by Lou Reiter
“Mr. Spencer, have you thought about Jesus?”
Seth looked up sharply and then simply shook his head. He didn’t want to tell this kind man what he thought about God lately. A truly good, loving God wouldn’t have done this to his family. To his boy. He thanked the 48-year-old guy going on 60, and was still shaking his head as he went through the Center’s wide double doors.
Camillus House was close to the heart of downtown Miami. It was just east of Calle Ocho, the Cuban area of Miami, and just south of Flagler Street. Camillus House, too, was a Christian-focused facility for homeless, alcoholic, emotionally sick, and addicted persons. It fed probably a 1,000 people each day, but shelter beds were limited.
Seth found his way to Brother Lucius. The good Brother seemed surprisingly young for this type ministry. Maybe it took a younger person with plenty of energy, Seth thought. Brother Lucius was athletic and Seth thought he was someone Dennis might have liked. Seth pulled out his photo of Dennis.
“Nice looking young man,” Brother Lucius remarked.
“That was before he was diagnosed, and long before he started to go downhill. Before we lost him.”
Brother Lucius busily worked the keys on his computer.
“Yes, your son has been here, but not recently. He was a regular at the soup kitchen about four months ago. I see he used the shelter on several nights. A lot of street people don’t like the shelter. If they’re carrying a lot of personal stuff we can’t secure their stash and that makes them uncomfortable. You know, like the street people you see pushing a shopping cart full of who knows what. To them the cart is full of treasure; to us, it’s junk and often plain old trash. But that cart is the sum total of their lives. Our night counselors make note of unruly people. Dennis doesn’t have any notes by his name. He must have been okay.”
“Do you have any record of his address?”
“Actually I do.”
Seth suddenly sat upright with a burst of energy. He placed his hands on the desk and looked hopefully at Brother Lucius.
“Oh, I’m sorry, it says 715 NE First Ave. That’s here. That’s the address of the Camillus House. A lot of the street people use it rather than list the underpass under 836.”
“What do I do now?” Seth asked dejectedly, knowing there was no good answer.
Seth and Brother Lucius spent the next hour talking about the plight of young people, about the pitiful paths many seemed to be taking these days. About not losing hope. About trying to push bad thoughts aside and replace them with wonderful memories shared from the past.
Although it was good to talk with Brother Lucius, Seth was worn out physically, emotionally, and mentally.
*****
“Seth, so now what’s next for you?” Dr. Stein asked. Seth had been seeing the psychologist for six months following his visit to Miami. Getting professional help was one of the suggestions Brother Lucius had given him.
“I don’t know. I can’t just say goodbye to my son. I can’t just throw him away, especially since he’s sick. Have we become so callous that we can consider our children a form of social waste? Has our disposable society gotten that bad?”
“Seth, who else has been affected by Dennis’ leaving your home?”
“What do you mean, who else? Well, Mary for one, and Junior and Amelia, they’re affected, too! You don’t know what it’s like around our house at holidays. No one feels joyous or wants to celebrate anymore.”
“Why do you think that happened?”
“That’s a stupid, stupid question! Because Dennis isn’t there anymore. Because it hurts not having him with us. Because I blame myself! I should have done something to stop this long ago. I could have done something. I didn’t do all I could!”
Seth began sobbing as though his heart would shatter.
“Seth, you don’t really believe that.”
“Well I have to! It’s not Mary’s fault. It’s not Amelia or Junior’s fault either. So I’m the only one left. It’s my fault!”
“Seth, what caused Dennis to leave?”
“That schizo shit! He changed after it started to eat at his brain, or whatever it does. Why him? What did I do?”
“Seth, you’re allowing a mental illness to destroy your family. You have the ability to make their life bearable, and even enjoyable, without Dennis present. Your family will never be as it once was, but you can still have a family and you are the key to making that happen. You can’t let Dennis’ sickness destroy four other good people.”
