Supporting the Law

 

 

The last conversation I had with a cop was on my knees in an alley with his pistol pressed against my forehead. He chose to remain standing. I had done nothing wrong as far as he knew, empirically, but he didn't allow that detail to stand in the way of the administration of what he perceived as Justice. I had violated his Standard of Measure in some way, and he had all the means of coercion at his disposal to make me conform to his personal Frame of Reference.

I was returning home from a neighborhood bar about a mile from my apartment one evening about an hour or so after sunset. It was a work night, and I didn't want to close down the bar and have to rise early the next morning. I hadn't even been drinking this night. I was just wandering around the local strip of bars, restaurants, and coffeehouses that served as a gathering place for most of my acquaintances. I had made my last stop at the furthest bar on the strip where I usually stopped in for a game of pool or two after work. It was a rather dead night. Not too many folks were gathered at the local watering holes, so I decided to walk back home through the barrio of cheap apartments and rock houses that lay between the strip and my home.

On my way out the door I bumped into a guy I hadn't seen in probably twelve years or so. He had previously been a hustler at an old haunt of mine, but he'd disappeared such a long time ago that I'd forgotten about him altogether. That's what happens when a guy goes to prison in that crowd. He gets forgotten altogether. I think his name was Tony, and it was obvious to me that he was looking to score some coke. I wasn't interested in shooting any dope, and I hadn't been in a number of years; but I didn't mind his company for as long as our paths remained congruent. We took off down an alley that ran lay between the back door of the bar and the road to my home.

Tony and I had crossed about two blocks and were emerging from the alley to cross a third street when I noticed the headlights of a Dallas police car on a course perpendicular to our path. The car was stopped about fifty yards or so down the street, so we continued across. I sensed movement in the lights as we entered the alley on the far side, and I made mention of this to my traveling companion. I was not holding and, other than being dead tired and ready for bed, I had a relatively clear head. It wouldn't have occurred to me to flee from the cop, though I had no illusions about what was possible in an encounter with an officer in that neighborhood.

I have little fear of the street urchins and dope fiends in that neighborhood. They are opportunists and generally won't confront anyone who carries himself with any degree of self-assurance in their presence. They prey on the weak and unsuspecting and those naive enough to still have some faith in a false idea of Human Nature. The cops, on the other hand, are a different matter. I have no illusions about what is possible at their hands, but I've always relied on a natural ability on my part to "give good bubba" in order to disarm their hostility a bit. I can come off as quite harmless in their eyes for some reason. This night, however, there was a limit to what natural charm and candor could produce in the way of ameliorating the violent edge of a bruised ego attached to unlimited power and a firearm.

The lights of the car swung in behind and made our shadows dance in front of us. The alley at this point cut through the middle of an apartment complex. I said to Tony, "I'll see ya later. I've gotta head off to the right up here." I had hardly gotten the words out when he was off at a dead run to my left. The car had stopped behind us and I heard its door open and running footsteps taking off in the direction Tony had left in. I continued on for a few steps before craning my head around to see what lay behind me. The police car was stopped with the door open and there was nobody around. I was fortunate at this point that the cop was alone on patrol. But this neighborhood was always covered in cops. Nobody knew why, exactly. The same crackhouses had been operating more or less unmolested by any attempts at intervention for as long as any of the locals could remember. However, there they were, on patrol and ever vigilant, lest someone should alter themselves chemically or attempt to negotiate sex with another consenting adult or any other of a number of unnatural and animal acts which occur out there on the periphery of what we collectively deem as acceptable behavior. The next few moments were critical to me if I wanted to make it home unmolested. That is why I cannot understand why I did what I did knowing what I certainly knew at the time. I was overcome by curiosity.

Just ahead of where Tony and I had parted ways was the last street before my road home. I could have turned right and been on a main thoroughfare and safe in the anonymity to be found there in a few moments. Instead, inexplicably, I turned left to see if I could witness the results of the chase that had started without a word back in the alley behind me. As I rounded the corner and approached the street parallel to my path on the left I saw Tony running full speed around the far corner and turning into the next alley heading back in the direction we had come from. I continued to the edge of the building and looked back to the left to see the cop running back into the complex to get his car. I headed off towards the alley Tony had run to. I had at this point become a spectator to my own actions. I knew that I was placing myself in harm's way, but I was operating on that false sense of reality that elevates one above the consequences of the Great Unwashed Masses and allows the sense of immunity from the fate shared by others. I was vaguely aware that I was pushing the limits of that Providence that watches over fools and babies.

