by Chris LeGrow
He ran the videos again, set the photos in front of the kid. The bloodied, swollen faces of the small women seemed to mesmerize Jeb. “I didn’t do any of that,” Jeb whimpered. Sweat beaded on his temples. One drop slid down the right side of his face. “Dad,” he implored to his father. “I didn’t hurt any of these women.”
Bingo! Sergeant Curtis almost said aloud. Jeb was making sure his dad knew he wouldn’t personally hurt them.
“I didn’t say you caused these injuries,” Curtis emphasized the word you and paused the screen. If his hunch was correct Jeb’s father had probably drilled into his son’s head it was wrong to pick on smaller people, to bully anyone.
Jeb slumped into his chair.
Curtis reached over and hit the play button again. He watched Jeb whose gaze focused on the clear video of his girlfriend’s car. “I’m glad to hear you didn’t actually hurt any of these women, Jeb.” The game was to get the boy thinking he was off the hook and to reassure his father that he’d instilled the proper values in his son. Made everyone more compliant and relaxed.
Curtis decided to shock Jeb. “You drove your buddies there, and they did the dirty work.” Jeb opened his mouth to speak.
Curtis cut him off. “Don’t even lie to me,” he said and pointed his finger directly at the kid’s nose.
“No! I-I didn’t,” came the reply. More sweat glistened on the young face.
“Oh sure, you didn’t want to hurt those women,” he continued, holding his palms above the photos. “That’s something good I can say for you, and I honestly believe if you’d known how badly these women were hurt, you wouldn’t have been part of this.”
Jeb nodded. “That’s right! No way!”
Coach Jenson stood and stepped in front of his son. “Jeb,” he said and paused a moment as though gathering his thoughts. He stared directly into his son’s eyes. “I want you to make me proud tonight. I want your full cooperation here…with these officers. Complete and total. Do you understand?”
“Dad, I didn’t think that—”
The coach didn’t take his gaze off his son, didn’t miss a beat. He tilted his head and softened his face. “Son.”
Jeb’s chin fell to his chest. A lone tear dropped onto his cheek. “’Kay, Dad.”
Within the week most of the “snatchers,” as they’d named themselves, were in custody. The Chief gave a news conference that filled every local channel and a few national ones. Accolades and praise rolled in from everywhere. The community as a whole breathed a sigh of relief.
The Chief was very pleased.
CHIEF RYAN “RUSTY” WILLIAMS HAD TWENTY-SIX YEARS ON the department. Strands of silver mixed with light brown fringe covered the back and sides of his head. He needed bifocal contacts to read anything, but his sturdy frame of five feet ten showed he could still handle himself in a tough situation. He’d worked his way through the ranks and most recently had headed up Internal Affairs for the past decade. IA meant that he’d investigated numerous officers for excessive force issues, citizen complaints, and legal violations. It all served to make him a hard-nosed supervisor who despised trouble-making officers. They made the department and law enforcement in general look bad.
It also made him a major influence over the conduct of the Omaha Police Department. His dedication to his job also made him a lot of enemies. There were more than a few cops he’d disciplined or even fired; they still had buddies on the department and were always looking for ways to undermine him or, better yet, make him look bad to the uniforms on the street or to the public.
After Internal Affairs, as a lieutenant he led an entire crew for the whole precinct. Whenever something happened in his jurisdiction, the officers who had a gripe with him made sure that they spread it around to everyone else that Lt. Williams was to blame. If something particularly embarrassing hit the news, the media would receive numerous anonymous phone calls from officers who wanted Lt. Williams’s name and reputation dragged through the mud. Humiliation was good for the petty soul.
Once Rusty made captain, many of the small-minded officers saw the writing on the wall: Captain Williams was on the short list to make Chief. The knowledge served to spur his enemies on. Try as they did, Williams’s work ethic, integrity, and his astute knowledge that numerous officers hated him made him carefully calculate all command decisions. Everything in both his public and private life was conducted in such a way as to maintain the integrity of his office while actively and vigorously enforcing the law in the metropolitan area.
