by Gavin Reese
“I’m not sure how you’ve managed to be so good about all this, Colleen, there’s no way I could be strong and positive all the time. You amaze me.”
“No choice, really. Just the way things are for all of us right now. As much as I would like to reject your reality and substitute my own, that…isn’t…an option, what are you doing?” She laughed as Jonathan deviously leaned forward, pushed her back onto the couch, and dramatically kissed her.
Ten
McDougal residence. Dry Creek, Arizona.
As they lay naked in bed that night, sleep eluded Jonathan. Despite his physical exhaustion, his mind refused to rest and alternately assaulted him with thoughts of the SecureCorp engagement, their household financial problems, Michael’s illness, Iraq, and Afghanistan. Fucking Afghanistan, he thought. How are my guys doing, are they safe? Did I teach them enough, train them hard enough? What the fuck did those contractors do? Why were they in that market in the first place, miles from their HQ, in Sadr-fuckin’-City of all places? How am I supposed to be here with Colleen and Michael, but earning money to solve our budget problems? Too many fuckin’ questions, too fuckin’ few answers. His increasing frustration and anger dashed any hope he still held of restful sleep. Fuck, I’m up. He lay next to the most beautiful person he had ever known, both of them still nude and only half covered by the sheets, and all he could think about was war, death, and debts. Fuck!
Jonathan quietly rose from bed, put shorts on, and walked out to the family room. He turned Fox News back on, dialed the volume down, and poured a drink, optimistic that three fingers of Jameson would aid his cause. That was the benefit of my time in the ‘Stan, he thought, I’m a cheap Irish drunk. Unheard of.
Jonathan passed by the kitchen counter and the stack of mail caught his eye. He stared for a moment at the bills, which Colleen had organized by due date. Thumbing through them, Jonathan saw Colleen’s handwritten notes on many of the envelopes from having already called to make late payment arrangements. American Bank credit card, American Bank auto loan, City Finance Auto, American Bank statement, Visa, MasterCard, store credit cards, insurance, homeowners association dues, cell phone bill, cable bill, water and trash bill, home phone bill, several bills from Michael’s doctors. The daunting stack suddenly seemed insurmountable, even in the low light. He tipped his glass back and moved away to find happier surroundings.
Jonathan pulled the refrigerator door handle open, which almost immediately yanked itself from his grasp; the handle had quickly reached the end of the repurposed bicycle cable lock that prevented uncontrolled access to the refrigerator’s contents. Still adjusting to being back home, Jonathan had forgotten about the restraints necessary to prevent Michael from getting into the refrigerator, cupboards, and pantry. Still locked and secure, he thought. He looked around their kitchen and saw it from an outsider’s perspective. If I didn’t know better, this’d look like we’re abusing Michael. All their food remained locked away, secured by cables and padlocks, and even the in-door water and ice dispenser featured an audible alert if they ran for more than ten seconds. Jonathan still struggled to grasp the reality that breakfast cereal could kill his kid, and envied parents whose children only had a lethal peanut allergy. At least you could keep it out of the house. He turned on the kitchen light, set his glass of whiskey on the countertop next to the refrigerator, found the key, and opened the cable lock. He unwound the cable only enough to open the doors, pulled them apart, and found the container with leftover hamburger patties covered with previously melted, and now re-formed, processed cheese slices. Jonathan removed the container, casually pushed the doors closed, and wandered over to the microwave to reheat the patties.
Standing at the counter, Jonathan stared at the kitchen while the microwave hummed in the background. I don’t have a choice, Colleen’s right, he thought, I have to start back to work now. I can’t afford to take time for Michael right now, we’re in too bad of shape financially and there’s too many other things we need to do for him. Maybe I can take some time off next year.
ding
Jonathan retrieved the steaming container of now-overcooked patties, and roughly set it on the countertop to avoid burning himself. He opened a nearby drawer, pulled out a fork, and continued examining the room while the irradiated cheese cooled. This one room is the epicenter of our problems. The food that could kill Michael, the bills we can’t pay, the phone that rings non-stop with creditor calls. Most kitchens were places of comfort, friendship, and camaraderie, but not ours. Jonathan picked his whiskey glass up from the opposite countertop and drained its contents. That went fast, maybe three more fingers will improve things a bit further…
Jonathan balanced the still-hot patty container atop his empty glass, turned off the kitchen light on his way into the living room, and absent-mindedly left the open lock dangling from the freezer handle.
