by Tim Hennessy
“You couldn’t just let me ride?”
“Sorry,” I said, “you’re getting off up here.”
Leticia took the last bite of her sandwich, pointed at me, and said, “Motherfucker rape me! Faggot, dick-sucking motherfucker rape me! He rape me! Go suck your mama’s dick!”
The bus stopped two blocks away at the next stop, and the front door opened.
“Time to go, Leticia,” I said.
“Ain’t one of y’all motherfuckers got enough change for me to ride?” she said to the passengers.
“Let’s go,” I said.
“I get the money, just gimme a minute. Racist motherfuckers.”
“By county ordinance, you can’t panhandle on a bus, you can’t swear on a bus. So you’ll have to catch the next one.”
“Fuck yo shit, snowflake cracker bitch.”
“You rather talk to MPD?” I asked. “I know they like you less than I do.”
Leticia turned and walked off the bus, raising her middle finger to everyone aboard.
* * *
“So, you know why we don’t carry?” I asked Probie.
“Yeah, ’cause the client doesn’t want us to.”
“And why doesn’t the client want us to carry?”
“I don’t know. ’Cause it looks bad, I guess.”
“Exactly. Transit answers to the county board. Arming the Transit officers would look like the board members were admitting things were getting out of hand.”
“But they are. Things are definitely out of fucking hand.”
“But admitting it would cost votes. So there you have it.”
“Maybe I ought to carry anyway. Like an ankle holster nobody would see.”
“Bad idea. You’d violate the contract. You lose your job and maybe face jail time if you ever have to pull it, even if you’re defending your life.”
“I’d still feel safer with a gun. I know some of these morons are carrying.”
“It’s mostly the dealers who carry. And the ones who ride the bus, which isn’t most of them, have something to lose. They keep quiet and mind their business. Never cause trouble for us. The ones who do, the shitbirds, they don’t typically carry.”
“How do you know that?”
“’Cause most of them are addicts. The vast majority of the shitbirds are. Guns cost money. And if they had one, they’d have sold it already. Worry about a knife on them. Or a screwdriver. Guns are unlikely.”
“What about dude yesterday? We saw his gun.”
“He’s a whole other type. Surprised he wasn’t wearing a tinfoil hat. I don’t even want to think about him. But honestly, I think he was a lot more scared of us.”
* * *
Thursday, 1913 hrs: 5232 / 1033 / 103 / W-30X
Black male got on the bus drunk and told the driver he didn’t have to pay because the driver owed him. Didn’t he remember? He owed him.
The driver refused to play along and told him to pay or get off the bus. After half a minute of arguing, the drunk man tried to go over the clear plastic divider and grab the bus driver. He threatened to kill him. Then the driver called security.
* * *
“Downtown Transit officers,” dispatch said over the radio.
We took the call and headed to the bus in a Transit vehicle. The drunk man had quieted since his outburst. He sat on the side bench in the front of the bus, directly behind the driver. The driver gave us a quick rundown of what happened. I recognized the passenger but couldn’t remember his name.
“Tell me what happened,” I said.
“Dude got a attitude,” the drunk man said.
“He said you grabbed him, told him you were going to kill him.”
“Man, I ain’t do shit,” the man said, rolling his eyes. “He the one with the problem. You can’t treat folks this way.”
“So here’s what I can do,” I said. “I’ll get you a transfer, and you wait for the next bus.”
“Motherfucker, you can’t do this. I ain’t do shit.”
“It’s all on video, man,” I said. “All of it. Let’s get you that transfer, and you can get right back on the next bus.”
“Fuck yo shit, white boy.”
“Okay,” I said, “think it through. This bus doesn’t move as long as you’re on it. If you take the transfer, you get where you’re going faster.”
I looked over at Probie, who was still talking to the driver. I motioned him over, and he took a position on my other side.
“Y’all gonna kick me off, huh? Just like fucking Nazis.”
“Like I said, sir, we’ll put you on the next bus.”
The man grabbed my arm and tried to yank me off balance. I pivoted to the side, stepped back to break his grip, and reached for my pepper spray. Probie grabbed the man by his other arm, pulled him out of his seat, and forced him to the ground. I moved in to secure the man’s other side.
