Wild World

by Peter S. Rush

  She sat, looking at him, arms crossed, although a bit of fear had crept in under her dark-hooded eyes.

  “Come on then,” Steve said, picking her up by the arms of her grey wool coat. She twisted away from him and sat back down. The battle in the center of the line was becoming more intense, but Steve told himself to remain calm. He wasn’t going to allow the chaos to force him to react.

  He picked the woman up more securely this time, and once she was on her feet, fast-walked her to the wagon, almost tossing her to the cop at the wagon door. He didn’t want to be here arresting these people. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Roxy was among the protesters at the far left end. A surge of protective fear hit him. He had to get her out of there.

  A bottle exploded on the street next to him, spattering a gooey liquid onto his pants. Several more followed in rapid succession, one glancing off his shoulder with a flat thud.

  Steve worked his way behind the line of cops and toward Roxy, but the crowd was now belligerent, and the fighting was intensifying. He was being spit upon by the protesters. People standing behind the sitting protesters threw bags of feces at the cops.

  A cop lunged over the prone crowd to get at his assailants, but they disappeared into the crowd. As men and women were pulled from the ground, Steve pushed them toward the wagon while fighting his way toward Roxy. Chants filled the space between the cursing cops and the screaming faces. There was blood on some batons and perspiration on the red faces of the officers.

  Steve could see that Roxy was animated, chanting with the crowd. She was sitting when she was grabbed by a cop. He felt panic and pushed harder against the cops and protesters keeping him from her. Don’t do anything stupid, he wanted to scream to her. She struggled and freed herself from the cop’s grip, sitting back down and locking arms with the people next to her. The cop grabbed her again, and she twisted hard, throwing him off balance.

  When the cop recovered, he raised his baton, and she collapsed to the ground with one stroke. Steve couldn’t see who the cop was but wanted to hit the guy. The crowd’s surge pushed him back, carrying him away from Roxy like a rip current. He fought more intensely, pushing cops out of his way as he tried to get to her before they put her in the wagon, but he was too late. The doors closed on the wagon as it pulled away.

  Hit in the back with a bottle, he turned again to the demonstrators and continued to pull them into the empty wagons. He used his baton only to push the demonstrators and felt guilty every time he heard the dull thud and scream as a baton found a body part. His anger built at the protesters, the cops, Roxy, but most of all anger at himself for being on this side of the protest.

  Hours later at police headquarters, there was chaos. Families and friends of the protesters were milling in front of the desk, shouting in multiple languages. Steve, still in riot helmet, approached the desk sergeant from the squad room.

  “How’s processing the demonstrators going?”

  “Pain in the ass. Did you guys have to arrest all of them? The paperwork is killing us. Judge is downstairs in holding. The TV guys are out front, and the brass is hiding upstairs—are you here to help or watch?”

  “What are we charging them with?”

  “As few charges as we have to.” The sergeant looked at the crowd of concerned relatives building in front of his desk. “This is not making us look good. The archbishop even called. He was pretty hot about us arresting a priest.”

  “Are we releasing without charge?”

  “Yeah, if someone will sign for them. Otherwise, wait for the judge.”

  “Okay. I’ll sign for Fisher. Roxanne?” Steve said.

  Sergeant gave him a questioning look.

  “Yeah, I know her from school. She’s going to be a doctor. Gimme the paperwork, and it will be one less to deal with. I’ll even type it up.”

  The desk sergeant looked skeptically at him but gave Steve a form as people yelled at him from the floor. Disappearing into the squad room, he quickly returned with it complete. The sergeant stamped it and returned it to Steve, who raced to the lockup door. The guard buzzed him through and he raced downstairs, two steps at a time, to the holding cells. Steve searched the two small cells crowded with women. He saw Roxy sitting on the floor; she was dirty and had obviously been crying. She looked up blankly at Steve, seeing only the uniform and the helmet, not the person. As she watched him take off his helmet, her expression slowly changed to recognition. A smile began to form, but she tried to suppress it. The security matron came over to Steve, and he handed her the form.