Eleven
Oldtown neighborhood. Dry Creek, Arizona.
Only a few seconds short of 7:05am, Detective Alex Landon left the convenience store with an icy can of chemical energy just as his Nextel alert went off.
BEEP BEEP BEEP
The tone announced that Sergeant Jones wanted attention, because no one else used the obnoxious alert feature. Everyone else had the decency to just politely chirp you and wait for a response.
“Yes, sir?”
“Thanks for finally coming in to work today. Now, get over here and help us out. Dominic Divorjac is sitting in a blue convertible LeBaron at the G-n-G on Broadway getting gas. Let’s see if we can get him stopped and search the car. He may be involved in a few of patrol’s residential burglaries.”
Having been arrested dozens of times by DCPD, Alex and the DCPD patrol officers recognized Dominic more immediately than their own Chief. Because few drivers could avoid violating at least one of Arizona’s innumerable traffic codes, Alex knew they would soon get to force a roadside conversation with Dominic. Dressed in street clothes like the rest of his small, specialized Neighborhood Enforcement Unit, Alex pulled his unmarked Dodge Charger from the gas station parking lot and onto a side street to gear up for the imminent traffic stop. Dry Creek PD had elected to use forfeited drug money to pay for dark limo tint, a custom matte-black paint job, matching twenty-inch matte-black powder-coated wheels, and low profile racing tires that better allowed the police-package Charger to hide in plain sight. Few people suspected it was a cop car until Alex lit up the concealed red-and-blue LEDs.
Alex donned his external ballistic vest carrier, checked that his Taser, extra magazines, and radio were secure, and clipped his Nextel on the vest’s right epilate to allow one-handed operation. He drove closer to the G-n-G and waited for more information from Jones.
BEEP BEEP BEEP
“Yes, sir?”
“Okay, he’s moving out, headed west on Broadway in a shitty blue LeBaron, unknown Hispanic male in the front passenger seat.”
“Copy, I’m three blocks behind him, coming onto Broadway now.”
After merging into traffic and accelerating westbound, Alex saw an old blue convertible driving ahead of him and closed enough distance to confirm Dominic was behind the wheel. Maneuvering past the last few cars between them while watching for an infraction, Alex required only a few city blocks to acquire probable cause to stop the car. From previous roadside encounters, Alex knew Dominic felt compelled to draw attention to himself and his “swank,” a term he’d personally coined and tried to popularize in the local streets to mean “the height of cool,” as he told Landon during an arrest last year. He tried unsuccessfully to incorporate swank into his driving by staying ten miles-per-hour below the speed limit and slowly swerving back-and-forth across the entire width of his lane. Swank, much like Dominic, had never gained popularity outside his own mind.
While “swanking” to the left with less than all his attention on the road ahead, Dominic entered a double-fine school zone at five miles over the suddenly-lower speed limit, struck a metal school-zone sign placed on the
solid yellow center line, overcorrected right, crossed the white dotted lane line, and nearly struck another car before regaining control of his aging Chrysler. Low hanging fruit, Alex thought, swank strikes again. Hell, this job’d be a lot harder if the dickheads didn’t act like dickheads.
Alex looked at the road ahead of Dominic’s sedan to predict the possible stop location, and cleared the police radio to inform dispatch of the LeBaron’s plate and gave them an intersection approximately three blocks west of their current location. “David-33, traffic.” Sergeant Jones, along with Detectives Melner and Lindsay, merged their separate vehicles into traffic behind Alex. Traffic stops ranked among the most dangerous things police officers do, so Alex knew the other three DCPD detectives were each mentally prepared for all possible outcomes of this traffic stop, including felony flight or assault against them. As he waited for his dispatcher to respond, Alex played through hypothetical “what if” scenarios to ensure he had a pre-determined course of action for Dominic’s most probable actions. Decisions made ahead of time reduced reaction time and help ensure our survival.
