(dis)honest living

“He’s saying you hit him during the interview.” 

She looked up and stared intently at me, as if wondering if I really had and maybe my response would give it away.

The Motion To Suppress Statement is standard trial lawyer stuff.  It’s a motion designed to show that the confession was obtained improperly, and should thereby be excluded from trial.  Usually it’s alleging we failed to read him his rights, or we didn’t have probable cause to have him in custody, or that what we say he said was different from what he says he said.  If that makes sense.

I’ve been through dozens of motions and won almost all of them because, quite frankly, we do things right.  So I was a little astonished at this curve ball, and just a little hurt that the prosecuting attorney was still staring at me with the those big brown eyes as if asking, ”Well? Didja?” 

I leaned back in the orange fabric chair, stained with spilled coffee and stray ink marks, and looked around the tiny room tucked behind courtroom 101.  The calendar with kittens on it offered no advice.

No one likes being accused of something they didn’t do.  But I especially don’t like being accused of something I didn’t do when that something is a felony.

“When are they saying I hit him?”  I asked. 

She said she would find out, and came back some time later, dropping beige file folders onto a table that hadn’t seen Clorox since some time in 1994 and sighed, “He says you hit him while he was making a phone call to his mom…  between interviews.”

A wave of relief washed over me. 

I sat and waited until the defense attorney came into the room, as they all eventually do.  He walked over to the coffee maker, then realized like I had that its resemblance to used motor oil indicated it may have been sitting a while.  He made small talk with the prosecuting attorney while I picked up the  office phone that sat just under the sign that read “Assistant State’s Attorney Use Only”. 

This is the conversation they heard-

“Hey, it’s Chris.  Is Jane around?  Ok.”

“Hey Jane.  It’s Chris.  I was wondering if you could pull a tape from a phone call for me?  Yes, it would be, let me see here…   June 18th of last year, sometime around 3 or 4 in the afternoon, from the phone outside interview room one…   Actually, just pull all the phone calls from that phone in that general time frame…  Ok…  great.  Thanks.”

I hung up and looked at my lovely prosecuting attorney.  “Do you want to take a date or should I have one of our guys bring the tapes up here now?”  I flashed her an innocent grin.

She turned to defense, who muttered something, then stammered, and then he finally offered, “I need to talk to my client”. 

Ten minutes later he sulked back in and pretended to be genuinely surprised that his client had a change of heart.  They had decided to dismiss the motion, and would take a date to discuss a plea deal. 

And people wonder why cops dislike attorneys so much.

1.day

One day is hardly enough for a nation to express its gratitude.  May the free lives we live be worthy of your sacrifice.

Grandpa Jim-  Army- World War II- European Theatre (Purple Heart recipient).

Grandpa Wilfred- Army- Word War II-  Pacific Theatre.

Dad-  Air Force- Viet Nam (Air Force Commendation Medal)

And to all of you who have served in our armed forces, thank you.

Feel free to list your service and the service of family members, past and present, in the comments section below.

18 minutes

I’m competing with Linkin Park as I scream at Bill.  He’s 14 minutes into our 18 minute work-out, and he’s supposed to being doing a burpee hybrid that includes jump squats.  At this point his knees are barely making it to his waistline with each jump, instead of slamming into his chest as proper form dictates.  His t-shirt is soaked and his mouth is hanging open and he gasps that he’s seeing stars.  What do you want, Bill, sympathy?

I scream at him that this is where the difference is made, and he wearily drops for the push-up.

But don’t feel sorry for him.   My turn comes next. 

Our workouts are brutal.   And short, this time around.  But brutally short.   A fire barn converted into a weight room is home.  The up side means our weight room is attached to our police station.  The down side is the disapproving looks and shaking of heads as our co-workers pass through on their way to some other portion of the building.

Experience tells me most police officers will disagree with the emphasis I put on physical fitness.  Oh, they’ll pay lip service to staying in shape, but just as quickly argue against the practicality of our physical fitness standards, like when they counter in a mocking voice, “Who’s ever in a mile and a half foot pursuit?”  

Or my favorite, “We don’t chase anyone… that’s what radios are for.”   Har har har. 

But I have yet to see an HT1000 take someone into custody.

I think differently about our chosen profession, and it’s unpopular.   I think we should represent the best cross-section of the population.  That means I think we should be among the smartest.  The most socially intelligent.  The most ethical. 

And yes, the most physically fit.   Warrior poets, in other words.

All I’m asking for is near-perfection.

And here’s where I get into trouble, because where I’m generally a laid back kind of guy, I have zero tolerance for a gut hanging over a gun belt as much as I have zero tolerance for a racist attitude.  And sometimes my contempt for laziness shows a wee bit too much.

All I can think of is that Sara may have to call 911 at some point when I’m not around.  Is it too much that I want Captain America coming through the front door? 

I don’t care what it takes you to get motivated, but find it.

For me, it doesn’t hurt that I get to do squats staring at this.

