Spirit Of The Badge Read online

  Finally she stopped, satisfied with her effort. She walked around the small apartment picking up her clothes. Once she had all her things in a big wad under her arm she walked right out the front door and down the street, naked as the day she was born.

  The man quickly put on his pants and shirt. He asked if he was going to jail. John casually answered, “No.” I don’t know who was more surprised, me or the man. I was sure someone would be going to jail. The man left in a hurry, without his shoes, not taking a chance that John might change his mind.

  I found one of his shoes under the coffee table. John told me to pick up the shoe and find the second one. I did. “What are we going to do with the shoes?” I asked.

  John answered, “Tomorrow’s Sunday. It should be a slow day. Let’s take them to the man’s house and return them. That will give him something to think about. Let him explain it to his wife!”

  “He was married?” I asked.

  “He had on a wedding ring,” answered John. “I’m guessing he’s not homosexual if he’s jumping Wanda’s bones.”

  John taught me a lot. He taught me how to survive and how to stay alive. We became good friends. I told myself that if I ever became a veteran officer, I too, would teach recruits as much as I could. John was a great teacher and I loved his easy, natural laugh.

  The Veteran – Part 2

  May 28th, 11:25 P.M. I had paid my dues for twenty years in the big city and had scars to show. Thirty-five minutes left on my shift. It had been a long night—unseasonably warm. Someone said it was 85 degrees when we started work this afternoon. Must still be in the mid- to high seventies. My assignment tonight was accident investigator for the North End. Jerry and I were the only accident investigators on the street that night. We had both been busy. I saw him in the station around 8:30 P.M. He had investigated five accidents to my seven. I was up to nine accidents now.

  I had just left a restaurant where I had a coffee and finished several accident reports. It was 10:30 P.M. before I had an opportunity to stop and take a break. I was past being hungry, so I didn’t eat. Two middle-aged women sat in the booth directly behind me. They were discussing death. The older woman was about forty-five, weathered, worn, and wearing clothes that were not color-coordinated. She must have had a son in the service. Her argument was how terrible it would be to lose a son at war, to have him shot and dying in the battlefield. The younger woman, about thirty-six, well-dressed and attractive, countered, “It would be terrible to lose a son or any child, even if they died in a hospital.”

  The older woman rebutted, “At least in a hospital you could hold your child as he or she died. On the battlefield, they die alone.”

  I thought about that and agreed with her. I have four kids and never thought about them dying. The older lady was right. No one, especially a child, should have to die and face the Grim Reaper alone.

  I was stopped at a red light on Fifth Avenue, eastbound at Martin Luther King, debating which way to go. The light turned green, I turned left and went back into the inner city. I doubled-back to Dupont Street and proceeded north. When I crossed Stewart Avenue, I saw something ahead and to the right, just off the road. Something was wrong. I couldn’t see for sure what it was. Smoke or dust filled the air. It was a car upside-down, resting on its roof; it had smashed into a telephone pole. I pulled up and turned on my emergency lights.

  The dispatcher crackled, “Are you still North? Need you to check a rollover accident. Possible fatal.”

  I reached over and keyed the mike, “If you are referring to Dupont, north of Stewart, I’m on location.”

  “Your time is 11:47 P,” he answered. Then he asked, “Any car North to assist #71?” No one replied. Everyone was in for a shift change. I was the only car in the north end. I was on my own.

  I found a male black subject—no, it was a female subject—with short hair. She was wearing a long red dress. On my third look, I determined, no, it was a black male in a long red dress. He was crushed behind the steering wheel. If he was not dead, he should have been from the looks of the car.

  I had to lie down on the street to get a good look. The driver was the only person in the car. Definitely male. He reeked of alcohol. “Hey there! Hey!” I shouted. There was no response. I reached around his neck with my left hand to see if I could find a pulse or any trace of life. Nothing.

  He was wearing a thin, yellow, nylon cord and a string of beads around his neck. With what kids were wearing today, neither of these seemed out of the ordinary. Suddenly it dawned on me, however. One of the area high schools had graduated their senior class tonight. This young kid had graduated today. He was wearing his graduation gown.

  I went to my car to notify dispatch that I had a possible fatal accident and to request an ambulance, the rescue squad, and two additional units to help with measurements and crowd control. A large crowd was starting to gather.

  I returned to the wrecked car. I thought I heard a moan. I reached back in. I still couldn’t feel a pulse. Then he moved slightly. “Am I going to die, mister? I don’t want to die!” he said. The boy was frightened. I couldn’t believe he was alive.

  “Hang on, man. I’ve got you,” I said. “You just lay cool. I’ve got help coming. Try not to move. They will be here in a minute.” I then asked, “How much liquor have you had to drink tonight?” If he lived, I needed a statement, an admission, for the accident report.

  “I was just seeing if this car could fly,” he stated. He laughed as he spoke. He had a natural, easy smile. WHAM!!! A piece of cement or asphalt crashed into the side of the car. Some jerk threw it at me.

  “Someone’s lookin’ to get his butt kicked,” I said. The kid laughed, easily and naturally.

