Apprehensions & Convictions

by Mark Johnson

  Wesley’s face contorts in pain, and he stuggles mightily to hold back. He swallows hard and clenches his jaw. His hands grip each side of the table. His knuckles turn white, but the sobbing begins.

  I’m not clear what has upset him, what’s going on, and try to keep him focused. “You mean that guy Andy? He’s your dad? Is he Travis and Candy’s dad, too?”

  Wesley’s sobbing so hard he’s got that short, spastic kind of breathing that little kids often get when they cry hard. He can’t speak and just shakes his head no, then nods his head yes, blubbering all the while.

  “You mean Andy’s not Travis’s father, but he is yours and Candy’s?”

  Wesley nods again, still bawling. I avert my eyes and muse aloud.

  “Hmmm . . . I guess . . . that’s why you and Candy look so much alike . . . but not so much Travis.”

  Wesley’s not looking at me, either. A moment passes. Finally, he takes a deep breath, gathering himself, and raises his eyes to meet mine.

  “We’re in-breds!” he sputters, his throat constricted, tears squirting out of his eyes in misery.

  “What? I don’t think you mean what you’re saying, Wesley. You mean Travis is, like, your stepbrother, or a half brother. He’s got a different father, but Brandy’s y’all’s mother, right?”

  By now, Wesley’s rocking in his seat, bellowing and shaking his head, then starts hitting his forehead with the heels of both hands.

  “Or you mean, like, half-breeds, y’know? Mixed race or something? Half Indian? Neither a them is any big deal, there’s lotsa half-breeds and half brothers, and it doesn’t mean anything. Heck, I’m a bastard child myself, Wesley. I’ve got a buncha half brothers.”

  “I know what I’m sayin’,” he cries, between hiccuppy gasps for breath. “We’re in-breds, me an’ Candy. And so is our father. That’s why he’s that way. He’s our mama’s half brother. Like, my half uncle, or cousin or something, and he’s my father! We’re all in-breds, ’cept for Travis!”

  I don’t know how to respond.

  Wesley’s crying slows, his breathing only occasionally hitched. “And Travis is our half brother—you did get that part right. And I ain’t nu’n but a piece-a-shit in-bred. So’s Candy, but at least she’s a girl, and girls don’t get in much trouble, that’s just how it is for them. But me? I’m fucked.”

  “Well, listen to me, believe me, I know this firsthand: no matter how screwed up your family is, that doesn’t hafta automatically mean you are, too, and you can’t do anything about it. You know what’s right and what’s wrong, Wesley. You’ve just had some shitty examples, growing up. But you’re not a retard, and you’re not a thug, either—at least not yet. You hear me? This in-bred stuff’s just a damn excuse. As long as you stay away from all that dope mess, you’ve got a chance. Keep doin’ whatcha been doin’, you’ll keep getting the same shitty results. And you will be fucked. But if you wanna change, there is a way out. When you get outta here, you call me, Wesley.”

  I give him one of my cards, as I did with Travis. “In the meantime, they got meetings in here, right here in Metro, twice a week. Start goin’ to those, and call me, or call one a the guys who bring the meetings in here, when you get out.”

  Wesley rises with me and grabs my hand, which I had not offered. I just want to get out of there.

  “Thanks, Detective Johnson. I will, I promise. And wouldja do me a favor and call my mom for me? Ask her to come visit me, please; nobody visits me. I can only see Travis from across the room, they won’t let us talk. And wouldja ask Mom to put some money on a canteen card for me here, so I can buy stuff and use the phone? Please?”

  “Yeah, Wesley,” I hear myself saying. “I’ll tell her next time I see her. Listen, be careful and stay outta trouble in here. Good luck, kid.”

  At the pretrial hearing, Wesley sits on the other side of the courtroom in a row with the other guests of the city, in orange jumpsuits, cuffs, and shackles. He animatedly tries to make eye contact with me, but I don’t want to look at him.

  There’s a pause in the proceedings while the court awaits the arrival of somebody’s attorney. It’s Judge McNaughton’s courtroom, one of very few good ones. Most of the judges seem to actively dislike and distrust cops. They’ll think nothing of nol-prossing a case if the cop is late but will make cops sit there all damn morning waiting for a defense attorney, only to grant the attorney’s request for a continuance or reset. It’s maddening, and I’ve come to understand why cops are required to check their weapons outside the courtroom.