I rounded the corner into the far alley and began walking back in the direction of the strip. I had no desire to return to the bar. I had no desire to spend time with Tony. I had no desire at this point to do anything other than make an about face and turn towards home and my bed. Every part of me was pushing against an invisible barrier that shielded my will from any self-direction. I was carried at this point by the Inevitability of my earlier error. There was a tickling sensation in my gut as the headlights turned into my path and momentarily blinded me. I was fucked.

The car barreled towards me and skidded to a halt in the chalky white gravel several paces ahead. The dust it kicked up softened the glare of the spotlight somewhat. I stood stock still. The fat bastard in the uniform rolled out of the car with his pistol drawn and came towards me; all of is in a surprisingly fluid, continuous movement. There was a rhythm to the events that were unfolding; an rolling of something which, once begun, carries itself ponderously forward and downhill with certainty. More accurately, it is an un-rolling sensation. The force of Judgement Deferred carrying its object down to the rightful and righteous Place of Payment is as mighty as a cataract, yet soft and silent as the fluid we breathe. And as certain and irresistible in its movements. He who triggers its flow is as so much silt on the surface of the flood once the Gate is opened. This Radiant Light-Filled Child of God kept his Glock leveled at my face as he approached.

"On your knees, mister!"

Cops call me that down South. Not sure why. I don't think of myself as a Mister. That's something you water the leaves of plants with. I got down as quickly as my aging knees could take it. The large, chalk rocks of the alley provided a firm reminder of the Real World as they bore into my skin at odd angles. Odd that I should find that more bothersome than the muzzle of his piece pushing into my forehead with enough force to make me steady myself for fear of falling over.

"Your friend got away from me for the moment, but we'll catch ‘im. You wanna tell me where the dope is now, or are you gonna be difficult?"

I tried to look incredulous, as if I was naive to what was going on. Truth is, I could have written his script for him at this point. I don't know about up north, but talking to a Dallas cop can be like watching paint dry. It really takes a lot of imagination to stay focused on what a member of the local Brain Trust is trying to get across. Sometimes they even need a little help finishing a thought. By this time, I knew there wasn't much I could do to avert my fate. The best I could hope for was to become some innocuous nobody. I was aiming to reduce myself from Criminal Mastermind to minor irritant in his eyes as quickly as possible. As far as I could tell, he didn't differentiate much difference in basic character between me and the head of the Medellin Cocaine Cartel. I answered with meek indignation, "I don't have any dope, and I don't know that guy who was walking with me through the alley! I haven‘t done any dope in three years!"

"I know you probably tossed it, but we'll find it. Empty your pockets!"

With that I began to pull out the contents of my pockets and lay them as neatly as time would allow on the gravel next to me. I wasn't trying to do anything more than avoid losing my checkbook and wallet and whatnot. I also didn't want to lose my only key to my apartment. There wasn't much light to work with. I knew he didn't have much patience, but I was trying to expedite the process as best I could. There comes a time in any encounter with law enforcement where Right and Wrong cease to make a difference and the best course to take is to cooperate as quickly and quietly as possible in order to avoid the scrutiny lasting too long. Cops are "more ya think about it" folks. The more they think about a given thing, the more important it becomes in their minds. It becomes magnified out of all proportion to its true nature and they cannot shake it from their heads. I was risking this sudden magnification, and I wanted to get out of the glare of his attention as quickly as was practicable.

I was apparently not moving fast enough. He reached down and stuck his hand into my other pocket and turned it inside out flinging the contents in an arc that sent change and keys flying several feet from me. I started to gather up my stuff, but he directed me to remove my shoes. My shoes were Redwing steel-toe boots and required me to sit on the gravel and untie them for several seconds. In the meantime a second squad car arrived. In it was Tony, handcuffed in the backseat.