  “Don’t leave me, okay?” he pleaded.

  “I’m right here. I’ve got you. When I get you out of here, though, I’m taking you to jail for being stupid and trying to fly a car,” I said.

  The kid laughed again. Like it was a part of his speech.

  I heard the coarse, raspy voice for the first time. “I saw it! I saw the whole thing!” it shouted. “The cop was chasing him and done ran him off the road and into that pole!” This jerk was my last concern. Right now I was trying to figure out how to keep this boy alive until help arrived.

  A rock came flying by my head, about two feet to the left. It hammered into the side of the car. I had to ignore it. This boy needed to get to a hospital. I raised up on my knees and grabbed the portable radio attached to my belt. “I need some help up here! My driver is still alive. See if you can scramble the rescue squad.” Radio didn’t answer.

  “Mister, don’t leave me, don’t leave me.” It sounded like his voice was getting stronger. I lay back down next to the window.

  “I’m here, man,” I said. “You’re going to be all right. The fire department should be rolling up any second now.”

  “Fire department?” the kid questioned.

  I answered, “Yeah, just in case your butt catches on fire, they’ll put it out for you.” We both laughed.

  The kid put his hand on my arm. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Mike. Mike Thomas,” I answered. “You can call me Mike if you want. You got a name?”

  The kid smiled. “Yeah, I’m Johnny. Johnny Johnson. You can call me Johnny if you want.”

  Johnny Johnson from years ago, I remembered. What was it, ten, twelve years? I had lost track. “Would you be Johnny Johnson, the little frickin’ bike thief?” I laughed.

  Johnny laughed, too. “Hey! I want to know how you knew that. How did you know I stole that damn bike?” />
  “I’m a dad, man,” I said. “Dads know stuff like that, it’s what dads do.”

  “Oh. I never had a dad, Mike.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “I’m going to die, Mike! I know I’m going to die!” Johnny said.

  “You’re not going to die, man,” I assured him. “You ain’t going to be dancing for awhile, I can tell you that. You’ve got one leg that is pointing in a strange direction; but don’t worry . . . I’m not going to let you die. I’ve got you.”

  I felt the beads around his neck. “What’s all this?”

  “The cord is for being the salutatorian of my class,” he laughed, in his easy natural way. “The necklace is something Mrs. Kah, my English teacher, gave me. It’s called a rose or something like that. She said I was special,” and then Johnny laughed again. He added, “Special, my black butt. She gave me a C in Advanced English Composition and knocked my straight four-point grade average right in the frickin’ head.”

  I pulled the beads out from under his gown. “This is a rosary!” I said. “She gave you a rosary for graduation? Are you Catholic?”

  “That’s it,” Johnny said. “That’s the word—it’s a rosary. I thought she called it a rose. What do you do with it? What’s it for?”

  A barrage of rocks and cement came crashing in on me and the side of the car. They didn’t hurt. They pissed me off more than anything. I heard the raspy voice again. He was shouting something stupid. That son-of-a-bitch might as well give his soul to Jesus, I thought, because his butt is going to belong to me!

  “You use a rosary to pray. Some people say the rosary when they pray for something special,” I answered. “You’re not Catholic, are you?”

  “No, I ain’t nothin’ as far as church goes. I don’t go to church.”

  “The rescue squad is coming out of Station #8,” crackled the radio. “They are en route.” I acknowledged by clicking my radio mike twice.

  I liked this kid. He would make a good cop. He was black, bright, and witty. I would make it a point to follow up with him this summer. I would encourage him to become a Man in Blue or Brown. Another rock bounced off the street and hit my leather gun belt. Didn’t hurt, but it was a direct hit. I heard the raspy voice laugh . . . a laugh I will always remember.

  I reached for my radio, “I need some help up here. Get me some backup, please!”

  After a short pause, the radio came on, “Rescue squad is en route, 71. I’ll try and get someone out of roll call. Just hold what you’ve got—hang on.” It was a new voice; they had changed dispatchers. Third shift patrol would be checking in soon.

  I turned back to Johnny and said, “You picked a bad time to have an accident.”

  “Mike, tell me about the rosary. Do you know how to pray it?”

  I pulled it out from around his head and showed him the beads. “Never wear it around your neck, man. You just hold it in your hands. You should have a little case to carry it in.” Johnny nodded. “The way I do it is to say three Hail Mary’s and then I pray for something. I’m a part-time farmer, so sometimes I pray for rain and sometimes I pray for it to stop raining.” We both laughed. I could hear a siren way off in the distance. Help was coming. Several more rocks crashed down on us. Neither of us acknowledged them. “After you say the three Hail Mary’s, you just keep going around the beads until you come back to here.” I pointed to where the chain came back around to the start. “When you reach the larger beads along the way, you say the Lord’s Prayer.”

  “Teach me the prayer, Mike, will ya?” Johnny asked, as another rock bounced off the pavement and into my leg.

  I took the beads in my hand and started to recite, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus. Hail Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.”

  Johnny and I said it two more times together and then I added, “God, spare the life of this little bike thief.”