  But Judge McNaughton’s a decent sort of fella. He and I had become acquainted one day soon after I had switched from patrol to investigations, and I’d gone to his chambers to get a search warrant signed.

  I remarked on the framed picture in the bookcase behind his desk, a candid shot of hizzonner and the singer Jimmy Buffet hoisting brewskis together, in matching flowered Hawaiian shirts. The judge explained that he’d known Buffet since he was unknown, back in the day when Buffet had been grateful to sing for free, in a rowdy little bar down on Duval Street, a joint owned by hizzonner before he became a judge.

  Then it was the judge’s turn to be nosy. “If you’ll pardon the observation, Detective, you don’t look like the typical cop. The gray hair, the coat and tie, the way you speak and carry yourself. What’s up with that? What’s your story?” I told him about my midlife career change, and his jaw dropped.

  Since then, whenever I’m in his courtroom and there’s a lull or a delay in the proceedings, he’ll point me out from the bench and announce to all present, “Well, for goodness’ sakes, there’s Detective Johnson. Good morning, Detective. Do y’all know Detective Johnson? I bet you don’t know that this man used to run the United Way here in Mobile. Did y’all know that? Raised a lot of money, millions, for the Boy Scouts, the Red Cross, the Sally, right? Penelope House, too, am I right, Detective? For the victims of domestic violence? But that was far too tame for him. So at the age of fifty, he up and quits, goes through the Police Academy and becomes one of Mobile’s Finest! Can you imagine? From Penelope to policing! A remarkable story.”

  He does this routine again this morning, though all the court staff, the DA, and most of the defense attorneys have already heard it. And the people out in the peanut gallery, the ones waiting for their cases to be called, don’t give a shit about some cop’s story, even if it is one of the judge’s favorite anecdotes.

  This morning he concludes by asking me, “How long you been on the force, now, Detective?”

  “It’s getting close to a decade now, Your Honor.”

  “A decade! Is that right?” McNaughton asks, pondering for a moment.

  “Are ya disillusioned yet, Detective?”

  It’s my turn to ponder. “Well, Your Honor . . .” I say, picking my words carefully. “With policing, no sir. But with the justice system? Now, that’s another story.”

  Hizzonner chuckles and asks me what case I’m here for.

  “Wesley Colt, Your Honor. It’s actually several cases on him, but I expect we’ll be bundling them together.”

  The DA steps in. “Your Honor, if I can have a word with the detective, I believe we may be able to dispose of these matters without a hearing?”

  McNaughton nods his assent, and the DA tells me that Wesley’s court-appointed lawyer will be requesting Youthful Offender status for Wesley, “and the Judge’ll probably grant it, ’cause the kid’s just a few months past eighteen and his juvie record’s not all that bad, I mean compared to most we see in here, don’t you think? And he confessed, and you recovered most of the stolen property, right? So his lawyer’s proposing drug diversion, three years’ formal probation, and restitution for whatever you didn’t recover, in exchange for pleas to Theft third. Now I understand there’s an older brother codefendant, correct? Who’s really the primary player in all this, right? And he’s facing multiple drug charges in Baldwin County, and some others here for endangerment and assault related to his arrest? He’s the one we�
��ll stick it to. So whaddaya think?”

  I tell the DA I’ve got plenty of other things I could be doing, bigger fish to fry. And this is his arena, not mine, so I’ll defer to his and hizzonner’s judgment.

  Then I just can’t stop myself from adding, “Actually, I kinda feel sorry for the kid. He’s the youngest in a really fucked-up family. If a deal means I don’t hafta stick around to testify and be cross-examined on every little nuance, every rod and reel and tackle box, then let’s make the deal.”

  The DA smiles, shakes my hand, and says, “Thanks, Detective. See ya next time.” I exit the courtroom without looking back, trying in vain to drive my FTO Porter’s accusation, Slocumb’s Theorem, Marcus Pettway, and LaJuan Lawson out of my mind.

  26

  Folly Chases Death

  (around the Broken Pillar of Life)

  The only thing necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.

