by Frank Zafiro
Except that there was a cop involved.
Christ, what a circus.
Some time later, Rebecca and the kids were escorted out and into a police car. Rebecca cast a worried look at me through the window of the patrol car as it drove away.
The other witnesses filtered out and found their way to their own cars and drove themselves away. None of them looked at me.
I saw a media van pull up a short time later. Gratefully, it passed right by and parked on the other side of the building. I hoped they got what they wanted over there and left me alone. I knew that if any of those vultures spotted someone in handcuffs, I’d be the lead story on the next edition of the evening news.
Finally, the Shift Commander, Lieutenant Hudson, pulled up. He studiously ignored me and went inside the restaurant. I knew he was getting an earful from Hunter. I glanced over at Pete and could tell he was thinking the same thing. I was screwed.
Ten minutes later, Lieutenant Hudson came outside and walked directly toward us.
“Here it comes,” I whispered to Pete. He didn’t reply.
Hudson motioned to Pete. “Uncuff him.”
I offered Pete my wrists and he unlocked the cuffs. I rubbed my wrists and looked at the Lieutenant and waited.
“Sergeant O’Sullivan,” he said with an air of formality, “Go home. You’re on administrative leave pending the outcome of this investigation.”
“Lieutenant…”
He held up his hand. “I don’t want to hear a word. Go home. Call your Union Representative or your attorney. Do not contact anyone associated with this investigation. Do not engage in any law enforcement activity. Remain available to the Internal Affairs investigators. Do you understand?”
Holy shit.
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded briskly, turned and walked back into the restaurant.
I took a deep breath and let it out.
“You gonna be okay, Connor?” Pete asked.
I gave him a slow shrug. “I don’t know. This is…I don’t know.”
“You better just head home.”
I nodded, then realized something.
“Pete?”
“Yeah?”
“My bike is still inside. I need a ride home.”
Internal Affairs. Not exactly happy land for a cop. I sat in the small waiting area. There was nothing to read and nothing to do except rub my tired eyes, which were still red from three too many Kokanees the night before. I’d slept maybe six hours over the past two days, sitting at home waiting for IA to call. I’d spoken to my Union rep, but not a lawyer. I couldn’t figure why I needed one. Other than the Lieutenant telling me so, that is.
My Union rep was Detective Butch Pond. He told me not to worry. He told me things would work out. He couldn’t tell me exactly how, but he was sure they’d work out just fine. He said he had to be in court this morning, but he’d try to make it over.
Imagine how great I felt. My Union rep was a guy named Butch and he was going to try to make it to my IA interview. Marvelous.
Lieutenant Hart kept me waiting long enough to make him seem sufficiently important, then came out into the waiting area. He didn’t say a word, just motioned me to follow him. We settled into the small interview room. A mini-tape recorder sat on the table next to a clean notepad and a two-inch file.
Hart sat down and made a show of sliding the tape recorder to the side. I took his meaning. We were going to be out of school for a bit. Fine.
I sat down, folded my hands and waited. It was his play.
“Sergeant, where is your Union rep?”
“Couldn’t tell you.”
“Are you waiving representation?”
“For now, I don’t suppose I have a choice.”
“Of course you do. We can wait. Or reschedule.”
Hell with that. I’d already spent two days waiting for this. Two days cut off from the world I’d known for the last fourteen years.
“Now is fine,” I told him.
Hart twisted his pen, exposing the tip. He stared at it, then twisted it back again. I watched it disappear inside the pen.
“Just between us, O’Sullivan, you’re in a lot of trouble.”
“Thanks for the news flash.”
“Sarcasm isn’t going to help your cause.”
“I’m guessing it can’t probably hurt it much, either.”
Hart shook his head. “You were always such a smart ass.”
I took a breath and leaned forward. “Lieutenant, let me ask you something. How do you expect me to feel when I’m getting treated like this?”
“If I were you, I’d be happy I still had a job.”
I was, but I wasn’t going to tell this officious prick that I was.
About fourteen smart-ass replies went through my head. I held my tongue.
Hart took my silence as submission. Figures. He had been about as good at reading people on the street. Perfectly worthless. Couldn’t tell a citizen from a maggot half the time. And now he was investigating cops.
“Are you aware of the charges against you, Sergeant?”
I shook my head. “Not exactly.”
“I thought you had Union representation.”
“So did I.”
Hart smirked and opened the file in front of him. “Well, there are a few. On the administrative side of the house, you are being charged with excessive force, failure to cooperate with an investigation at the scene, conduct unbecoming a police officer and improper demeanor.”
“Demeanor? You have got to be kidding me!”
“No one is kidding, Sergeant.”
“How about Hunter’s demeanor then?”
Hart cocked his head at me. “What about it?”
I met his eyes, considering. That son of a bitch Hunter assaulted me and left me in cuffs like some kind of maggot criminal for almost an hour. But who really saw that?
Me.
Hunter.
And Pete.