No wonder he eventually became the Chief of Police. Now at the top of the command ladder, he brought with him the reminder that, throughout every point of the chain of command, officers wanted him to fail, were waiting for him to fail. And there was nothing he could do about it. Only one office under his purview was outside any chain: Public Information. All statements regarding press releases on crimes and public services were orchestrated through the Public Information Office (PIO) and the Chief ’s office.
The Chief placed his trusted friend and lieutenant, Monica Thorp, as the PIO supervisor. A petite brunette with caramel streaks in her bobbed hair, they’d known one another for twenty years, having graduated in the same academy class. They had remained good friends ever since, and she had his back as the new Chief. What he needed now was an officer he could depend on to be the departmental face to the media and the public.
Most officers wanted nothing to do with the media—or the public. The pressures of taking the flak when things went bad—and things would definitely get bad simply due to the nature of police work—made most officers balk at the mere thought of sitting in the PIO hot seat.
The Chief met with Thorp to discuss the opening. “Monica, there is just no way to say this, but I have pissed off almost everybody in this department.”
“A decade in IA will do that,” she said dryly. “You’ve disciplined officers on every shift and in every district in the city. Those who didn’t get disciplined were the buddies of those who did. Lousy job but somebody had to do it.”
The Chief rammed his fingers across his bald head. “I don’t know who I can trust to work in this office.”
“I agree, you’ve got quite the fan base, Rusty.” Her remark drew a mock glare from the Chief. “And we need someone who hasn’t had the pleasure of dealing with you for the past twenty-five years.” Another baleful glance flew her way. “We definitely need someone with enough law enforcement experience so the rank and file will respect him as well as the media. They need to see this person as a reliable source.”
“That’s about it,” Rusty said.
“Sounds like we’ll have to go outside our department!”
The Chief twisted his lips and shook his head. “Very funny, Monica. You know we can’t do that; the officer needs to come from our ranks.”
Monica shrugged.
“That’s the purpose of this meeting, right? You do know that. We need to actually solve this particular problem and soon.”
Monica nodded, her gaze fixed on the floor. Without moving her head, she glanced up at the Chief and smiled.
“You have someone in mind,” the Chief said in an accusatory tone and pointed at her for emphasis. “Don’t you?”
Monica raised her hands in false surrender. “You got me.”
“Great. Who?”
“Jake Mitchell,” she answered, her tone filled with certainty.
“Jake Mitchell?” The Chief sat in his desk chair, his brows knit together in silent question. “Which precinct is he in? I’m not familiar with him.”
“Exactly!” said Monica. “He’s been on the department for two years, and you’ve never heard of him. It’s perfect.”
“Two years?” the Chief asked. “He’s practically a rookie! Nobody’ll take him seriously. The media will laugh him out of a press conference, and the other cops won’t respect him.” He tossed a manila folder containing the current budget figures across his desk. “Get serious!”
“I am serious!” M
onica said. “Dead serious. Mitchell’s only worked for our department for two years, but he was a detective in Salt Lake City over a decade. He applied for the Lateral Academy we offered two years ago; remember, the one for certified officers in other police departments. Pretty sharp guy.”
“Why would anyone leave there for here?” the Chief asked.
“His wife and daughter were killed in a car accident on a mountain pass in a winter storm. Guess he just wanted to get out and start over.”
“Makes sense I suppose. Definitely no mountains in these parts, nothing to remind him of the past. Anything else to it?” the Chief said. “Got to be more to the story than mountains.”
Monica nodded. “I heard he’s got family here. Brother owns a huge corporation. Filthy rich from what I hear.”
The Chief shot Monica a pointed glance. “You’re not putting him in our office so he’ll introduce you to his brother, are you?”
