his breathing. After several deep, slow inhalations, he opened the door to the room where his son had taken his final air.
He lingered at the threshold for a few moments, taking in a scene he hadn’t visited in months. His eye was immediately drawn to the wall opposite the doorway where the trophy shelf prominently displayed an assortment of cups, medals, plaques, awards, and certificates – miniature icons of Jacob’s accomplishments still appearing shiny and new. The bed was made, the dresser and small desk neat and tidy. For a moment, he was jealous of the cleaning lady, envious of her ability to enter this part of his house without fear or remorse.
As he scanned the room’s contents, his eyes paused on the drone. It was still sitting on Jacob’s desk, the last material thing that had brought happiness to the torture
d teenager.
Gabe thought back to that day… remembered his son’s excited face and bright smile. He was glad he’d spent the money… happy that Sandy had finally understood the importance of the gift. Replaying those brief minutes in his head, Gabe took a step into the space, overcoming the sense of foreboding, lured by an aura of joy that still seemed to surround the bright red machine.
He lifted the toy from Jacob’s desk, stepping back absentmindedly to perch on the edge of the bed, his eyes boring into the machine. His son’s last words that afternoon echoed through his head, “I wish this drone had been hovering over my car that night. With video like this, there wouldn’t be any doubt.”
His thoughts soared as effortlessly as the tiny flyer had that afternoon, his reasoning as clear as the video images captured by its lenses. “With video like this,” he kept repeating, “There wouldn’t be any doubt.”
He left Jacob’s room, any desire to clean and pack left behind with the empty cardboard boxes discarded on the bed. Only the drone held his attention now, a toy… a plaything… a battery powered hobby with propellers. Yet, this odd machine was inspiring him in a way that nothing else had up to that point. It was a solution.
Chapter 7
Peelian Principle
Good appearance commands respect.
Finding the right office building had been easy. The Houston area was full of low-to-midrise commercial spaces. A recently completed, three-story tower sitting less than a mile outside of the city limits had provided the nearly perfect location. Just across the Harris County line on unincorporated land, it was evidence of the ever-expanding metropolitan sprawl taking advantage of cheaper real estate and lower development costs at the fringe of civilization.
The loftiest structure in the complex, it had been situated in an isolated area, surrounded by an impressive greenbelt. The grounds were impossible to view from the street, the entire space private and quite secure. The expansive parking area was a vacant, concrete slab, its perfectly striped spaces and unblemished curbs evidence of the newness of the facility. A key selling point had been the rooftop access via a metal fire door, only 10 concrete steps away from the “penthouse-type,” executive suites. A new corporation owned by a foreign trust signed the lease.
