by Jeff Nania
“Again, John, let me caution you. This is against my advice,” Laura jumped in.
“Counselor, I know you’re a good lawyer and a good friend, but this has got to be over. I need to know when I walk out of here where I stand. Good or bad, I just need to know.”
“Okay, John, but please let me determine the rules before you say anything. We don’t know what the rules are. If you say something it can be used against you. We need to know what the parameters of this interview are going to be.”
“Okay, Laura, that sounds reasonable. Go ahead,” I responded.
“Mr. District Attorney, in what context are these questions being asked? Are they part of a criminal investigation, a disciplinary review, or just for the entertainment of all present? Does my client have any assurances of your intentions? Do you intend to Mirandize my client?”
“Yes, Attorney Davis, we do. This is an official part of an inquiry into the death of Angelina Gonzalez and the wounding of Damien Callahan. Anything your client tells us can be used against him. All information we obtain may or may not become part of our case should we decide to prosecute. Our focus is not on the disciplinary process. We are only interested in the case regarding the death of Gonzalez and the wounding of Callahan. We will advise Officer Cabrelli of his constitutional rights.”
“John, this is definitely not smart. We need to leave this room now. We need to talk,” Laura said.
The room was dead quiet. Everybody was looking at me. I was looking at the ground. I knew in my heart that this was it. The facts of the case were the facts of the case. The truth will set you free or lock you up, depending. I had baited suspects in many situations like this before. “Tell me the truth, get it off your chest. You’ll feel better and I will get a conviction.” Being on the other side of the table gave me a new appreciation for that situation.
Everybody was waiting for me.
“Okay, here is the deal. I don’t want to hear my rights again. That will almost certainly make me puke. With my lawyer present, I waive the reading of my rights. Chief, ask me whatever you want. I will answer if I can. Let’s get it over with.”
The room turned silent.
The chief leaned forward on his elbows and started. “Okay, John. When you were in the store after Gonzalez had put down the gun and after you had hit Callahan in the mouth, did you ask Gonzalez any questions?”
“What kind of questions?”
“Any questions you recall.”
“Give me a hint. I was pretty busy at the moment, you know just having talked down a gun and all.”
“John, did you request information from Mr. Gonzalez about anyone else that might be in the store?”
“I don’t really, don’t.…”
“The answer is either you did, you didn’t, or you don’t recall,” said the chief, clearly agitated.
Just for the record, the only answer to that question, if you don’t know how it’s going to go for you, is always, “I don’t recall.”
I replayed the events in my mind, trying to fill in the conversation. I didn’t say anything to Gonzalez but “Come with me.” I didn’t say anything else. I definitely did not ask Gonzalez whether or not anyone else was in the store. I wish I had asked him because it might have made a difference. If I’d have known his daughter was there, I would have sent someone to get her or asked her to come out.
“John you need to think here. It’s important, important to you.”
“Chief, you are obviously looking for something specific. If you clarify what you are looking for, maybe we can be of more help,” said Laura.
Chief Nolan looked at D.A. Boyle, who looked at Captain Kuehnin. No one looked at Dumbass.
Seconds became eons.
The D.A. broke the silence, “Officer Cabrelli, in the statement of Roberto Gonzalez, he said that before you led him from the store, you asked whether or not anyone else was in there. I quote, ‘When I started to come out, after John Cabrelli stopped them from locking me in handcuffs, he asked me if there was anyone else in the store. He asked me if Angelina was there. I told him no, no one else was in the store.’ Do you recall this conversation Officer Cabrelli?”
That was it. Mr. Gonzalez had got me off the hook. I killed his daughter, but he got me off the hook. In his version of the story I had exercised reasonable efforts to make certain that the scene was secure while taking my prisoner into custody. He told me no one else was in the store, and I believed him. I still should have secured the gun, but now it was different. Laura could and would argue that I’d thought the scene was secure and that I’d made a decision to remove the participants before I went back to process. Not the best decision, but a defendable one. A set of circumstances that no one could have predicted. I had operated on the best information available at the time.
Again everyone was staring at me. I knew what I said next could determine whether or not I was charged. Everyone was waiting for me. I gave the only appropriate answer given the situation.
“I don’t recall. Like I said, I had just talked down a gun, and the adrenaline was really flowing.”
“This meeting is now concluded. We will present our findings of fact in writing within the next seven days. They will be made immediately available to you and your client, Attorney Davis. Although the press is pushing us for details, you have our promise that the results of our investigation will be withheld until you have time to review them,” stated the D.A. matter-of-factly.
4
Cabrelli
Seven days, seven months, seven years all seemed the same.
Laura said that if they charged me, we would beat it in court. The great unknown was the influence that public pressure was going to have on this case. The daily news conferences and demonstrations had slowed down to weekly, but the fuse on the powder keg was still smoldering. While waiting, I hid out and continued to refine and appreciate my relationship with demon whiskey. Friends from the department called but not near as many or as often as before. Who could blame them? I was not exactly a fun guy to talk to or be around. I only answered the phone when I was drunk and let it ring unanswered when I was sober. I never answered the door and kept the curtains drawn.