“Fuck you doing, motherfuckers?” the man yelled.
Probie got his cuffs out and quickly put them on the drunk man.
* * *
We waited at the bus stop. I’d called MPD. Told them we’d detained a subject who’d assaulted a driver and a Transit officer. The drunk man sat on the bench in the bus shelter with his hands cuffed behind his back. Probie stood next to him with one hand on the drunk’s arm as a precaution.
“Y’all can’t do this,” he said.
“We didn’t do this,” Probie said, “you did this.”
“Don’t talk to him,” I said. “Not unless you can improve the situation.”
The stop was on Wisconsin Avenue, just west of Marquette University. Lots of traffic. Lots of curious onlookers. There was a very good chance we were being recorded.
“I ain’t going back to no jail,” the drunk man said.
The radio squawked. Our supervisor was asking for either Probie or me to call him. Probie took his hand off the drunk man to click the radio mic on his shoulder.
And with that, the drunk man got off the bench and walked out into the intersection.
“Dude, come back over here,” I said.
“Fuck you,” the man said over his shoulder. “Ain’t going back to no jail.” He walked toward the oncoming traffic.
Horns blared and tires screeched as cars swerved around the drunk man.
“You’re just making a mess!” I yelled.
“Ain’t going back to no jail.”
“You didn’t hit anybody!” I yelled. “You know how this’ll go down! The cops will turn you loose two blocks away from here most likely! They don’t have time to worry about minor stuff like this!”
He looked back at me.
A car stopped five feet in front of him and honked.
“Fuck you, bitch!” the man shouted. “Run me over or go around!”
“Nobody’s gonna run you over,” I said. “You’re just adding charges right now.”
“You don’t know shit.”
“I know you come back here right now, MPD probably lets you go. What do they care? Like I said, they have other problems. They’re chasing down murderers, drug dealers. But you wait out there till they get here, you’re definitely going back in. You cause an accident, that’s a much bigger deal than disorderly on a bus.”
“How the fuck you know that?”
“’Cause that’s how it works every time,” I said. “Come on back over. You’re just wasting time now. My partner and I have been working almost twelve hours today. Give us all a break, huh?”
The drunk man watched two cars pass him. Then he walked back to the sidewalk. “I ain’t sitting on no bench. I’ll stand.”
“That’s just fine,” I said.
* * *
Friday, 1423 hrs: 5002 / 1103 / 122 / W-60
Probie and I stood near the bus shelter on Burleigh and Sherman, but outside the police tape and broken glass scattered on the sidewalk. MPD cars were starting to pull away now. Our supervisor walked over to us.
“You guys can get on the next one,” the supervisor sa
id.
“Looks like they’re wrapping up,” I said.
“Pretty straightforward. Shooting in the shelter. Dude followed the victim off the bus. Robbed him when he got to the shelter. Then shot him.”
“Shot him after he robbed him? Why?”
“Fuck knows? Only got him in the arm too. They took him away in the ambulance a few minutes before you got here.”
“They don’t need anything from us?”
“Don’t think so. They’re picking up the video now.”
“Any description yet?” I asked.
“Victim said black male wearing a long coat. We’ll get a better one from the video and have that out later today. Should be easy enough. He said they were the only two who got off at this stop.”
“Should we be looking for him?” Probie asked.
“When we get the description, yes. And if you spot him, absolutely do not engage. Call MPD first, then call me.”
I nodded, and the supervisor went back to talk to the detective.
* * *
A little later, we took the Blue Line downtown and got a sandwich from a shop on Wisconsin Avenue. We met another team of Transit officers there, Mack and T-Bird.
“Y’all saw that shooting up on Sherman?” T-Bird asked.
“Yeah, we got there after. All we saw was glass everywhere.”
“Sounds like half the bus shelters in Milwaukee,” Mack said.
“White boy gonna make it?” T-Bird asked me, nodding toward Probie.
“He’ll be fine,” I said.
“That’s crazy, though,” Mack said. “Dude follows a guy off the bus, robs him, then shoots him after he’s already got the money.”
