10-99: Line of Duty Series

by Xyla Turner

  His voice sounded so familiar, I turned and saw Vic, Ryan’s friend, standing and wiping the tears from his eyes.

  “Vic?” I whispered.

  “Kat?”

  “Yeah, I was just leaving. I’m sorry.” I didn’t want to see him like that.

  “No,” he called. “No, I’m late for my shift. I’ll be out of your way.”

  When he got closer, I saw the word Ritter on his name tag. Shit, he was the cop the boy trusted.

  “You’re Ritter.” I stated. “His friend said that he trusted you.”

  He stopped when he reached me and a tear dropped from his eye. Then he nodded his head and said, “Yeah, I’m Ritter. How long?”

  “For?” I asked.

  “Until they pull the plug?” He asked. “He’s only breathing because the machine is assisting him.”

  “Oh,” my eyes filled again. “Uh, I’m not sure what the family will say or what the hospital is saying right now. I just came to check on him because he came in on my watch last night.”

  Vic nodded his head and then he said, “I see.”

  “Yeah, I can, uh, find out for you though.” I moved towards the door but he grabbed my arm.

  “No, it's fine. I’ll talk with DaShawn’s mother.” He opened the door. “Thanks.”

  Then he was gone.

  The tears started to roll down my eyes as I walked up to the boy. I picked up his chart to see that he was only seventeen years of age and was officially brain dead from a gunshot wound to the heart at close range.

  The tears fell faster this time and when I looked down, I saw the imprint of Vic’s fingers around DaShawn’s hand.

  He had to be in pain.

  Chapter Three

  Lies

  VIC

  My shift flew by in a blur and I should have fucking called out. I did not belong on the street trying to protect any goddamn body because I was filled with rage.

  Getting that call in the middle of the night that DaShawn had been shot was too much to bear. I barely made it to Mt. Sinai because every conversation we’d ever had, including our last one, flooded my mind.

  We had a plan and he was sticking to it until someone took that away from him. He wasn't selling or baking anymore. I knew it for a fact. He was going to school, working at the sneaker store and fucking studying for once in his high school career. DaShawn was following the plan.

  My heart ached and the pain hadn't subsided.

  “Man, you shouldn't be here.” My partner, Stanza, said right before we went to a domestic abuse call.

  “Fuck, it doesn’t matter now.” I got out of the car and proceeded to walk to the door.

  “Ritter,” Stanza yelled and I heard his footsteps behind me.

  I turned around to see him running towards me.

  “A car is coming to get you. I'm running point.” He stared back at me, waiting for the confrontation that he knew would happen, but he got nothing.

  I had nothing to give so I followed him as he walked towards the house. Seconds later, another called pulled up and I was replaced with Heinz.

  “Ritter, you're with me.” Calhoun said.

  Grunting, I grabbed my shit and got in the car.

  “Man, look. During times like these, we need to band together as brothers. We’re all we have out there and you know shit gets crazy real fast. Things happen and we’re the fucking trash men, put out here to clean up filth. Shit happens.”

  I wasn't quite sure what the fuck Calhoun was talking about so I didn't make any comments. When we got back to the station, my lieutenant told me to take a few days off and get my shit together, so I headed back down to the hospital.

  “Vic, I'm so glad you're here,” Ms. Watson said. “Um, we were about to call you for when…uh, you know, the plug.”

  Tears streamed down her eyes as I pulled her small body into mine.

  DaShawn was her only child but she was raising her sister’s kids as well. His father had been out of the picture since birth and her sister had died a few years ago to cancer. The woman was strong, but she was also overworked and underpaid.

  She and I often talked about DaShawn and his predispositions towards the streets. She was at a loss because no amount of talking helped and the fact that he was so much older now, played a huge part. She'd been grateful for his new progress, but I always tried to tell her that it was his own choice. DaShawn’s achievements were his own and he should be congratulated for that.

  “How you doing, Lois?” I asked as she clung to me.