Seth knew Dr. Stein was right. He knew he was looking for an answer that didn’t exist. He knew that unless he changed, his entire family would be destroyed. He had tried as hard as he could. It was now up to Dennis. He and the rest of the family would be there if Dennis decided to come home or ask for their help.
*****
Strange paths led Don Edwards and Ricardo Sanchez to find each other. Don Edwards came from Shiloh, West Virginia. His birthplace had been an old company-mining town and wasn’t close to anything. Single and doublewide mobile homes were sandwiched between the steep sides of the mountain gouge that cloistered the dying town of Shiloh.
Don was the eighth child born into the Edwards family. He was raised in a singlewide and now wondered how they all could fit within its tinny sides. He never remembered his mom or dad having anything good to say about the other. By the time he was born they were over fighting with each other. Theirs was a miserable existence. Anyway, his mom couldn’t afford to have his dad locked up. Between no salary and having to pay attorney and court costs, it was easier to just take a whack now and then.
Don got through high school simply because he showed up every day. Passing hours were cleaner, safer, and friendlier at school than they were at home. He tried sports, but he was only five foot five, pushing 150 pounds. Don was a scrapper, but didn’t have the discipline to take on a sport. He vowed he would leave Shiloh as soon as he graduated from high school.
Don’s four sisters still lived in Shiloh. Three were married with at least two kids and the youngest one had a two-year-old and was still living with old Mom and Dad. Two brothers were in jail for growing pot and the other one was living with a woman 20 years older than he was. The afternoon following his high school graduation ceremony, Don Edwards was at the Army Recruiting Station in Beckley and never looked back to Shiloh.
Ricardo Sanchez grew up in Clewiston, Florida. The town was built on the site of an old Seminole Indian village on the shores of Lake Okeechobee. Rumor was some of the biggest large-mouth bass came out of that lake, but of course, folks up Tallahassee way swore the biggest bass jumped out of their Lake Jackson.
Clewiston was best known for its expansive sugarcane fields. That’s why the population was close to half Hispanic. Ricardo, or Ricky as he was known, came from a cane family. He got through high school because of his size. At 14 he was already 280 pounds and nearly six feet tall. Most of his mass was hard muscle. The high school football coach salivated the first day Ricky’s shadow filled the halls of Clewiston High School. Ricky ended his high school football career playing defensive linebacker. He loved to hit and was fast enough to rumble into most plays that came to his side. He loved to tell stories about the countless players he laid out on a stretcher. Between Ricky’s poor academic and disciplinary records, he didn’t get inquiries from colleges. Even the local community college looked the other way; he wasn’t a prize catch. Ricky’s dad convinced him to enlist in the Army.
Ft. Benning was and is located just outside Columbus, Georgia. It’s one of five Army basic training posts and some say it’s the toughest. The base is best, or worst, known for its drill sergeants. They were known to be mean bastards to anyone who attempted the program. Ft. Benning is also the home of Airborne and Ranger training.
There isn’t any good time to be stationed at Benning. In the summer it’s hot, humid, and wet. Georgia red clay coats a body from head to toe, and even finds a way to get into the crack of one’s ass. December to March temps can reach f
reezing, a brittle cold that prohibits escape. Field exercises are gruesome at this time of year as young soldiers try to sleep in wet, frozen, mud covered foxholes. Toes get lost somewhere in those thick soaked boots. The military has a knack for finding the armpits of America for basic training locations.
Ft. Benning is the place where Don Edwards and Ricardo Sanchez found each other. Neither Don nor Ricky could recall at what point they melded, but from their first meeting, they were inseparable. Mutt and Jeff quickly became their moniker nicknames. Together they pushed their way through Airborne training at Benning and quickly entered the Ranger training program. Ranger training consisted of twenty days of stress and physical training at Benning, then twenty long days of mountain training in Dahlonega, Georgia, capped with water and jungle training in Florida. After graduation, the duo asked to be assigned to the same unit and soon found themselves in Iraq for the first of two tours, followed by one in Afghanistan. They loved the stress of war. They loved the action, even though sporadic. They caressed their weapons affectionately like they would a soft, sexy woman. Before they realized it, their four-year Army overseas commitment was up.