“Don’t try to rationalize it,” I said.
“I see you got your vest on today,” T-Bird said to me.
“After we saw dude with that gun a couple days ago, I figured I’d start wearing it again,” I said.
“Yeah, I got to dig my shit out again,” T-Bird said. “Milwaukee’s getting extra retarded.”
* * *
Friday, 1650 hrs: 5303 / 0767 / 153 / N-76
The route seventy-six pulled away from the stop and drove down 60th. Probie and I crossed 60th and waited at the stop on Capitol.
“So, tell me what we’re doing,” I said to Probie.
“Catching the Red Line to Atkinson, then hopping on the nineteen back to downtown.”
“Sounds good,” I said.
The radio started talking at us: “Northside Transit officers.”
It was our favorite person.
Deshawn was harassing the driver on the westbound route sixty-two. The call came out from Capitol and Fond du Lac.
“Fuck,” I said, turning to look east. “They said bus fifty-one eighty-one, right? That’s what you heard?”
“Yeah, that was it.”
“That’s the bus,” I said, pointing. On the other side of the street, the route sixty-two was two blocks away, coming right toward us.
“Are we supposed to do something?” Probie asked.
“We don’t have time to get to the stop before the bus arrives. It’ll be gone before we get across the street. No, nothing we can do now.”
The bus stopped at the corner. Let off several passengers. Drove off, beating the light. And Deshawn was standing on the corner, a head taller and twice as wide as everyone else.
“That him?” Probie asked.
“Yup.”
“He’s crossing Capitol,” Probie said.
“I see that.”
“So what do we do? Do we detain him?”
“Last time that happened took six officers. If he comes to our stop, we deal with it. If they cancel the call by the time he gets here, he’s not our problem. No need to create trouble.”
Deshawn waited for half a minute at the corner, then ignored the light and crossed 60th. He had his headphones on and nodded with a beat. As he approached the shelter, we heard the music too. Deshawn looked us over before he sat down on the bench inside the shelter.
“Stupid pig KKK racist motherfuckers,” he said. Then he growled twice, mimicking a tiger, and laughed after that. I rested my hand over the top of my holstered baton.
The radio crackled, “Northside Transit officers, cancel that call for help. Subject alighted from the bus without further incident.”
Probie looked at me and gave up a deep exhale, shaking his head.
Deshawn put his thick, meaty hand up to his earphone and sang out in a high pitch, “Y’all fucking pigs! Y’all racist motherfuckers! Y’all KKK pigs gonna die like little bitches!”
“Okay,” I said to Probie, “let’s go back to the other stop.”
Probie walked over to me, nodding.
“Do I know you, man?” Deshawn said to Probie, standing up off the bench.
“Nope, you don’t know me,” Probie said.
“Fuck you look at me then?”
“Don’t talk,” I said to Probie, “let’s just walk.”
Deshawn grabbed Probie by the shoulder and shoved him. Probie fell and knocked his head against the thick shelter glass.
I pulled my baton and clacked it open. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a young man hold up his cell phone to record what was happening.
“Get back!” I yelled at Deshawn.
He ignored me and stomped on Probie. His head broke through the pane, and shelter glass scattered everywhere.
I stepped in and swung the baton at Deshawn’s knee, but he moved, and the blow glanced off his thigh. Before I could step back, Deshawn leaned in, grabbed me by the throat, and squeezed. I felt a couple things pop inside my neck.
“Cracker bitches can’t come up here without paying,” Deshawn said to me. “You gonna pay me what you fucking owe me.”
I swung my baton at the side of his head. He flinched when it connected, snapped his headphones, and drew blood.
“Fucking little bitch gonna die, man.”
I swung again. Then a third time.
“Pussy-ass bitch—”
My fourth strike cracked open his temple.
Deshawn stopped talking, fell to the sidewalk, and let go of me.
* * *
First, I checked that Probie was still breathing. He was, but it was getting harder for me to breathe. I was getting lightheaded. Then I tried to call on the radio, but my throat wouldn’t allow for words. I took out our Transit cell phone and pressed the emergency button that would summon the sheriff’s department.