Honest Scrap

I’ve been tagged by Erin at the Fierce Beagle, with the charge to list 10 honest things about myself.  Everything I’ve ever written here is honest, so the directions are slightly redundant, though through no fault of Erin’s as she was tagged by someone else, and is just passing on the burden  assignment  honor.  

So let’s not drag this thing out…

 

1)  My real name actually is Christopher.

2)  I’m fairly certain I have latent super hero powers, though it may take a near-death experience to reveal them.  Stay tuned.

3)  I am incredibly in love with my kids.  Like can’t-get-enough-of-them in love.   I’d love to have more.  But we’re not there yet.

4)   If you run into a convenience store and are wondering what kind of candy to pick up for me-  Lemon Heads.

5)  I have lots of friends, but few that are secrets-close.  The friend whose advice I hold most dear is a police captain in Germany.   Luckily, he speaks English, because my German is very schlecht.

6)  I was born in Michigan as winter was trying to fight off spring.  But we moved to the Land of Lincoln when I was 3, and consider myself from Chicago.  Go Bears.

7)  My heart is forever wandering.  Since I was a kid, the far-off places have called me as clear as the coyote’s bark.

8)  I would risk my life for you.  It doesn’t matter who you are.  It’s a calling.

9)  I have a tattoo on my right tricep.  It’s in Hebrew and it says “Benjamin”.  No, we’re not of Jewish decent.  But Ben’s name is of Hebrew origin and it means “Son of my strength”.

10)  I will get a tattoo for Haley next summer.  Her name is of Scandinavian origin and means “hero”.  And no, there is no Scandinavian blood in her.  I don’t know yet what the tattoo will be, so feel free to make suggestions, but it’s going on my left tricep.

At this point I’m supposed to tag 7 other bloggers.   But truth be told, there are more than 7 talented bloggers I check on regularly if you look at my links to the right, and some who may not want to do it because it doesn’t fit their format, and others who have already done it.  So in no particular order or reason… Sandra at Behind the Blue Line, Chelle, Slam Dunks, raindogblue, Damsel, Penny, Ann T.

Have at it, kids, if that’s your thing.

even Caesar

The Chief has stated 
that if we were to have
an active shooter in one of our schools,
he does not expect the Commanders to enter
but control the scene
from outside.

If there is an active shooter
in one of our schools,
you will find me inside
hunting the shooter
with Devin, TJ, Paul, Tim,
and Dave.

It wasn’t for nothing
even Caesar
carried a sword into battle.

Through

The best officers don’t look at things,
but through-

They don’t see a 7/Eleven store, but
a 20-something clerk of Indian decent ringing up
a gallon of milk for
a middle-aged black man in a Steelers jacket while
a white female high school student dressed in Goth peruses
the magazine rack.

They don’t see a tan sedan, but
a late-model BMW with Iowa plates driven by
a clean-cut male Hispanic with
an unusual amount of air fresheners hanging
from the rear view mirror.

The best officers dont look at people,
but through-

They don’t see a gang-banger but
a troubled teen without
anything we’d call a male role model and who
is highly unpredictable but
may surprise you in listening to
your advice.

They don’t see a crack whore but
a woman who has only known abuse and
who uses rock to
relieve her from reality and who may
be hiding a razor or just
the fact that she needs someone to
take the time to see her as
a person.

They don’t see a respected business man and 
deacon of the church, but
a man who is capable of
molesting his niece and, were his own daughter just
a little older,

her too. 

I can give you the first set of eyes.
The second you either naturally have

or you don’t.

Part 3

“What are you gonna do with your 20?” I ask him, momentarily turning towards him in the back seat of our unmarked squad.

We pay people to stand in line-ups.  $20 is the standard rate. An informal survey indicates this to be at the higher end for most agencies, but I think the theory says we will have less trouble getting people to stand in line-ups. I don’t know if it’s true.  It’s still not easy.

“Man”, he says, a toothy grin showing decades of poor dental hygiene flashing back at me, “I’m gonna get me a beer, a bag of bud, and a hooker bitch!”

I don’t bother to tell him I admire his use of alliteration.  Somehow I doubt it was intentional.  Brian and I will laugh about that later.

A beer?  I can appreciate it.  I’m not a big drinker, but there are times a beer can go down smooth.  The bag of bud?  Illegal, yes.  But this guy could be doing much worse.  Of course, ”crack” doesn’t start with a “b”, so what was I thinking.

But the hooker bitch?

I don’t understand sex crimes, even the least in seriousness, yet most common, being prostitution.  The whole allure of sex, for me, is feeling desired by the other person.  

Something tells me handing the Alexander Hamilton over negates any feeling that this thing’s about attraction.

I’ve explored in my perplexity over David Letterman’s exploits and Monster Energy Drink-hat guy getting some in the back of a mini-van the idea that people must have sex for different reasons. And responding comments seemed to indicate that those reasons were even more various, or complex, than I’d imagined.

Well I understand complex.

I can, going back into my childhood, follow a trail of insecurity, a past of struggling with self-esteem.  And yet, no matter how far back I go, or how many times I try to trace that line against the dark ceiling on a sleepless night, the source remains hidden.  One way of appeasing my investigative mind, then, is to examine how it affects me now.