  She pulled her head out of my chest and said, “I just can't believe this happened to him now. You know? I know it's weird but…” Her voice broke. "When he was living that life, I expected that call, but not after he stopped. He really did stop. No matter what the police say. He was not living that life."

  "I know, I know." I nodded my head. "What do you mean, no matter what the police said?"

  She moved away from me, so she could see my eyes and said, "He was shot by a policeman. He said, he thought Dae had a gun, but he ain't have a gun. There wasn't one found. Trixie, my neighbor, is calling a lawyer now because he ain't have no gun."

  "Wait, what?" I asked, as my mind started to race. "What do you mean that he was shot by a cop? They said he had a gun?"

  That couldn't be. I thought it was a robbery or a peer. When they said he was shot, I just came running down because I thought it was some turf or gang shit. Nothing was said about the cops.

  Nothing.

  We all sat around the hospital room waiting to say goodbye to DaShawn. He looked at peace but there was nothing in the atmosphere that resembled an ounce of peace. Grief could sum it up for some, but it was a clear case of anger for me. Heartbroken and raw rage!

  When the nurse turned off the ventilator, bursts of tears and emotions began to run freely throughout the room. I had shed enough tears for an entire year and I couldn't bring myself to cry again. This wasn't good and I probably needed to talk to someone, but I wasn't.

  I left the family to be alone with DaShawn as they hugged each other and cried. My legs took me to the cafeteria where I grabbed the biggest coffee cup they had and poured away.

  “Vic,” someone called my name but they sounded distant. “Vic!”

  I blinked and turned toward the voice and saw it was Kat.

  “Hey,” she called, moved towards me and grabbed my hand.

  Fuck.

  I had kept pouring the coffee so it spilled all over the counter and on the floor, soaking my feet.

  “Shit, I'm sorry.” I was slow to reacting.

  Kat had already grabbed tissues and was cleaning the counter. Then she threw a bunch on the floor and began to use her foot to mop up the rest.

  “Have you slept at all?” She asked me.

  Slowly, I turned towards her and shook my head.

  “Come on,” she sighed and grabbed my coffee with one hand and grabbed my wrist with the other.

  Like a zombie or a man in distress, I followed her to the second floor and in a room labeled the nurses lounge.

  “I'm fine, Kat,” I'm almost certain that I slurred that statement.

  “No, you're like a zombie and you don't need coffee. You need rest.”

  She patted the bottom bunk of a bed and said, “Take a load off, okay?”

  “I should get back to DaShawn’s mother.” I went to grab the coffee but she moved it out of his reach.

  “Vic, humor me. Lie down for a few minutes. I'll check on his mom and then come back and get you. Okay?”

  It wasn't clear why she was being nice, but I also didn't have the energy to really decipher her motives.

  My head moved up and down as I lie on the bed. I'm not sure when or how I closed my eyes, but I was gone.

  “Vic.” I heard that voice again.

  It was a woman's voice but she was sad.

  “Vic,” she called again.

  I jolted up when I realized it wasn't a dream and as my eyes searched around the room quickly because I d
idn’t recognize where I was.

  “Fuck, where am I?” I barked in a whispered.

  “You're in the nurse’s lounge,” the voice said as I looked and let my eyes adjust to the woman standing at the foot of the bunk bed.

  “Kat?”

  “Yeah, it's me.” She leaned back and smiled.

  When recognition hit, so did everything else.

  “Here, I got you some coffee.” She stepped back, extended her arm and gave me a large cup with steam swirling above it.

  “Ah, thanks.” I swiveled my legs around to land on the floor, took the cup and asked, “What time is it?”

  “It's seven o’clock.”

  “Shit,” I exclaimed. “You said you'd wake me up.”

  “I just did.”

  I quickly stood up on shaky legs and took a sip of the coffee.

  “You needed to get some rest. You looked like something off the Walking Dead. Ms. Watson is at the chapel and she's praying with the priest. She's spent most of the day there. The little ones are with a neighbor and hopefully you're feeling much better.”

