Chapter 66 – An Incident in Progress
Sunday morning June 15, 2008 – 5:00 AM
Sergeant James “Jimmy” Leach of the Medford Police Department and his partner, Officer Gary Graves, had spent the last two hours lounging in their cruiser, hidden in a concealed spot, just killing time while simultaneously hoping to lasso in a few unsuspecting early morning speedsters, and in the process scoring some easy revenue for the city coffers.
Ever since his marriage had begun its slow but steady disintegration, Leach made it a standard practice to work every extra graveyard shift he could get his hands on, in the hopes of earning as much overtime money as possible, so that he might someday achieve his lofty goals, and the sooner the better as far as he was concerned.
You see, Leach had visions of an early retirement and a move down to the posh section of Naples Florida where all the wealthy people lived (mainly so that he could spite his wife for leaving him).
Consequently, this beautiful Sunday morning found Sergeant Leach barely awake, despite being fueled by mass quantities of coffee and amphetamines; for regardless of how many doses of stimulating pick-me-ups he had ingested, after having been awake for close to 24 hours, his sluggishness was almost inevitable, and by the time 5 AM rolled around, he was punch-drunk to boot.
On the other hand, Leach’s partner, Gary Graves, who was almost 20 years his junior, was still full of piss-and-vinegar at this late hour, even though he had been partying hard since Friday night…and so it came as no surprise to Leach that Graves was geared up to go out for breakfast after their shift, while he just wanted to head straight home and crash for about twelve hours.
“You’re getting old on me Jimmy, before you know it, you’ll be pissin’ your pants and wearing diapers,” teased Graves.
“Yeah, well let’s see what you’re like when you reach my age, you fuckin’ wiseass,” grumbled Leach in return.
The playful banter amongst your average cops could be bitingly sharp, not for the easily offended, but for the most part, it was all in good fun; just another way to break up the monotony of long night spent waiting for the sun to rise and turn into morning.
However, as it turned out, on this particular morning, their boredom was about to come to an unexpected end in more ways than one, because as the yawning cops leaned back in the squad car’s ergonomically contoured seats and observed the empty roadway from their covert bend in the road, a red Mustang convertible zipped by them at a reckless pace, which elicited Graves to gleefully exclaim, “We got a fish. The motherfucker must be doing at least eighty!”
Leach snapped on the flashing blue lights of their cruiser in response to the red blur of metal, and they were off to the races in hot pursuit, just barely catching up to the powerful muscle car before it whizzed on out of sight.
Once the two cops succeeded in getting the violating offender securely pulled over, they cautiously observed the young black male who was manning the driver’s seat, and just to be on the safe side, they did so from inside the bullet-proof cabin of their squad car.
Not surprisingly, the fidgety suspect appeared to be acting rather suspiciously, so before the prudent cops even hopped out of their cruiser, Leach fired up the loudspeaker and ordered the break-challenged driver to assume a position of surrender.
“OK pal, put your hands up on the steering wheel where we can see them. And don’t move a fuckin’ muscle, you understand me?”
And with their marching orders in place, the two jumpy officers, who were now high on speed and adrenaline, apprehensively approached the vehicle with their itchy trigger fingers at the ready. Even though they had received countless hours of training which had instructed them to behave in a manner contrary to their actions, the laws of the street had taught them otherwise; the laws of the jungle had taught them that they should pull out their guns at the slightest sign of provocation and ask questions later.
“Hey kid, do you know how fast you were going?” grunted Leach, and in response to the intimidating cop’s question, the youthful offender’s jet-black face peered up from the dashboard of the Mustang and he shifted nervously in his leather bucket seat as he launched into a hyperactive apology; an apology which was cut off in midsentence.
“Is this your car?” inquired Leach in an angry tone.
“Yes sir,” politely replied the shaken teenager.
Leach squinted skeptically at the purported criminal while at the same time he shouted out a somewhat rhetorical question over to his partner.
“What do think Graves? Can a punk like this afford a car that goes for 35 grand?”
“I swear it’s my car,” protested the frightened culprit.
Sir, I need to see your license and registration,” demanded Leach.
“It’s in the glove compartment,” replied the felonious youth as he made a sudden move towards the passenger’s seat.
However, before he could even come close to opening up the glove box, the law-breaking miscreant found his blood-red, bulging eyes staring into the barrel of not one but two guns; two guns which were pointed at his head, ordering him not to move.
“What are you a gangbanger?” taunted Graves.
“You think we don’t know how you roll?” cracked Leach in an attempt to sound current.
Sweat was pouring down the “innocent until proven guilty” hoodlum’s glistening, ebony face, and as he measured up the two service revolvers which were trained on a spot right between his eyeballs, his heart nearly jumped out of his throat.
“Look dude you better not move another fuckin’ muscle, or I swear I’ll blow your head off,” assured Graves, and as he continued on with his unabated verbal assault, Leach took the opportunity to size up the situation.
“Graves…open up the glove compartment, but don’t let him get anywhere near your gun. I don’t trust this mother fucker,” directed Leach. However, just as he spit out his command, an urgent bulletin came crackling across their two-way radio.
“All units report to the Medford River Park Condominiums at once. Repeat…all unit report to the Medford River Park Condominiums. A possible incident is in progress.”
“Incident? What the fuck is that suppose to mean?” roared an annoyed Graves.
“Alright kid, get the fuck outta here,” ordered Leach, and naturally he got no protests whatsoever from the youthful speed-racer. On the contrary, the juvenile thrill-seeker was so elated by his sudden reprieve that he took off like a 747 barreling down the runway of a major airport. If anything, he zoomed away even faster than he was going when he got pulled over in the first place.
Meanwhile, Leach and Graves jumped back into their squad car and franticly made their way over to the Medford River Park Condominiums like a shot in the dark. They had no idea what, exactly, the dispatcher meant by the word “incident”, but they sure as hell…were about to find out.
From the Eyes of a Juror Page 79