“What you think, Don?” Ricky asked over beers back in Columbus. They were now assigned to the 75th Ranger Regiment, and proud of it.
“About what?”
“Reupping! Army’s offering some good money.”
“Ya know, I’ve been thinking about that over the past couple days. I love this life, Ricky. But I’m getting tired of the shit holes we get sent to. Don’t see much change either. Shit, we’re either gonna have sand in our ass in Iraq or jungle bugs climbing our dicks in Africa. But, I’ve been thinking about our futures. I mean there’s other life with action, but in nicer places.”
“Like what or where? What the shit do we know other than guns, ducking bullets, and riding out IEDs,” Ricky snorted.
“Ricky, I was surfing last night and ran across a site about becoming a cop. I think I might like that. Still have a gun. Still have the action, but we could pick some cool place to work. Someplace with chicks without black blankets over their heads. Some places pay pretty good—$40-50K. OT out the ass, too. And I remember state troopers in West Virginia made a shitpot of money sitting in their cruisers watching them convicts fix potholes.”
Don convinced Ricky they should leave the Army for promised good times as cops. Ricky followed along like a sheep led to slaughter, even though his mammoth size decreed he should be the leader of this two-man pack. But, Don always seemed to be the alpha dog, even at half Ricky’s size.
Days were spent surfing the Web for police training academies. In a rare moment when Ricky took the lead, they decided to look at training in Florida. For one thing, many police academies in Florida allowed open enrollment.
During the 1970s and 1980s most police basic training, the schooling of new cops, was either done by individual police departments or with on-the-job training and hands-on experience. But by the late1980s, most states had created state controlling bodies, commonly called POST, or Peace Officer Standards and Training. These offices mandated the minimum standards necessary to become a police officer and outlined training requirements. The minimum amount of training mandated grew from 200 hours to as much as 800 hours. As momentum grew, it was decreed that each newly trained cop must become certified by an individual state before he could work for a local police agency. This system worked well until the economy tanked. Local police agencies then had to consider whether to hire and pay a new cop during the training period. They knew that ten percent of recruits attending full-blown academies ended up with an injury that could either sideline them for months or become a permanent disability.
As a solution to the money problem, police academies run by local community colleges or voc tech schools began to offer basic police training to anyone who wanted to pay for it. Open enrollment candidates could complete police training, pass a standardized test, get a state certificate, and be free to shop around for a local police agency to hire them.
Don and Ricky found their perfect police training academy at the South Florida State College in Avon Park. It was less than an hour’s drive from Clewiston. They could live with Ricky’s parents during the five months of training. The academy turned out to be a breeze for them. They were in top physical shape, which elevated them to King Kong status among the other recruits, most of whom were couch potatoes looking for something other than a job stacking shelves at Wal-Mart or laboring in the cane fields.
Don and Ricky could handle the little shits playing the role of academy physical fitness instructors. Those dorks tried to imitate army drill sergeants, but couldn’t wipe the ass of the bastards Don and Ricky had confronted at Benning. Before long both had their State Police Certification in hand. Ink still fresh, they began their search for jobs. Jobs with action, variety, and plenty of cool chicks in tiny Umbro soccer shorts.
Playa Diablo was a fairly new community located on the western fringe of Dade County. Most of the town was reclaimed from the swamps leading into the Everglades. For years the town had been patrolled by the Miami-Dade Police Department, the countywide police agency, but local politicians wanted more direct control over policing so they created their own Playa Diablo police department. Within ten years the community police department had grown to over 100 officers. Most of the original crew had retired from other Florida agencies, along with a few retirees from New Jersey and New York, and a slug of retired military grunts. The department had recently brought on ten new officers, all graduates of open enrollment academies. Don and Ricky were snapped up and found themselves in fresh new uniforms within six weeks. For the first ten weeks they were assigned to the Field Training Officer program to ride with a seasoned officer who was supposed to be breaking them in.