  My eyes reached hers as I took another sip and said, “Thanks. I owe you one.”

  “Naw, we’re good.” She laughed.

  I shook my head and mumbled, “Hmm.”

  “Well, my shift is over so I can't keep the ladies from taking advantage of you in your sleep. You're welcome to stay but I can't be held responsible.” She smiled.

  “Thanks, uh, Kat.” I took another sip. “Why are you being so nice?”

  She laughed and nodded.

  “Considering you called me ignorant the last time we spoke?” She raised an eyebrow at me. “There seemed to be a need. That's all.”

  “Well, thanks.” I headed towards the door. “See you around.”

  “Yeah,” she answered as I left to go to the chapel.

  Ms. Watson tried to find solace in her faith in God. She wanted there to be a reason and a purpose for his death. A cop thought he had a gun and shot him was not reason enough and I tended to agree with her. There had been all types of shit in the news lately about black lives matter and quite frankly, I maintained that blue lives mattered. We risked our lives every fucking day and when something went wrong, it was always a conspiracy.

  I wasn't for the political spin of the bullshit of whose life mattered more but I did know this, DaShawn didn't have a gun. I also knew cops made mistakes. Shit, I was one of them.

  I drove Lois home and promised to check on her tomorrow. In only a few days, the woman had lost a lot of weight and so did I, for that matter.

  I'd lost people in my life, some to violence of their own self-inflicted wounds like drugs, suicide and alcohol. My mom hung herself in the bathroom when I was eight years old, I found her and called the police. After that, my dad drank himself into a stupor until the doctor told him if he didn’t stop, he would die. Then the man was just a miserable son of a bitch until he found God. My uncle was addicted to painkillers after his boating accident, which led to other drugs and eventually homelessness. This was why I’d usually try to find a shelter for the homeless because they could be my uncle. I lost a partner in a routine traffic stop when I was a rookie and he was killed right in front of me. A bullet straight to the head by a guy who was here illegally and thought we had found him smuggling four women in the trunk of his car. There were a few others guys that were lost on the job for doing their simple duties of protecting the streets of New York, and I had probably shed a tear for each one of those people, but never this many.

  The killing of DaShawn broke me but what flashed across my screen on the nightly news, ripped me to shreds.

  “A young black teen was reportedly killed by a police officer that thought he had a gun, but breaking news shows footage that says otherwise. Please note that this content may be disturbing. Small children should not watch this,” the reporter said just like she would say it was going to be sunny but windy in the forecast.

  A blurry video of a kid resembling DaShawn shaking his head at the police officer, who yelled, “What did I say boy? Where’s your stash?”

  The teen shakes his head again and says something inaudible and then the cop drew his weapon on him and said something else that could not be heard and the teen runs away only for the cop to shoot him three times. The video stops with the shots being fired and then it starts up again showing the cop leaning over the boy, searching him and yelling, “Fuck, fuck.”

  What in the actual fuck?

  Chapter Four

  The Truth

  KAT

  “You hear about that shit on the news, Kat?” My brother, Don, called to ask me this at six in the morning.

  “Wh-what?” I groaned with my scratchy voice.

  “There was another fucking shooting over near Hillside. A fucking cop killed another fucking kid,” Don was screaming.

  “Wait, wait!” I sat up. “What happened?”

  He exhaled loudly over the phone and said, “Another cop killed a kid for nothing. Not a goddamn fucking thing. He killed him. We’re over at the Center today at three. Be there because we’re setting it up to shut New York City the fuck down. This shit is out of hand. It’s been out of hand and now they just point-blank killing them. Remember last year, they killed that kid over at The Trap. This is some fucking bullshit. Be at the center at three. This shit needs to stop.”

  Oh God.

  “Okay, okay.” I stood up so I could get the remote and see the news. “I’ll be there.”