  —Edmund Burke

  It’s the first day of Mardi Gras season, Friday, February 3, 2012. The Conde Cavaliers will be parading tonight down Government Street before an estimated crowd of twenty thousand, and the revelry—and the overtime—will continue for another eighteen days.

  Cops have a love/hate relationship with Mardi Gras. We love it because the overtime fattens our paychecks by several thousand dollars each year (more than enough to pay off the Christmas credit balance) and because those of us who enjoy combat get the opportunity to hone our skills and unleash our normally repressed aggression by breaking up the numerous brawls that erupt with ever-growing size and frequency as the season wears on.

  But we hate it because we get worn out after the first week of fourteen-hour days, arguing with traffic-snarling tourists who insist they must be allowed to cross the parade route to get to their hotels. By the end of the second week, all the mirth has been drained out of us by our constant state of alert, scanning as we must the crushing, unpredictable crowds for violators and malefactors. As the season builds toward its climax, we’re growing angered rather than amused by the pickled, privileged maskers swaying atop gaudy, slow-moving floats, imperiously fast-balling their damn Moon Pies, cheap beads, and trinkets at the screaming masses (and often slyly targeting weary, distracted cops).

  By Fat Tuesday, when Folly chases Death around the Broken Pillar of Life with a flail of three dried, inflated pig bladders tied to a stick, we’re rooting for Death to deal a mortal blow to Folly and the damn mule team they both rode in on. We’ve had it up to here with the whole nineteen days of public Bacchanalia, attended en masse not only by the local thuggage but by scoff-laws, outlaw bikers, and gangbangers from far and wide.

  For me, the season always begins with small but startling surprises, derived from the simple donning of the blues. As a plainclothesman for several years now, about the only time I wear the uniform anymore is for Mardi Gras duty. So I’m invariably struck, first, by the gear required of uniformed officers to carry, by its sheer bulk and weight—even though I carried it without complaint every day for six years in patrol. Now, as a detective, I just carry my duty weapon, radio, and handcuffs on my belt, my small switchblade clipped to a rear pocket, and when I remember it, a small flashlight in a pocket of my blazer. (Recently I’ve added—since receiving it for Father’s Day 2012—a small seven-shot .380 “pocket pistol,” or “Git back!” gun.) But uniformed duty, mandatory for Mardi Gras, requires me to be as fully equipped as a patrol officer.

  This means the Belt, and more.

  On my duty belt are two spare fifteen-round magazines of .40-caliber ammunition (for a total of forty-six rounds, counting the magazine in my weapon and the round in the chamber), a canister of pepper spray, two sets of handcuffs, a lead-tipped Monadnock expandable baton, a foot-long Super Stinger Streamlight (which can double as a baton, in a pinch), an old-style, big-boy M26 Taser with spare cartridge, my radio with remote shoulder mike, and my duty weapon, the Glock .40-caliber model 22. In my uniform shirt pockets are two ballpoint pens, a notepad, and a cell phone (as well as, in days past, a pack of smokes and a lighter, or more recently, a can of Skoal). Under the shirt, of course, is the “bulletproof” (except for rifle rounds) vest. All of this is rigged for quick accessibility and security with Velcro strips and “keepers” (leather snap-straps).

  With this array of tools on my belt, it’s critical to develop the “muscle memory” needed to quickly deploy—and holster—the appropriate tool for fast-changing circumstances. I must be able to draw (or holster and switch to) the appropriate tool without averting my eyes from whatever threat I face. Most cops keep the gun side of their duty belts uncluttered with other equipment to avoid accidentally bringing a knife (or a baton or a Taser) to a gunfight. This usually means that all the non-gun gear gets real crowded on the front, back, and opposite sides of the belt, sometimes forcing tough equipment choices for the fittest (or smallest) cops, whose trim waistlines offer limited belt space. It can also mean discomfort when seated for long periods (as in a patrol car for a twelve-hour shift), chronic bruising around the waistline, and periodic sciatica and lower back pain from the unbalanced weight distribution and pressure points.

  (It also means uniformed cops require spacious, secure toilet stalls and must never delay a bowel movement, because a cop simply can’t drop his trousers in a hurry. I learned this the hard way.)