“David-33, go ahead.”
“David-33, I’ll be traffic with Adam-Robert-Sam-2-3-0-3 at Broadway and Main, blue LeBaron.”
“Copy, Broadway and Main, blue LeBaron.” Alex heard a bahloop sound play from his concealed police computer, which conveyed the dispatcher had already entered the license plate and stop location in her terminal and simultaneously broadcast the data to all the other DCPD computer terminals, as well as sent an information request to the National Crime Information Center and Arizona Criminal Justice Information System to compare the license plate “ARS2303” against their records.
“David-33, your plate is clear and valid on a 1995 Dodge convertible to Dominic Divorjac, checking his records now.” Aware the plate was not reported stolen and matched the vehicle that displayed it, Alex activated the Charger’s emergency lights to initiate the traffic stop and gave Dominic a brief siren wail. Dominic, who was driving in the left westbound lane, made eye contact with Alex in the driver’s side-view mirror. Alex watched Dominic scowl at him and read “What the fuck” roll off his lips just before Dominic suddenly yanked the car left, illegally crossing into oncoming traffic.
“David-33, I copy. David-31, David-32, and Sam-9 are out with me. Vehicle has turned southbound on Main.” Alex jammed the lights-and-siren control switch all the way right, to its third and final position, which activated all the vehicle’s lights and turned the siren to a constant, higher volume “pursuit” mode. He watched as an oncoming, eastbound SUV braked hard and steered right to avoid colliding with both the back of Dominic’s car and the front of Alex’s Charger. Dominic accelerated away from the intersection as though fleeing, but drove only about twenty yards before he abruptly locked up his tires, pulled onto the sidewalk, and killed the engine.
“David-33, final stop is southbound Main just south of Broadway.” Alex leapt out of the Charger as soon as it stopped, ready for the foot chase to begin. Jones, Lindsay, and Melner must have done the same because they were almost immediately stacked at Alex’s front passenger door. The detectives spread out in a rapid, orchestrated swarm to position themselves around the rear of the LeBaron. Alex went to driver’s door to dissuade Dominic from running while Melner went to the passenger door. Lindsay and Jones hung back at the rear to cover the other two officers.
“Dominic, how are you doing today, sir?” Alex preferred to start off with honey.
“Why the fuck you pullin’ me over? You said you stopped hatin’ black people. Fuckin’ skinhead Nazi.”
Had Dominic seen any of his previous charges through to trial, Alex thought, he would have learned that everything he had said to Dry Creek officers during the previous five years had been digitally recorded. His baseless accusations of racism and antisocial behavior would not have won favor with many jurors. Alex ignored Dominic, which he knew would soon fuel his antics. Apparently, Alex decided, mommy and daddy didn’t give him enough attention. “Dominic, your swank got the best of you.”
“Oh, so D-W-B, Driving While Black, ‘cuz you got no love for my swank?!” As usual, his antics became louder, more accusational, and more ridiculous. Alex knew he sought public attention that he believed would somehow motivate officers to let him go. Bad tactics, Alex thought, make your lies believable.
“Go ahead and grab your license and paperwork, step out of the car, and I’ll explain it to you.”
Dominic took a few hate-speech-filled minutes to produce an identification card, an expired insurance card for a different vehicle in someone else’s name, and no registration documents before he reluctantly complied with Alex’s direction to exit the Neon.
“What the fuck, man, you ain’t got shit on me and you stoppin’ me ‘cuz I’m black.” Dominic stepped up onto the sidewalk near the back of the Neon as “Big Ray” emerged on his electric, geriatric scooter onto the sidewalk across Main Street from Dominic and Alex. Big Ray, a sixty-eight-year-old morbidly obese ex-con now too weak and fat to commit many crimes, garnered Dominic’s attention and pointed and yelled at the man. “He saw it, he knows I didn’t do shit, and he’s gonna witness that in court for me!” Big Ray smiled and pointed a fat sausage finger back at Dominic.