  He hung up the phone and the first thing that popped up was the news of a black teenager who was killed by the police a few days ago, but the video was just surfacing. The image of the video came up and the remote fell from my hands as my mouth dropped.

  It was the same kid that was in the hospital.

  Oh my God.

  This was the same kid that Vic had been mourning over. Shit, was he the one that killed him? I looked closer but that wasn’t Vic. He was tall, built like he lifted weights and had a short cut. This guy was short and stocky but looked even shorter compared to DaShawn who was six foot two.

  If Don and the crew were meeting at the center, that meant they were ready to march and shut down the city. That also meant arrests and bail money had to be secured. This was not the day I had planned, but with the police killing people like the Wild Wild West, something had to be done.

  Around three o’clock, I walked into the packed center as the noise and the angst of energy met me at the doors. People were upset, they were angry and they were ready. Don was like a lieutenant in the underground group called The Methods. They had their own code and everyone wasn’t privy to that knowledge, but Corey ran the show. He was tall, confidant and a phenomenal public speaker. He could move any crowd and with the three hundred or so people here and the rest we’d gather along the way, he was ready.

  “Y’all ready?” Corey yelled. “I hope you’re ready.” He shook his head, “You’re not ready! We must be ready. Now, are y’all ready?”

  We screamed, “We’re ready!!!”

  “We’ll see.” He nodded as he rubbed his salt and pepper goatee that made him irresistible. “Tonight, we’re taking on the Brooklyn Bridge. Yes, I know we should tackle Manhattan, but they are waiting for us. Those of you on Skype or live video, we will meet on the side of the Brooklyn Bridge closest to Juniors. Y’all say, y’all ready? We’ll see. Our young brother DaShawn was killed because the officer thought he had drugs. He didn’t have drugs. He didn’t have a gun. Now, what do we want? Justice for DaShawn? Justice for Tamir Rice, Eric Harris, Walter Scott, Jonathan Ferrell, Sandra Bland? Huh? Do you want justice? Does Alton Sterling and Philando Castile get justice?”

  The crowd was yelling the word yes, after each name.

  “Then let’s show them, no justice, no peace.” He yelled and hopped off of the stage and out the back door, where we all followed.

  We quickly crowded the streets of Brooklyn as we chanted, “No Justice, No Peace. No Justice, No Peace.”
<
br />   Some folks chimed in and others frowned or yelled back at us. Who gave a fuck? The haters weren’t having their kids being executed in the streets. They just weren’t and there was no amount of empathy that would bring those innocent lives back. There was no solace for the ones they left behind.

  Even Vic.

  Around eight o’clock, we had the police on every side; there were at least six hundred people trying to get us off of that bridge. Traffic was blocked for miles. I was certain but we stood tall about the fact that there’d be no peace until justice was had. The commuters were not happy but neither were the victims of these tragedies. People often argued with us about the point of marching and disrupting the flow of the city and what that would prove. Some even suggest it’s an antiquated way to solve problems because we no longer lived in the sixties era. On some level, I got that, but our marches not only gathered hundreds to thousands of people and put them on one accord to stand up for injustice. Our marches gained media attention and the issues will most likely be included in the national political discourse. Those will then spread to the online organizing of voters around single issues to hopefully reorganize Congress and the parties. We had to do something. Simply shaking our heads as we looked at the screens of this violence that filtered into our cities and communities would not be tolerated. We did need to work on our strategies after our march but a message also needed to be sent.

  My shift didn’t start until ten o’clock, so I stayed for all that I could, then left for work. When I walked in, Wendy went to open her mouth, but I held up my hand and said, “I already know.”

  “You know what?” She asked.

  “It’s not going to be a quiet night,” I said and walked to the nurse’s lounge.

  No one at my job knew me on an intimate level. We were cordial and professional for the most part, but I kept my business to myself. They wouldn’t know I participated in a protest; who I slept with or anything like that. I did my job, went home to do more of my thing and did it all over again the next day.