  “Fisher. That one,” he said in his official voice.

  He pointed to Roxy, who was now standing. The matron looked at the form and at Steve’s nametag.

  “All right, Officer,” the matron paused, “Logan.”

  She opened the cell with her roll of keys and brought Roxy out. She still looked slightly dazed. When Steve took her arm, she flinched in pain.

  “Fucking pig hit me,” she said, her fear changing back to anger.

  “Language.” Steve nudged her up the stairs.

  “I don’t care; he didn’t need to fucking . . .”

  Steve escorted her rapidly out the front door. There were three television news crews waiting outside. Steve and Roxy paused for a minute, hearing a commotion, when the newsmen all started shouting.

  “Father! Father!” The newsmen surrounded Father Schmidt like schooling fish as he emerged from the police station. He stopped on the top step and turned to the journalists as the television lights went on.

  “Father, can you tell us why you were arrested? What were you . . .” the newsmen shouted.

  “For doing God’s work. I am defending the rights of the poor against the landlords and other elites.” The priest spoke slowly for the camera, elevating to his full height.

  Another newsman yelled, the camera perched on his cameraman’s shoulder like an electronic parrot.

  “Police said the demonstrators started the fight and became aggressive.”

  Schmidt smiled a patient Franciscan smile at the crowd, continuing to turn his face from camera to camera. “We were assembled peacefully when the police attacked. The poor are the privileged channel of God’s grace. The mission of Jesus Christ is to bring justice for the poor. I am just his humble vehicle.”

  “What will you do next?” another newsman shouted.

  “We will continue to follow God’s path, and we will resist the corrupt powers that oppress the poor. Thank you. I must return to my congregation, who so valiantly put their lives in danger for me today.”

  Roxy and Steve, still in uniform, were listening to the street interview when the cameraman who was panning the crowd fixed his lights and camera on them. Steve ducked his head to the side, but it was too late.

  That evening in Roxy’s apartment, Steve, Roxy, and other friends were watching the eleven p.m. television news.

  In other developments, the Providence Police made several arrests . . .

  The television showed footage of the police hitting people with batons and putting bloodied civilians in wagons.

  . . .today for disorderly conduct during an eviction proceeding . . .

  There was more footage of police clubbing unarmed civilians in Fox Point.

  Father Bruno Schmidt, the leader of the protesters, had this to say:

  The footage cut to Father Schmidt as he emerged from the police station.

  “The order was unlawful, and it would have put poor people on the street. It is our duty to resist.”

  The camera scanned the crowd outside headquarters and slowed to a clear view of Steve in uniform, with Roxy holding his arm, listening to the priest.

  “Oh, I look horrible. Did you see me?” Roxy scrunched her face and brushed her hair back.

  “Shit.” Steve was stunned, seeing himself as part of the crowd worshipping the priest. “I look so . . . visible.”

  They sat for a while in the living room, not paying attention to the sports report that followed.
He knew the captain would be livid when he reported to work. He would have to play along, apologize, and be contrite. He needed more time. He didn’t know what else they could do except bring him up on charges which they would fabricate. But he thought they would rather have him go quietly—he was counting on it.

  Finally, Roxy and Steve went down the hall to her bedroom.

  “Let me see that bruise,” he said. She took off her shirt to show him the arm that was black and blue on the biceps. He touched it gently. “Sorry I couldn’t get to you,” he said, placing an ice-filled towel on her arm.

  Roxy cuddled up with him, bringing his arm over her bare shoulder.

  “Did you hit anyone?”

  “Hit anyone?” He was amused. “No, I was a target.”

  She looked up at him, smiling. “Thank you.” She squeezed his arm tighter. “I was so scared in that cell. I was never in a jail; it smelled so horrible. But then I saw you when you came for me. You were my knight rescuing me. You’re not like the rest of them. I can’t believe you do that every day.”