I shook my head slowly. Anything I tried to make out of Hunter’s actions would quickly involve Pete. He’d have to be interviewed and anything he said about Hunter would come back on him. I didn’t want to jam him up. Add to that the fact that any stones I cast now would just make it look like I was trying to divert attention from myself.
Goddamn Hunter. He gets a walk.
“Sergeant? What about Hunter?” Hart asked me.
“Forget it. He’s just an asshole, that’s all. Not exactly a revelation.”
Hart shrugged, then glanced down at the file and read for a moment. “Fine. Now, on the criminal side of the house —“
“Criminal!?”
Hart paused and I could see that it was another delicious moment for him. “Yes, Sergeant. Criminal charges were considered by the Prosecutor.”
“For what?”
“Assault.”
I rolled my eyes in disbelief. “Assault?! He pulled a gun on me!”
“So you say.”
I caught his eye and held it with a hard stare. “That is what happened,” I gritted at him through clenched teeth.
“That is part of the problem, Sergeant. Figuring out exactly what happened.” He tapped the file with his pen and stared at me.
I willed my jaw to unclench.
Finally, he said, “Anyway, the Prosecutor has elected not to file charges against you on this matter.”
“How gracious. What about the other guy?”
Hart shook his head. “No charges will be filed against Mr. Gutierrez, either.”
“Mister Gutierrez? The guy is a convicted felon. He had a gun in his possession. Forget what he tried to do with it. Just having it is five years, Federal time.”
“If anyone is looking at Federal time, it would be you for Civil Rights violations,” Hart said quietly.
That stopped me in my tracks. How on earth did I go from defending myself to talking about Federal time?
I shook my head slowly. “This is ridiculous.”
“What is?”
> “All of this. This guy attacked me. He tried to shoot me. Has everyone forgotten that?”
Hart sniffed in disgust. “Typical.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, typical. Did you forget attacking Mr. Gutierrez? Do you even know the extent of his injuries? Have you forgotten jamming that pistol into his head? Or smashing his face into the floor? Or the things you said to him?”
“Said?”
“Racial references. Homophobic statements. Degrading his family.”
“So he attacks me with a fucking gun and you’re beefing me over using harsh language?” I couldn’t believe this.
“Harsh language would be bad enough. Racial epithets and anti-homosexual remarks are worse. Threats to kill are worse yet.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but you are spinning one hell of a fairy tale.”
“Fairy tale? Is that another homophobic reference?”
I stared at him in disbelief.
“Are you getting a picture of where you’re at right now, Sergeant O’Sullivan?” Hart’s voice was as hard as he could make it.
“I’m in fucking Wonderland,” I said, shaking my head.
“I think we should go on tape now,” Hart said.
Hart popped open the tape recorder and checked the mini-cassette. He snapped the tape recorder shut and plugged in the microphone. His movements were fluid, practiced. His face bore the smallest of smirks.
Clever bastard, I thought, as I watched him slide the microphone toward me. Get me all worked up, then go on tape and jump in for the kill.
“I don’t think so,” I told him. “I think I’d like my Union rep and a lawyer here.”
Hart froze. “Why?”
“Why? Because I need them. That’s pretty clear from what you’ve told me.”
“Well…I mean, if I said anything…” Hart stammered. His face reddened.
“You made your point,” I said.
“I didn’t want to…I mean…”
Yeah, you fuck, I thought. Your little plan backfired.
Hart regained his composure quickly. “I suppose that is your right. If you want to exercise it.”
“I do.”
“Fine. We’ll reschedule.”
It was quiet for a moment. Hart put his pen in his suit jacket and closed the file in front of him. I stared at the pale yellow folder and wondered exactly what was inside.
Hart read my thoughts. “There’s more than enough, Sergeant.”
I shook my slowly. “I was defending myself.”
“Not according to Mr. Gutierrez,” Hart told me. “Not according to Archie and Ruth Bales, who were sitting three tables away. Not according to Carrie Temple. Not according to Josh Prinz or Jessica Stern, who each took the time to shoot a picture of the whole thing with their brand new cell phones.”
“Pictures?”
Hart tried to suppress a smug grin as he opened the file and removed a computer-generated photo. He slid it across the small table. I recognized myself in the picture immediately, sitting astride Gutierrez with his gun jammed behind his ear. My face was twisted with fury. My eyes were wild.
“The other one is worse,” Hart told me.
I sat back in my chair and looked at him. No words came out. How could it be any worse?
Hart replaced the photo in the file. “This is going to hit the media. No way we can contain it.”
Bullshit. They weren’t even going to try.
“Let me see the other photo,” I said.
Hart shook his head. “You can see that when you come back later with your lawyer.”
Son of a bitch.
Hart leaned forward and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Can you see the headlines now, Sergeant? Huh? ‘Racist Cop attacks Minority.’ The Hispanic community is already up in arms. The rest of the city will follow suit as soon as they see this picture.”
He was right. Son of a bitch was dead on right.
Hart shook his head and tut-tutted his tongue. “Do you really think the department is going to take this hit?”