I think one of the results for me appears in physical intimacy.  The feeling of being desired is an emotional high.   It’s someone saying, “I want you“, and I can even make myself believe they are saying, “only you“.  It’s communication in its purest and most intimate form.  It’s powerful, even as it’s unexplainable, and in those moments it wakes in me a feeling I wish I could feel all of the time.  It makes me feel worthy, and wanted.

Conversely, feeling undesired is devastating and crushing.

Which causes me to believe, looking back, that all of my decisions in life regarding sex have had more to do with that one simple idea wrapped in all its complex manifestations than any other single factor.

Bad Ax

I reek of smoke.

One of our many vacant homes went up in flames tonight.   We beat the fire department to the scene by at least several minutes.

As we blocked traffic and watched while the fire department destroyed with water what was previously being destroyed with fire, an overweight Lieutenant walked up to us.

“Ha!” he chuckled.  “I’m surprised you guys didn’t park in front of the house and try to break in the door!”  He was clearly amused with himself.

His humor was lost on us.  We always beat the fire department to the scene because, well, we’re awake.    And when we get there first, and people are inside, we go in and get them out.  And I get the idea that steals their thunder.

But when I consider the favorite phrases we hear out of fire fighters’ mouths…

“Is the scene secure?”

“We’re taking a defensive position on this fire.”

and…

“This is just a body recovery.”

… I remember why those guys who wear their FD t-shirts everywhere off-duty and drive red pick-up trucks with firefighter plates but are lucky to see 2 actual structure fires a year annoy the living piss out of me.

But let me be honest too. 

I may just be biased because of how one firefighter treated this girl I used to know.

Home

We took the boat out of the water today.

Ben and I freed it from the marina it was docked only to bring it to the marina it will call home for the winter.  With a gray sky spitting fine drops of cold rain, the lake was ours.  Well, ours and the sea gulls, who flapped wildly in the wind behind us, hoping in futility that we had food to share.

The leaves have turned here in the midwest, and where a week ago the trees were ablaze with reds and oranges and flashes of fire, today the lake was awash in the muted colors of the end of fall.  We cruised past duck blinds standing empty, save for their flotilla of decoys silently bobbing in our wake. 

We wiped the rain from our faces and took in the loneliness.

I love this time of year.

Oh, I love summer too, with her beach trips and business and brilliant sun.  And as much as I loathe late winter, in my most honest moments I can admit to feeling 12 again when the season’s first snow starts to fall.

But summer is an illusion of false optimism, which I readily drink with abandon, all while recognizing her lie.  And winter pretends she is the conclusion of things.

But fall is real. 

To me, anyway, fall speaks to the truth of this life, with her beauty in sadness.  With her unpretentiousness on the surface, all while complexity churns below.   With her Solomon-like resignation to what was, and is to come.

With her graceful defiance in allowing it to steal her allure.

Fall is Joan of Arc standing proud while the kindling is being lit, and more honest than any summer day.

I wont deny the promise brought with the June sun, or the nostalgia that floats down on snowflakes.  But fall is home.

It’s in northeast Russia

“There was a car back there”, Bill interrupts, whipping his head back around towards the Catholic church we just cruised past.   It’s one in the morning.

I pop the u-turn and swing back into the parking lot, circling behind the church.  There’s really only two approaches in this situation.  One is to cut the lights and slide in silent like a shark in shallow waters.  The other is to hit the take down lights and roll in fast. 

I go with option B.

The windows of the older-model mini van are completely fogged over.  Bill cautiously moves towards the passenger side while I circle opposite.  We can see hurried movement inside.   Of course, we know what this looks like… parked car with steamy windows in a vacant lot after midnight… but we’ve been surprised before.

This one turns out to be the usual.  He rolls back the sliding door of the mini-van, shirtless and with only one shoe on.  The movement from the rear bench seat indicates she’s getting dressed as fast as possible.  We give her time while we talk to him.

He’s only 25, but he already has a formless belly protruding over his hastily adjusted jeans.  His arms and chest have the muscle consistency of a featherless chicken, though that comparison may be slightly unfair to chickens.  His voice cracks while speaking with us and his eye contact is almost non-existant.  

When she’s decent, we speak with her.  Make sure everything is consensual.  Run them both through LEADS.  Make sure she’s of age. 

She’s 21, and not a knock-out by any stretch, but cute, and certainly way out of his league. 

And then suddenly, there in the lot of a church ironically named after the Virgin Mary, I’m back to my Letterman post, and wondering, what is it? 

I read and pondered all the well-written comments.  Yes, you could imagine maybe he’s just a sensitive guy.  But people, he took her to a church parking lot.  In a mini-van. 

He has a suspended drivers license.   He’s wearing a Monster energy drink baseball cap, for goodness sake, and he has black, shiny earrings the size of silver dollars in his lower ear lobes.   

Help me understand this, because I’ve got a daughter.  And while she’s only four now, I’ve got to get this thing figured out or she’s being shipped to Chukotsky until she’s 35.