The call came: report at 0800 November 22, a few days before Thanksgiving. The same day that, decades before, a punk with an army surplus Carcano rifle delivered a hammer blow to our country.
Everyone wanted to finish this before the holidays. A noose hanging in the background tends to dampen the Thanksgiving appetite and the Christmas spirit.
Laura was kind enough to pick me up in her brand new spectacular jet black Japanese sports car. She said it was the least she could do seeing how I had paid for it. I told her to step on it, that we were late. We weren’t late, but I hoped she would get a ticket. She made the trip unscathed.
It was good old conference room GR17 again. Painted a depressing light gray with fifty or so World War II surplus chairs for the audience facing four long metal tables pushed together, behind which were chairs occupied by the chief, the D.A., and company. One thing was noticeably different. This time there was a court reporter to take down everything for the record, the official record of what could only be the demise of a once promising officer. We walked right in where everyone was already waiting. The air was oppressive. I even thought for a second I was having a heart attack. That’ll fix ’em. I’ll die on the spot. No such luck.
The chief was again presiding. It looked like he had aged in the past months. His hair looked grayer, the lines on his face deeper. He hunched his big-shouldered boxer’s frame over the table and snapped everyone to order and began without wasting any time.
“Is the court reporter ready?”
“Yes, Chief Nolan, I am.”
“Let’s begin then and get this over with,” said the chief. “Officer John Cabrelli, you are present in person and represented by your lawyer, Laura Davis. We have reviewed your case and considered all the evidence. We regret that this has taken so long, but there were many i
ssues to consider. First, the district attorney had to consider whether criminal charges were warranted. He will present his findings as soon as I have concluded my opening remarks. Then the department needed to determine whether or not you were in violation of department policies and procedures. Lastly, we had to answer claims that you violated the civil rights of Damien Callahan, requiring us to refer this to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The district attorney and the Department Board of Inquiry have completed their investigations. All leads have been exhausted, and I am convinced that the investigation has been fair and impartial. The results of the investigation by both the district attorney and this department shall be made available to you and your counsel as soon as this hearing concludes. Mr. District Attorney, please go ahead.”
Boyle stayed seated but assumed a ramrod straight lawyerly posture. His face reflected the gravity of the situation. “Officer Cabrelli, I have thoroughly reviewed the facts of this case. Regarding the death of Angelina Gonzalez, we have found no probable cause to file criminal charges against you. Your actions may or may not have been consistent with acceptable police procedures, but that is not our concern. Regarding the battery of Damien Callahan, we have determined that your actions were inappropriate and likely constituted criminal battery. It was my intent to file charges. However, there are extenuating circumstances. The victim, Damien Callahan, was arrested four days ago for the delivery of crack cocaine. He was arrested as part of a sting operation conducted by Metro Narcotics. The lead officer on that sting was one Lieutenant J. J. Malone. I believe you are familiar with him as you were once partners and academy classmates. Callahan says that he was set up. Be that as it may, he is currently working with narcotics folks, rolling over on anyone he can to keep from going back to prison for a long, long stay. He has no interest in pursuing charges against you or proceeding with his lawsuit against the city. Lastly, there is no evidence to support that you violated the civil rights of anyone involved in this incident. The matter will not be referred to the FBI. I have nothing further.”
“Thank you, District Attorney Boyle. Any questions, Attorney Davis?’’
Laura was afraid to breathe, much less ask questions. I had already gone into respiratory arrest. “No, Chief. We are ready to continue,” she whispered.
“Very well then. With regard to disciplinary issues. Officer John Cabrelli, we have found that you violated sections 101.7, 205.1, and 335 of the Policies and Procedures Manual. These sections deal with excessive physical force, arrest and restraint of prisoners, and evidence seizure and protection, respectively. You received and signed for the official department manual. Thirty days after you received this manual, you signed an affidavit stating that you had read and understood this manual. You were offered the opportunity for a more detailed explanation if you felt it necessary and you declined in writing.”
Like almost every other cop, I had never read the manual. Signing the paperwork was just to make it go away so I could get to the business of being a cop.
“Based on the result of our investigation and previous disciplinary actions, you are terminated, effective immediately. We thank you for your years of service, and I am truly sorry that your career has ended this way. You have the right to appeal this decision, and you must file your appeal within 60 days of this date. This hearing is concluded.”
At that, everybody got up and left. On his way out, Martin Dumas smiled at me. I didn’t even want to smack him, I was in such shock. No trial, no jail, no job, no life. A cop was all I had ever been. There was nothing past that. I should have been glad not to be facing criminal charges, but all that mattered was the job. It was my family, my life, my purpose. I had gone to work one day, like so many days before. Started my patrol shift just like always. Then things changed, a series of events I could have never scripted came crashing down around me. As a result, Angelina Gonzalez lay in a cold grave, and her parents would mourn forever. I had not been charged with a crime, but in my mind I had murdered little Angelina. The emotional pain I felt seemed inexcusably selfish and a just reward for my actions.