  Johnny laughed and said, “God, don’t let the brothers hit my friend Mike in the head with a rock.” We both had a good chuckle.

  The raspy voice was heard again, along with another barrage of rocks and cement. This time one hit me square on the left shoulder blade. It hurt. “#$%!!” I yelled.

  “It’s sure funny, Mike,” Johnny laughed. “You helping me like this, saying the rosary and all, and the brothers are chuckin’ rocks at you.”

  I could hear several sirens now—sounded good. “Help’s coming,” I said. “Do you know who that guy is with the raspy voice? Do you know that voice?”

  “Never heard it before,” Johnny answered. “Never heard it before in my life. He’s sure actin’ a fool, though.” I didn’t know if Johnny was telling me the truth or not.

  Sweat was running into my eyes. It was still hot and muggy, must have been in the high seventies. I pulled my arm out and looked at my watch. 12:17 A.M.

  “Don’t leave me, Mike! Don’t leave me alone!” Johnny pleaded again. “I’m cold. I’m freezing,” he said.

  I reached around his side, under his arm and around his body. I felt wetness, blood—lots of it. Johnny was hurt—more than I thought. His body was covered with blood. He just might die. I could see both of his legs were bent, twisted, and broken. Too much blood. He was in bad shape. I had thought he was getting stronger. Now, I knew differently.

  A rock smashed into the back of my hand that was braced against the car. I heard the raspy voice shout, “Got the bastard! Got him on the hand.” It laughed. He will pay the price for that, I thought. I will see that he does.

  Johnny wasn’t saying anything now. He was quiet. Bleeding to death. I couldn’t do a thing to help him. I could only hold him, hold him and let him die. I felt strange lying there with my arm around Johnny. I couldn’t leave him. I felt a strange responsibility to stay with him. It was a father’s love for a son that kept me there. At that moment, I was Johnny’s father and he was my son.

  I also had a growing hate building up inside of me—an urge to beat the fool with the raspy voice, to beat him unconscious, and then just walk away. My blood was boiling with an overpowering love and an unquenchable hate. Johnny squeezed my arm one more time and then died in my arms.

  I collected Johnny’s personal things and headed for his house. It was 2:15 A.M. when I pulled up in front of the address on Johnny Johnson’s driver’s license. He lived on Margaret Street. Lights were still on in the house and I could hear a TV. I knocked on the door. No one answered. I knocked again.

  “What the f— do you want?” came a gruff voice from inside.

  “It’s the police! Open up the door!” I ordered.

  An old, hard-looking woman opened the door. “What do you want? What is it?” she asked.

  We looked at each other and I said, “I need to talk to you. Can I come in?” The lady stepped back and left the door open. I followed her inside. I had seen this woman before but didn’t know where. She had cold untrusting eyes. She was probably not as old as she looked.

  “What did Johnny steal? What kind of trouble is he in now? Is he in jail?” she asked. I handed her the yellow nylon cord. She didn’t take it. She knew. I laid it on the coffee table. She sat down, half falling into an old chair. I sat down on the couch which was equally worn. Neither of us said anything. There was nothing to say. I was going to tell her that Johnny was driving a stolen car—but wh
y? She didn’t care. I could have told her he had been drinking and was drunk—but who cares now? What difference does it make? I could have told her he was going 100 miles an hour, but I didn’t. What would be the point? I wished I was telling her he was in jail for stealing a car, for reckless driving, and driving drunk. Instead, I was telling her that her son was dead.

  I suddenly realized who she was and where I had seen her. She was Wicked Wanda, the prostitute who lived on Margaret Street. I didn’t think she’d remember me—it had been almost twenty years.

  Wanda broke the silence, “Is John still around? Do you have contact with him?”

  “No,” I answered, surprised by the questions. “John retired several years ago. I heard he moved up north someplace. I could probably contact him, though. Why do you ask?”

  Wanda sighed. “Would you find him? He should know about Johnny. He would want to know.”

  The easy natural smile, the charismatic personality, the exceptional intelligence, the lighter complexion—suddenly, it all made sense. John, my old teacher and partner, was Johnny’s father. “I will let him know, Wanda,” I said. “Do you want me to ask him to call?”

  “No,” she answered, “just let him know about Johnny.”

  I got up and turned off the TV, and then Wanda and I talked for over an hour. Simple conversation, broken up with long periods of calm silence. There was no hate. No fear. No racial attitudes. I asked her if Johnny had a friend with a raspy voice. She wanted to know why. She was street smart. “Oh, I need to talk to him about the accident,” I lied. She told me that Johnny had many friends, but she didn’t know of any with a raspy voice. I believed her. I would have to find the guy on my own.

  I got up to leave. Wanda walked me to the door. “Was Johnny alone when he died?” she asked. I told her that I was with him, by his side. She seemed pleased.

  I started home. In three weeks I would have twenty years on the job. Twenty years of busting heads, twenty years of giving people directions, twenty years of love and joy, twenty years of hate and grief. Twenty years of fighting and dying, laughing and crying. Twenty years of solving problems and twenty years of facing problems that simply have no solutions. Twenty years of refusing to back down, never apologizing, and never looking back.