  She put her head on his chest and quickly fell asleep. He sat, absorbing the rhythm of her breath, stroking her hair as he felt the warmth of her naked shoulder on his arm. Cyrano came over and lay down with them.

  “Yes, I try to do the right thing.” He wiped away some dirt on her cheek and rested his head against the pillow as the cat purred. He slept contently.

  Bill and Steve were sitting in the IHOP, sipping coffee. Steve had a waffle with boysenberry syrup and Bill, his muttonchops gone, was eating his second silver dollar stack.

  “Not the smartest thing I’ve ever done,” Steve said. “I thought I was joining the good guys. You know: Roy Rogers, John Wayne.”

  Bill nodded agreement. “But you did it. You weren’t just talk. I get so tired listening to these kids who lecture about what should be done—you at least are trying to do something. I wish I had your courage. You’ve making me reconsider my future; maybe I shouldn’t go to business school.”

  “There’s always time for school, but I’ve learned more in the last year than in all my time in school.”

  “I admire you and can’t believe you’re a fucking cop. You are actually doing something constructive.”

  “But it cost me Roxy.”

  “Just sooner than later, man. I’m your friend so I can say it—you were so blind in love, you couldn’t tell if the sun was out. It was a pretty intense movie from the outside. Maybe the sex was that great, but . . .”

  “I don’t know if I’m Don Quixote or Sir Lancelot, but I could’ve made it work.”

  Bill shook his head. “Only in your dreams. You can’t follow her around like a lost puppy for four more years. She’s got bigger ideas than getting hooked up with a loser like you.”

  Steve smiled. “What a friend. Don’t hold back. Maybe I got a little lost. Now, the next step is a big leap.”

  Bill raised his eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

  Steve stared at the waffle before taking a forkful carefully coated with the syrup. “I have to decide: in or out. Ya know, once upon a time, I thought it was easy to tell right from wrong, but now, now . . . I can’t tell which side is up. That’s not true, either—I know but don’t want to accept it.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about life. Decision time for me. I can’t keep putting it off.” He looked directly at Bill. “If you had a chance to really change things, but you knew that it would cause a shit storm and you would never be able to come back, that it could fuck up your life for good, would you do it?” He put the fork down without taking a bite, pensively looking at the square indentations in the waffle. He wanted to ask Roxy this question.

  “I don’t understand. Do what?”

  There was no going back from it when he made the decision, no do overs. “Is it better to do the right thing, even if it might be the wrong thing for you personally?”

  “You should do what you think is right. But what’s this big decision?”

  “Just thinking aloud. Got to make a decision. What time is lacrosse practice?” Bill was always there to listen, and he appreciated the friendship.

  “Three, like usual.”

  “Maybe I’ll talk to Coach. See if he needs an assistant.”

  “Great, a new incentive—if you’re dogging on laps or sprints, Steve fires a couple of warning shots at you.” They laughed.

  “And yes, the sex was great.”

  Because the green VW was the butt of many jokes in the squad room, Steve knew it would be too conspicuous if a patrol car drove by the building he needed to access. He wanted to get in and out without being noticed, so he decided to walk. Wearing his camel blazer, shirt, and striped tie, he could pass for a young lawyer, except for the brown Star Market shopping bag. He had to carry it because he didn’t have a briefcase, and his backpack would be out of place.

  He turned onto George Street, the brick walls of Wriston Quad protecting the dorms and fraternity houses from the outside world. He was on the outside now, part of the world that was dirty, disorganized, unfair, and brutal. Not like inside the wall, where they wanted him to believe that fairness and truth existed. He was so young two years ago. He should just turn downtown, but he felt comfort in the brick buildings that evoked his innocent memories. He wasn’t nostalgic, but he had warm memories of late-night hall discussions with preppies and townies. Kids with more worldly experience and money than he had ever dreamed were struggling to fit in. He realized he always knew who he was: simple, hardworking, and unwilling to give up. Keep your head down and your feet moving.