“Well, a girl can hope.” She fluttered her eyelids. “But seriously, he’s perfect.” She held up her index finger. “One, not from our department.” Her middle finger joined the index. “Two, he has loads of street experience.” Her ring finger went up. “Three, he doesn’t hate you…yet.”
The Chief tossed his pen on his desk. “Day isn’t over.”
“Four,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “he’s a lot like you. I was a sergeant in another district, but I knew about him thanks to the sergeants’ grapevine. A lot of street officers didn’t like him. Didn’t go drinking after the shift, didn’t talk the cuss’n cop talk. Didn’t really fit in, but he’s a good cop, does his job, dependable. Tell you the truth, I wouldn’t mind having a whole squad of Mitchells.”
“Really?” The Chief leaned back in his chair to consider that. Coming from Monica, it was high praise. He waved her toward the door. “Bring him in for an interview.”
Monica smiled. “He’s in the lobby.”
Taken aback, the Chief ’s eyes widened at her presumption. “He’s in the—oh, really?”
“Yeah. Really.”
He knew her well enough to realize she’d had this figured out from the very start. Still—he let out a long breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Fine, then. Send him in!”
“Yes sir,” she responded, her grin just this side of impertinent.
“The Public Information Officer,” Mitchell said. “Chief, I thought I’d committed some major screw-up. I’ve been going out of my mind trying to figure out what I’d done to get me called to your office.”
“When I’m finished describing the job, you may wish you were in trouble.”
Lt. Monica Thorp snorted a laugh but quickly covered it with a cough.
The Chief didn’t take his eyes off Mitchell but pointed in Monica’s direction. They knew one another well enough to know he meant zip it!
“I know your story, Jake,” the Chief began. “Sorry to hear about your family. How are you getting along?”
“Oh,” Jake responded, sounding a little surprised. “As well as can be expected, sir. It was really rough in the beginning, but moving here was a good plan.”
“Your performance ratings are excellent,” Lt. Thorp said.
“That may be,” the Chief continued, “but from what I understand, you don’t gel too much with the crews you’re on.”
“True,” Mitchell said. “I don’t drink, smoke, or chase women; that’s not me, not the kind of man I am or want to be. So I really don’t relate to a lot of what the other guys do. Makes them uncomfortable, so some of them don’t like me.” Jake straightened in his chair. “Chief, let’s get this in the open. Do you have a problem with Latter-day Saints?”
The Chief looked confused and glanced at Lt. Thorp. “I thought you were Mormon.”
“One and the same,” Mitchell said.
Another snort from Monica. Again the Chief pointed a silencing finger her way.
“Do you have problems with Mormons, Chief?”
The question took the Chief aback. “Of course not. I respect the Mormons—and I love Glenn Beck.”
Another loud snort, only this one came from Mitchell.
“Okay, Jake,” the Chief said, “here’s the deal. A lot of officers in this department don’t care much for me. Some of them—”
Jake held his hand up and finished the sentence, “Think you’re a back-stabbing second guesser who’d throw his own mother under the bus to get a promotion?”
The Chief leaned forward to stare at Mitchell, settling his elbows on his desk. “Yeah,” he said wryly. “Something like that.”
From the Chief ’s left side came an unmistakable sound.
“Monica,” the Chief yelled, all subtlety gone. “Knock it off!”
“The way I see it, Chief,” Mitchell said, “you’re not sure who you can trust. I know how important this position is and how much you need to trust the person in that position. I also know the unwritten job description is to protect you from being blindsided and looking like an idiot on television.”
The kid was a quick study. The Chief nodded.
“This is the only position where the chain of command has only three links: you, Lt. Thorp, and whoever’s in this job. I’d imagine the officer here shouldn’t have a lot of history in OPD.” Jake raised a brow of inquiry at the Chief.
The Chief nodded his agreement again.
“Someone who doesn’t have buddies to confide sensitive information to.”
“Uh-huh,” the Chief said. “Exactly.”