“Doc, you ever get tired just riding around all night?” Don asked his partner. Doc retired from Miami Police after 25 years on the job. Don wasn’t sure why his partner was called Doc, but assumed it was because he was always taking his medicine. High blood pressure pills. Diabetic shit. Had his inhaler working overtime on this graveyard shift.
“I get paid to drive up and down these streets. People want to see us to feel safe. The chief says, be visible. Don’t stir up any shit. Shit gives the chief a headache.”
Unit 10, Unit 10, fight with beer bottles at the Surf Inn.
Doc made an easy U-turn and continued driving a slow 25 miles per hour toward the Surf Inn.
“Hey, Doc, aren’t we going to a Code 3? That’s a hot call! We need to get there fast. Hit the lights and siren, Doc!”
“Kid, with this kind of call, you amble down to the scene. Let the drunks kill each other. When we get a couple blocks away, we’ll hit the lights and siren. By the time we get there we’ll just have to deal with the guys who lost the fight. Shit, why should we jump into the middle of it? It was probably over some old divorced bottle-bleached bitch anyway. You want to make your pension, don’t you?”
Ten dull weeks of answering calls, taking reports, driving up and down streets, drinking coffee, and eating too much. Both Don and Ricky were excited when FTO was over. It was their time now. Playa Diablo, watch out, the boys are finally on the prowl!
*****
“Sarge, got this guy here for evading and resisting,” Don explained. “The guy started to run when Ricky attempted to stop him for a burned out bulb over his car’s license plate. Turns out he owned a couple traffic warrants when we ran his plate. It wasn’t much of a pursuit and lasted only a couple blocks.”
“How come every arrestee you guys bring in has resisted? Can’t you guys ever just talk them into the cuffs? Which one are you, Mutt or Jeff?” Sergeant Evans asked.
Ricky looked perturbed and barked, “I’m Batman and he’s Robin!”
Ricky and Don liked to get physical with their arrests. They knew how to tweak a prisoner without leaving marks. They knew everybody has a unique personal space that causes them to become uncomfortable when invaded. For most people it’s no
more than an arm’s length. For others it’s maybe closer. But everybody has a spatial point that’s too close for comfort. Ricky and Don knew how to invade that comfort space. They knew how to muscle in until a suspect would put up a hand and push back. That action elevated the arrest to battery—the battery of a police officer. A serious crime. When that happened, Don and Ricky could use “objectively reasonable force to overcome that resistance and effect the arrest.” At least that’s what the Supreme Court ordered in Graham v. Connor back in 1989.
Don and Ricky had studied well. They knew how to write a police report to cover their asses and make sure the DA would file on the arrestee. They also played it so they were the only witnesses to an arrest. So, who was going to be believed? The dirt bag or the professional cop who was trying to serve and protect?
Don and Ricky knew they were losing the physical edge they had honed in the 75th Ranger Regiment. They continued to run several miles each day and had a small weight lifting set-up in the garage of the house they were renting on the outskirts of Playa Diablo. They couldn’t afford to live in Playa Diablo proper. The department offered a shabby work-out room, but it was more for the old guys who just wanted to look like they were working out. Don and Ricky ended up at Vinny’s Gym where there were only two kinds of customers—serious power lifters or guys with prison tats. Many cons get tattoos inked by other prisoners while serving time. Most are crude, but others are elaborate works of art. All are faded blue in color. Genuine tattoo ink is just too expensive for prison trade. The tats at Vinny’s initially traded insults with Don and Ricky until they figured these cops were okay.
“You pussies old enough to be out on your own?” A bearded tat joshed Ricky as he was pushing a weight bar carrying close to 400 pounds.
“At least we can take a solid dump rather than have shit run out our asses Hershey syrup style like you prison ass fuckers!” Ricky shot back.