I could hardly breathe now.
When I looked over at Deshawn on the ground, I saw he wasn’t breathing either. I moved in to confirm. Shook him. Still no breath. No surprise given the blood pooling around his head and the brain matter hanging out over his ear.
I crawled on top of him, yanked up his shirt, and began doing chest compressions. Probably it wouldn’t matter, but I had to do it if I was able. I felt a couple of his ribs crack on the first compression. Kept going.
And then I couldn’t breathe at all.
I tried to keep going, but I just fell forward. I could hear a police siren a couple blocks away. But in Milwaukee, they could be going anywhere.
Before I passed out, I saw the young man still filming all of us with his phone.
If I lived, that might save my job.
THERE’S A RIOT GOIN’ ON
by Derrick Harriell
Sherman Park
There should be two and a half cigarettes left. Terrell knows because he counted. He counted after writing something on Facebook and then smoking half a cigarette. On this morning, the room wasn’t spinning, and birds even sang outside the large window beside his bed. He’d forgotten birds sang around here, in this hood, and closed his eyes to momentarily listen. He tried counting how many of them there might be—no more than four, but at least two. He reached for the half cigarette and lit it. Today was Sunday. Terrell figured his mama and her boyfriend had gone to church and remembered he’d told Destiny he’d call as soon as he got up. Destiny was his glorifi
ed parole officer. She always said things like “Be safe” and “Call me when you get home.” They’d dated in high school sophomore year but were now just friends. He liked it that way. He knew if he could keep her close, he could have her back someday. Terrell exhaled a fog of smoke and thought about all the times his mother repeatedly called him a fool for not committing to Destiny. “Why you wasting your time with these no-good fast ghetto girls when Dessie is right here? I mean, she even does your damn homework, boy,” is what she’d say.
It was almost noon. He lay there smoking and slowly started remembering last night’s dream of him and Destiny in the backseat of a car. The car was sinking under Lake Michigan, and it wasn’t the wet dream Terrell had hoped for. He had no idea how they’d gotten in the car, whose car it was, or who was driving. He only remembered reaching for the door handle and trying to shove her out. He remembered motioning for her to swim toward the surface while his extremities suddenly fell paralyzed. He remembered what drowning felt like.
Terrell grabbed his phone and saw three missed calls and two unread text messages. Mama had messaged, Don’t you go over there today or to that house across the street. He knew where over there was because he’d been over there until late last night. He opened his Facebook page on his phone and saw twelve new alerts. He clicked on the post he’d written before falling asleep:
Finally muhfuckas standing up for something in this city. We tired of muhfuckas hunting us like we ain’t shit. I was out in the middle of that shit tonight. We ain’t taking this no more.
He looked in the comments section and was shocked to see thirty-seven comments. He put his cigarette out, sat up, and read them all, starting from the very top and then scrolling down. Most of the comments were from the people he’d gone to high school with. He was a shy person in high school and mostly stayed to himself. He understood why his old high school acquaintances might find his speaking out entertaining. The only time he spoke out in high school was when he wanted an extra milk at lunch. But today he felt liberated. He felt assured as if he’d begun to discover some hidden continent within. An unexplored world that could only be found through the violence that occurs when a riot reaches the point of no return.
Terrell raised the window shade and stared outside. It looked like a normal Sunday afternoon. A few dudes walked down the street laughing, each holding a burning cigar, each wearing a white T-shirt. Cars sped down Center Street as if the drivers were hurrying toward something. On the block, the trees looked especially lush, and the house across the street was still lined with cars. One of the cars was a white Impala, which meant Country had ended up spending the night. Country’s real name was James, but ever since James went to college down South and came back with a country accent, people started calling him Country, or Fake-ass Country Accent. He remembered Country texting him last night and telling him to stop by once he’d gotten back to the hood. He remembered him saying there was plenty of beer and Hennessy left. He’d seen the line of cars once he’d gotten home and thought of stopping by but was eager to write something on Facebook. He believed somehow the words might leave his stomach if he waited. Or perhaps he’d lose the courage to post something. He wondered if there was still beer and Hennessy left.