Jake smiled and looked almost angelic. “But has plenty of law enforcement experience so the media will take them seriously, and let’s face it, this someone also needs to be just stupid enough to take this job.”
“About sums it up, don’t you think, Monica?” the Chief steepled his fingers and tapped his chin.
Lt. Thorp crossed her arms as though clearly impressed with herself for recommending Jake. “I’d say so.”
“Well, Chief, then I’m your guy. I think this’ll be a challenge, and I’d like to be considered for the position,” Jake said.
A heavy weight the Chief hadn’t realized was sitting on his shoulders lifted. Jake seemed to fit every necessary qualification, and for that the Chief was grateful. “Welcome to the team then. Outside this office, proper titles are a must. Everyone needs to understand that you and Monica are my spokespeople—nobody else. In my office, however, rank is left at the door. I want frank assessments, honest advice, and I want you to feel completely comfortable talking to me or Monica about anything. We can disagree and disagree strongly about how to handle a situation, but once the decision is made, we all support it outside of the office. That’s the way it has to be.”
“No problem,” Jake said.
DURING HIS DECADES OF INCARCERATION, EARNEST YATES gained a keen familiarity with the prison, including its buildings, corridors, and grounds better than almost anyone else. Maybe even the administration. At this point in his residency, it was all second nature to him. His focus had become the human elements surrounding him. These days he sensed who would crack up within the first week and who wouldn’t, who’d make it in prison and who’d flame out. Over the years the gangs had changed very little. They differed, but the thuggish personality remained the same.
So predictable, Earnest thought. All of the punks were so predictable. On arrival the first thing they sought was a familiar flash of a sign. That was acknowledged with a head nod or a clandestine sign of their own. Once through orientation, they knew whom to hook up, and the same tired conversations would be hashed and rehashed to the point that Earnest wanted to break their teeth.
They wouldn’ta caught me if I’d done this. Or I would have gotten away if it wasn’t for that, or his personal favorite, I don’t know how they caught me! The latter were the complete morons, easy to manipulate, easier to use. Add a touch of drugs or booze, and they moved from moron to total idiocy. They were the stupid pawns who’d shoot up a house or a nightclub just to get what they thought was respect.
These guys were ripe for the picking.
Earnest figured it would take him a week and he’d get them to do whatever he wanted, anything he wanted. He smiled at the list he wanted to accomplish. Once they considered him an OG, original gangster, they’d be his. One word would be all it would take to get a hit ordered on another inmate…maybe even a guard.
Through the years, Earnest had ordered hits on hundreds of guys, which included guards who pissed him off or didn’t treat him with respect. Had to be careful about guards though, and Earnest saved his ire for the ones who particularly irritated him or for those who were too good at their jobs.
Back when Earnest got and sold contraband, back before surveillance cameras and other electronic security, he constantly worried about guards finding his stashes of drugs, homemade liquor, or weapons. A determined guard could ruin months of work and land him in isolation. So every once in a while, Earnest had to make their lives difficult. Make it so that their lives weren’t worth the risk of uncovering his stash. Like cops, guards simply wanted to go home after their shift with the same number of holes in their bodies that they’d left with.
That was ten years ago. Earnest didn’t want to work that hard anymore. Now he could sit back and figure out how to get the young ones, his pawns, to do the work for him. One lived longer that way, he told himself. That was why Earnest took particular interest in the new guy they called Clubba and his activity. Already he’d established relationships with every gang in the joint and somehow moved freely between each one.
The more Earnest watched him, the more the kid reminded him of Earnest himself. Only Clubba seemed able to provide something to each gang. That’s what allowed him to weave in and out of the long-established and strictly enforced territories within the prison. But exactly what did he provide each one? Earnest could associate with the factions by providing the goods or services to them. He’d always been able to get or make the necessary contraband and have it delivered directly to his consumers. As a result, he, like Clubba, moved freely among the gangs himself. But Clubba didn’t provide contraband, didn’t provide services, and he sure didn’t work as hard as Earnest.