  Keep your feet moving; he was doing it now. Not blindly, but with full knowledge of what he was about to do. Treason—that would be a word for it. Courage to act was another way to look at it. College logic: look at it from both sides. Let’s debate it and let history decide the outcome. He passed the John Brown house; its nefarious history in the triangle trade with slavery was glossed over for years. But nothing stays hidden forever. Secrets—we all have secrets. He was carrying his secret now as he descended the steep hill toward the city.

  It wasn’t a dream. He had made the decision. He felt his stomach tighten. As he descended the hill as he had on the first day he entered the police department, he realized how little he knew. He was working from instinct—the right instinct. The one instilled in grammar school by the nuns. Do the right thing. That was his intention when the bayonet was at his throat. How far life had come. Now it was the next step—the crazy one—the right one, maybe. It could all blow up on him.

  He avoided the major streets. He was fairly confident he’d successfully hidden his activities and no one knew where he was going or what he was carrying. Still, it was an effort to not keep looking behind him. Taking a deep breath, he looked at the grey building in front of him. He was on his own once again. He heard the Wishbone Ash song, the fight is over and done, neither lost nor won. Entering a side door to the Federal Court House, he went to the third floor as he had been instructed.

  The FBI office was austere, with government-issued furniture and two-inch horizontal metal Venetian blinds with two-inch faded white tapes. On the wall were pictures of Richard Nixon and J. Patrick Grey, and a Georgetown Law School diploma. An American flag with a gold eagle on top stood by the door. Agent Adams, in his early thirties, sat behind the desk in a grey suit, white shirt, and striped tie. He was assigned directly to the United States Attorney. Steve had used the pay phone at the coffeehouse on Thayer Street when he spoke with the agent about the outline for their meeting.

  “Have you consulted an attorney?”

  “No,” Steve replied. He had thought about it but wasn’t concerned for himself since his information was just facts. He had scrupulously maintained his records of every call.

  “You may be implicating yourself as an accessory.” Adams’ tone was even, and Steve couldn’t tell if he was threatening or warning him. Either way, he had made up his mind to go forward
after having thought about it every night.

  “I could just go to the press if you are not interested,” Steve said. “Do you already have enough evidence? Maybe you don’t need any more?”

  “You know I can’t discuss any ongoing investigations or possible investigations. But I can tell you we have developed a very credible source within the department. If you can confirm facts, if you can give us additional specifics, it would be helpful to the case. Can you provide credible-enough information?”

  “I’ll give you what I have, and you decide,” Steve said.

  “I just need to warn you that your life could be in danger. These people can play rough.”

  Steve shifted in his seat, remembering the locker room. This was a bigger step. He nodded and handed the agent three large manila envelopes. He felt relieved that he had finally taken action. He already was in danger every day on the job.

  He would have liked to see Roxy’s face when he told her what he was doing. He wished things were different so he could have shared the decision. But now, he really wanted her to know—to know that he wasn’t one of them.

  As he watched Adams open the first folder, beads of sweat formed in his armpits. For Roxy to know that he had the courage to go through with it . . . This was his decision, his decision about his future—a final decision. And maybe it was his contribution to the future. In the first folder were numerous smaller envelopes containing cash and with dates, places, and names written on the front of them. In the other folders were papers, photos of documents, and carbon copies from the police record room, organized and cataloged. Also included were incorporation papers for Pawtucket Associates and many other corporations. Among the directors were W. McGuire, Chief of Police; G. Lynch, Captain of Patrol; and D. Toll, Vice Chancellor at Brown, as well as names from the city council, Democratic Party, and others of the city elite.

  Agent Adams looked over the material carefully and nodded at Steve. “Very interesting and detailed. We didn’t know all of these connections.”

  “What I promised?”

  “Yes, and much more. How long have you been collecting this information?”