“I was defending myself and civilians,” I half-whispered.
“Civilians?” Hart’s eyebrow went up. “Civilians? It looks more like you were overreacting for Officer Battaglia’s widow.”
Rebecca. “Did you even talk to her?” I asked.
“Of course. But she’s a cop’s wife. She’s not unbiased.”
“So? She saw what happened.”
Hart shrugged. “If you ask me, Sergeant, you ought not be sniffing around another man’s widow, especially since you purported to be his friend.”
My fist was cocked and moving forward before I caught myself. I had started and stopped before Hart even reacted. He staggered backward out of his chair and fell to the ground. I lowered my fist as he stood up.
Hart pointed his finger at him, his face red and veins popping out of his neck. “That is exactly why you are in this mess, O’Sullivan!”
I just sat there, looking at his quivering index finger and wondering what fucked up surprise was next.
“Leave, Sergeant. Get out of here.”
I rose and walked toward the door. There was nothing else to say.
“I told them everything.” Rebecca’s voice was saturated with disbelief. “How can they listen to that…that criminal?”
I gave a rueful smile, though she couldn’t hear it through the telephone receiver. “Because they want to. Because the other civilians there have no idea what really went down.”
“But I saw everything,” she said.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It should.”
“It doesn’t.”
We both fell silent. I watched my last remaining goldfish labor around the tank. He was tilted slightly side-ways as he swam and I had the distinct feeling he was a goner.
“Aaron Norris’s wife told me they were re-opening the investigation from when you arrested that guy before. Is that true?”
“I don’t know.”
“But that was over a year ago, she said.”
“Three.”
“Can they do that?
I sighed. “Rebecca, it looks to me like they can do whatever they want.”
Another silence. I closed my eyes and rubbed them.
This was a nightmare. All because the department seemed to be more concerned with public perception rather than reality.
“Connor?”
“Hmmm?”
“What are you going to do?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t know.
When we said goodnight, I almost said something else, but it stuck in my throat. Afterward, I listened to the dial tone for a long minute and mouthed the words as I watched my sideways goldfish struggle on, only to swim in circles.
In the police world, if you’re doing good, the Chief comes to see you. Either he comes to roll call or finds you in the field. If you mess up, though, you go see the Chief.
The Chief’s office was strangely plain. Instead of the usual hail-to-me wall full of certificates and plaques, only a picture of his family and his certificate from the FBI Command Academy hung behind his desk, just beneath the department crest.
I sat there as the Chief made a show of reading the file in front of him. He would’ve read it already, but this was the way the show went. The department’s legal advisor sat off to one side, boredom etched in his face. Butch sat next to me, tapping his foot as rapidly as a paint shaker.
After a few minutes of silence, the Chief looked up at me. I think he was surprised at how calm I was. I imagine most guys are as nervous as hell to be in his office, whether their job was on the line or not.
“Sergeant O’Connor,” said the Chief, “this investigation is complete. Have you had a chance to consult with your Union representative?”
I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Attorney?”
“Waived,” I answered.
The Chief’s gaze moved over to Butch, who nodded an
d shrugged at the same time.
“He didn’t want an attorney?” The Chief asked him.
“No, sir,” I answered for Butch. “I don’t need one.”
Irritation flared in The Chief’s eyes. “Very well. Would you like to make a statement, then?”
I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
There was a pause. The Chief motioned at me with his hand. “Go ahead, then.”
I took a breath. “Sir, I did not initiate this event. I did nothing to encourage it or cause it. When it happened, I handled it without loss of life. I acted in self-defense.”
I stopped there. The Chief sat still, watching me. His face was impassive. After about thirty seconds, he said, “Continue.”
“That’s all I have, sir.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
The Chief steepled his fingers in front of him. “Sergeant, let me get this straight. You used excessive force on this guy’s brother three years ago, and somehow we miss it. According to witnesses, at this restaurant last week, you taunt this guy to the point of attacking you. You hit him with a gun, make racial and anti-gay remarks, and threaten to kill him. Then you disobey the first officers on scene and argue with the first supervisor on scene trying to make heads or tails of the situation. And then, if that weren’t enough, you argue with and insult the IA investigator and all but take a swing at him.” He leaned forward. “After all of that, Sergeant, you have the balls to sit there and give me this song and dance about how it was all self-defense?”
I said nothing. Which was apparently the wrong thing to say.
“Answer me, Sergeant!”
“Sir, yes, sir. That is my position.”
Redness crept up from his collar. “Do you know what the papers are saying about his incident? Do you know what the Hispanic community is saying? You’ve set our relations with them back a decade with this stunt.”
“Stunt?”
“Do you know how long and hard I’ve worked to build bridges with these people?”
“Sir, this guy was not a member of any community other than the criminal community. I didn’t figure we cared much what they thought.”
The redness flooded his cheeks.
“Do you have anything else to say, Sergeant O’Sullivan?” he gritted.
I resisted the urge to tell him to shove it up his ass and shook my head instead.