“Sure, Dom, I got your back, brother! For forty-DOLLuhs, I’ll even say I was driving!” Big Ray laughed and kept scootering along, and Alex assumed he didn’t want any of the assembled cops to talk to him about what may, or may not, be in his pockets at that time.
Alex returned to the matter at hand. “Dominic, here’s the deal. You sped, hit a school zone sign, made an unsafe lane change, left the scene of an accident, and illegally crossed traffic when I tried to stop you.”
“Fuck you, Landon, you know I don’t speed.”
“Sure did, right through that double-fine school zone. Speed limit drops to fifteen. Those yellow and white metal signs in the middle of the road pretty much say it all. You know, that sign you hit with your front bumper?”
“Nope, don’t know nothin’ ‘bout that.” Alex doubted Dominic would even admit he consumed oxygen.
While Alex spoke with Dominic, Sergeant Jones passed Alex a note that read “35-S,” which let him know Divorjac’s license was suspended. That warmed the cockles of Alex’s heart, as it meant that Dominic was again going to jail and they got to inventory the items in his car.
Visibly nervous as they spoke, Dominic’s eyes darted among the officers, as though looking for signs of intent, and surveyed his surroundings, as though also looking for an escape. His hands shook and Alex could count his increasing heart rate by the visible carotid pulse on the left side of his neck. Better act fast before he makes up his mind.
Alex saw Melner was the closest cop to him and, after a brief eye contact, displayed a hand signal to Melner to indicate he intended to arrest Dominic as he saw no benefit to leaving him out of cuffs; they had probable cause to arrest him and make lawful entry into the vehicle regardless of his cooperation. The two detectives acted quickly with sudden, decisive action and handcuffed Dominic without a fight. As Alex explained he was under arrest for leaving the scene of an accident and driving on a suspended license, he saw Dominic’s nervousness did not dissipate as he expected. In Alex’s experience, this meant more crime was afoot than they realized.
On the LeBaron’s passenger side, Lindsay questioned the other male. Although compliant, he had no identification and none of the detectives knew him. After he exited the sedan as requested, Lindsay checked him for weapons and interrogated him away from Dominic to see if their stories matched. Alex saw the passenger hand Lindsey his cell phone and verbally consent to allow detectives to search it. Lindsey quickly passed the phone off to Sergeant Jones so she could focus on questioning the unknown passenger.
Melner began inventorying the car’s contents and started with the driver’s seat, the area for which Dominic had the greatest criminal liability. Alex searched Dominic a few feet behind the
LeBaron’s closed trunk and Jones supervised the entire operation. This meant Jones and his ADHD oscillated between partially examining the digital contents of the passenger’s cell phone, giving micro-managerial orders to his three detectives, and intermittently talking shit to Dominic, all while chain-smoking cheap cigarettes. Alex remembered that Jones had once claimed he started smoking only after he attended a Los Angeles Police Department supervisory training course. The way he had told it to Alex, the sergeant’s training manual recommended supervisors smoke cigarettes so they could quietly ponder options without uncomfortable silence, and then emphasize the significance of their command decisions by taking a long, final draw and dramatically throwing the cigarette onto the ground while giving an order. Despite having never worked there, Jones blamed the Los Angeles Police Department for his certain impending battle with an unknown cancer in a yet-to-be-named organ.
As Alex searched Dominic, he had to give the felon repeated commands to stand still, which he expected based on his previous interactions with the man. To ensure he didn’t miss anything, Alex always started searching people from the head-down. Standing behind Dominic, he gripped the hinged handcuffs in his right hand and searched Dominic with the left. He found nothing in Dominic’s shirt, waistline, or pockets, and began searching his legs, which he realized seemed glued together.
“Spread your feet.” No response. Alex tapped the back of Dominic’s left shoe. “Spread your feet.” Louder this time, but still no response. As he picked up on the locked handcuffs, Alex forcibly kicked Dominic’s left shoe away from his right. This pushed Dominic’s torso and center of gravity forward and prevented him from resisting Alex’s efforts. To the apparent surprise of everyone but Dominic, a black semiautomatic handgun fell from its concealed position between his clenched thighs, out the bottom of his stove-pipe shorts, and onto the ground between his now-parted feet.