The sergeant who had me at gunpoint retired to consult with his companions for a moment. I quickly finished taking off my boots and gathered up as much of my stuff as I could get discreetly and without venturing more than a few inches in either direction. I counted most of it as a loss and was happy to have my key back. There are some things not worth worrying about when one has bigger fish to fry at the moment. I got everything situated so that I could be ready to stuff it back into my pockets at a moment's notice. He returned and gave my little piles a cursory glance and told me to get up. He picked up my boots and shook them out before handing them back to me. I got them back on as best I could before he told me to turn around and put my hands on the car. He patted me down and cuffed me tightly. He was being rougher with me than usual, and I could tell that he wanted me to notice it. I was being punished for not being caught red-handed doing anything. I had failed to live down to his expectations, and he wasn't pleased about it.

Once he had me in the front seat of the car, he told me that Tony had fingered me for holding dope. I knew that was hogwash, and I told him it wasn't true. I didn't tell him it was hogwash. There was no sense in calling his game; it was the only enjoyment he was getting out of this. He was playing detective. Oh my.

"I haven't done any dope in over three years. I only vaguely know who that guy is. And if he said anything like that, it was an act of desperation on his part. I was walking home to go to bed. I work in the morning, and he just happened to be going the same way. I have no control over what he does. I just wanted to see if you caught him or not." I felt as if I were abandoning Tony to his fate, but I was, in truth, doing just that. I had no control over what he did, neither did I really care what he did. I wished him the best, and I would never narc on him for anything. I didn't believe he had said anything to the cops about me. He had no need to. I wasn't holding anything, and as far as I knew he wasn't either. Though I did think he was on parole, and I assumed he would be going back down for at least a short stay over this. Still, he could do a short term stint in county jail standing on his head. I wasn't concerned about him. I was concerned with minimizing the damage already done. I was on felony probation for a drunk driving charge I had gotten three years earlier, and any arrest I got would put me at risk of going to prison myself. I was at this man's mercy. He didn't know just how much, and I wasn't going to volunteer that information either.

He was nonplussed at my lack of interest in what Tony had or had not said. He returned to the other cops standing beside their car. They conferred for a bit. It was obvious that they all felt as if they had just missed out on the bust of the century.

My beloved police officer returned to the car and told me he was going to take me to detox for being publicly intoxicated. I protested, "But I'm not drunk!"

"Well, I'll take ya to Lew Sterrett for evading arrest then. I‘ve been a police officer for twenty-three years, and I know you‘re lying to me."

This was an unacceptable option for me. If I were actually arrested, I would risk violating my probation and going to prison for something I hadn't even contemplated doing. Public Intoxication is just a ticket and a night in detox with unpleasant company. It would be a pain in the ass, but it was far preferable to the possibility of two to five years in the penitentiary. I admitted to him that I was drunk, and that it was never my intention to flee from his presence. I almost allowed as how I found him a comfort in such a bad neighborhood on a dark night, but I had no interest in kissing the ass of a guy who was taking me somewhere I didn't want to go for a reason I had nothing to do with. I still had a little pride. I wanted to ask him what he had done in that twenty-three years to rid my neighborhood of all the crackhouses around where he picked me up, but I thought better of it. He was doing his part to keep the streets safe for people like me by locking up people like me. I'm sure the folks at the crackhouse we passed on our way to detox were grateful that by my stripes they were allowed a moment's reprieve. Business returned to normal in a few minutes, and I and my sergeant were forgotten.

Once at detox, the kind sergeant who had relieved me of the burden of freedom stuck around doing paperwork long enough to see me breeze through the field sobriety test they gave me. I even passed the breathalyzer test. It didn't affect the outcome of my situation. I was handed a mat with discouraging stains all over it and ushered into one of the large cement rooms filled with the other human debris gathered up off the streets that night by those whose job it is to protect and serve all of the citizens of Dallas, Texas. I marveled at how safe the streets were after twenty-three years of that type of vigilance. The folks in the houses and apartments surrounding the bars and crackhouses in the Oak Lawn area of Dallas were safe from my wandering about on my way home to bed. I imagined the latches coming off doors all over the barrio.