I had never understood the term “lost soul” until that day. Laura offered to buy me a drink on the way home. I wasn’t interested. I wanted to be alone. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I didn’t want anyone looking at me. To hell with everybody. I sat in a chair by the closed window drapes and drank myself into unconsciousness. To hell with Laura, the chief, Callahan, Dumas, and Kuehnin … and to hell with myself.
The next morning, the morning after that, and the mornings (afternoons and evenings for that matter) for what I thought were the next two weeks were hard to recall, blurred by despair and alcohol. Laura had called and stopped by. I just couldn’t answer the phone or the door. My former co-workers did the same. My response to them was the same. It became clear that people were now avoiding me. I can’t say for sure, but it appears as though my surly, angry attitude and the fact that I was always drunk might have had something to do with it.
My mail had begun to pile up, and there were several letters from the department. I had never felt more alone in my life. I was just marking time. I had found a store that offered grocery and liquor shopping by phone, with free delivery service. I never had to leave the house. Actually, I had convinced myself that I was pretty content. I watched a lot of TV, slept a lot, and pretty much wallowed in my own self-pity. Everyone should be allowed to wallow at least once; wallowing was good. I would probably still be there, permanently preserved by 100 proof, if not for Laura and the chief.
It was a glorious day, about 10:00 a.m. I had just gotten out of bed and moved to the couch, now dining on my recent favorite breakfast of a cheese and salami sandwich and a little brandy mixed with orange juice. It appeared as though the sun was shining outside, and I had just turned on the TV for my daily dose of adventure with Magnum P.I. What would Magnum get himself into today? What a crime rate Hawaii had!
All of a sudden, someone was pounding the crap out of my front door. Not knocking, pounding. I was trying to ignore the noise, but it was seriously impacting my ability to concentrate on the conversation that Magnum and Rick were having about Higgins and the details of security at the Island Flower Show. That Higgins, what a guy.
The knocking stopped, and for about 20 seconds, I thought the invaders had retreated. Then the door came flying open aided by the chief’s size 13 shoe. I looked up from the couch and saw Laura and Chief Nolan in my living room. I tried to leap up in outrage, but I caught my foot in my blanket and fell back down on the couch.
Looking to rescue the moment and a little of the minuscule amount of dignity I had left, I said, “Hey, Chief. Hey, Laura. How nice to see you guys. Chief, you must be a welcome visitor, knock twice then kick in the door. I am sure kicking in your friend’s doors makes you a popular guy, you know, adding a little excitement and criminal damage to property to your visits.”
“John, shut up! Open your mouth again, and I am going to come over there and shut it for you,” growled the chief.
“Might not be all that easy, Chief, so if you feel froggy, jump,” I responded, again searching for dignity scraps.
“John, what are you doing to yourself?” Laura said. “You look horrible. This place smells, you smell. When was the last time you took a shower? My God, John.”
In the two minutes since they had interrupted Magnum and company, they had already worn out their welcome. I was not about to put up with any crap from the chief or Laura in my own house. I didn’t invite them, and I wanted them to leave.
“What’s the big deal? I think I deserve a couple of weeks off after all I’ve been through. I realize that I’ve let the place go a little, but I have a cleaning service coming in starting next week,” I lied.
“John, listen to me. Look me in the eye. Sit up, look me in the eye. Focus for one minute. Just listen for one minute,” the chief commanded.
“You have got one minute before I throw you out of here. By the way, I will be sending a bill for the door. Where
do you get off kicking in—”
“Shut up, John. Stop it and listen to me. Listen for one damn minute,” the chief bellowed.
It was then he decided to hit me with two sledgehammers, and it was difficult to determine which in fact was more painful.
“It hasn’t been two weeks, it’s been two months. You’ve been holed up in this toxic waste dump for two months. Eight weeks.”
They said I looked at them like they were from Mars. After a minute or two, I started screaming, calling them liars. Laura picked something out of the bushel of mail and showed me the date. It was seven weeks going on eight. Sledgehammer one: delivered.
According to those present, myself excluded, it was at that point that I lost it. Laura says I was screaming so loudly that they couldn’t make out the words, but they could see my intentions as I charged across the room. Blood was in my eye.
The chief stood his ground and dropped into a low crouch. Forty years ago, he had been a Golden Gloves boxer, some even said a contender. A tough guy during his days as a street cop, but he had been off the street for twenty years and had gone soft. The punch he hit me with was anything but soft. I went down and stayed there.
Sledgehammer two: delivered.
They left me where I fell. I tried to open my eyes many times, but I kept closing them waiting for the dream to end. I can’t say how long I lay there, but when I eventually got up, the room had become very crowded. The chief and Laura had been joined by my old partner J.J. Malone and his wife, Tanya.
They had begun the process of shoveling out my house. Laura was at my kitchen table going through the mail. J and Tanya were filling trash bags and pitching them out the back door. Someone had a batch of laundry going. Fresh coffee was brewing. Even though it was January, the windows were open, and I smelled this odd scent that I soon figured out must be fresh air.
I made it back to the couch, and Tanya brought me a cup of coffee. I reached for the brandy bottle, but it was gone. The chief, J, and Tanya pulled kitchen chairs around me.