  In addition to the required equipment, most cops carry a variety of optional gear: backup guns, knives, folding Leatherman tools, and the like. The selection of optional gear varies by assignment. SWAT guys, for example, wear body armor more akin to flak jackets than to patrol’s under-shirt vests, carry tourniquets and Kytostat bandages for spurting wounds, pack assorted flashbangs, smoke, and tear-gas grenades, and strap on much more ammo, for both assault rifles and sidearms. Optional gear is also driven by experience (or lack of it) and by superstition. Rookies will buy and carry anything that says “police” on it. As rookies become seasoned officers they will often shed all but the minimum required, until a scary fight or gun battle prompts the return or replacement of certain pieces of optional gear.

  In my case, optional gear choices are probably due in equal parts to harrowing experience, unthinking habit, and dumb superstition. They include a backup ten-round model 27 “baby” Glock, which I carry Velcroed to the body armor under my shirt, below my right armpit (in the event that my right arm or hand is disabled), a fixed blade Ka-Bar knife in a boot, and my little pocket switchblade next to my main handcuff key. I carry tiny backup handcuff keys (in the event my cuffs are ever used on me) in other places. In the ceramic-plate-holding chest pocket of my ballistic vest, I carry a third knife, a small backup flashlight, a spare ink pen, and a dog-eared pocket copy of the Title 13A Criminal Code of Alabama.

  To top it all off, for Mardi Gras crowd control, we’re required to wear “hard covers” for all nighttime parades (to protect our noggins from thrown beer bottles or other airborne projectiles). The hard covers may be military-surplus Kevlar helmets (painted black) or city-issue riot helmets with plastic face shields—most of which are so scratched up that their use compromises vision.

  All told, I’m twenty-seven pounds heavier, fully uniformed and equipped, than I am when dressed for plainclothes duty, and thirty-one pounds heavier than I am off duty, in jeans and a T-shirt (though I never leave the house, even for church, unarmed).

  Even more surprising than the weight of all the gear that goes with the uniform is the mere sight of myself in it. In uniform, there’s no mistaking that I’m a cop, though I’m still often startled to catch a glimpse of my uniformed reflection in the mirror over the bathroom sink. I’ll pause a moment to regard my image, invariably struck by that same old curious mix of pride and doubt. As I gaze in the mirror, my first thought is who’s that guy? Is that really you? Who do you think you’re kidding, Markie Doodle? You’re sixty years old and still playing dress-up.

  I read somewhere that even bad cops—lazy, or cowardly, or corrupt or stupid cops—can, by their mere presen
ce, inspire respect, restore calm and order, deter crime, even save lives. That’s the power of the uniform. We’re taught in the academy that the first level of the “Use of Force Continuum” is police presence. No physical force, not even spoken commands, is needed to produce compliance in most situations.

  People see the uniform, and that’s all they need to know. Rarely do they look at or evaluate the person wearing it, at least initially. I know this to be a fact, having on several occasions encountered people who know me personally—knew me before and since I became a cop—but failed to recognize me (despite face-to-face proximity in broad daylight) until I identified myself by name. All they saw was the uniform.

  So when I catch a glimpse of myself in uniform again after a year in civvies, I banish my first thought (“impostor”) by recalling the second one: nobody knows me, at least not at first, and not on the inside. Nobody knows my doubts, my fears, my wounds and weaknesses. Whew! I take a deep breath, swell up, stiffen my spine, fix my gaze. I may even practice a draw or two on my reflection in the mirror.

  And off I go, where fools rush in.

  (Do other cops have these thoughts? Hell if I know. Be damned if I’m gonna ask any of ’em, though.)

  Since I’ve got eight hours of routine paperwork and neighborhood witness canvassing for some backlogged cases before fully suiting up for parade duty, I toss the vest into the backseat, to put on later. I’m a heck of a lot more comfortable without it, but its absence does cost me the backup baby Glock, which I normally carry strapped to the vest when in uniform. The baby G doesn’t really ride well anywhere else.

  Not long past lunchtime, I’m in my car down the Parkway writing up some case notes when I get a call from Bailey, a robbery guy, who asks if I’m familiar with a little thug named Donte Curtis, who’s a suspect in some recent juvenile stickups he’s working. Seems young Donte’s been stealing the odd blunt, cash, and cell phones from neighborhood teens, at gunpoint. I’d seen Bailey’s BOLO for Donte in my e-mail and been keeping an eye out for him myself.