Redeem the Lines, page 25
Both cases would leave the outcome entirely to the cops. Would he roll the dice and hope the cops gave him a break? It felt like the wrong decision to trust them. That left only one logical choice, the instinctive move that gave Pat any chance at all.
Run.
Pat bolted behind the police car, crossing the street, and vaulted over the pointed wrought-iron fence guarding the grassy and wooded park of Boston Common. It was a good strategy. They could only chase by car on the park’s paved walkways. They’d have to follow him on foot if he stuck to the vast grassy areas, and with this head start, it’d be tough to catch up with him. Plus, he was fast. All those boxing workouts kept him nimble on his feet, and his long legs gave him an advantage of a fast stride. This might provide just enough time to hide somewhere.
Pat could hear the distant shouts and curses from the cops fading behind him. It was dark, but he knew this park like the back of his hand. He was confident he could lose them. Once they lost sight of him, he could go in practically any direction from there. And they might just give up after chasing on foot for a little while.
He headed past a thicket of trees, took a turn, and beelined to a different park area. Then thoughts started to spook him.
Maybe he’d made a mistake by running, he thought. Fuck. He tried to shove the new doubt deep into the back of his mind. But he hadn’t really done anything; maybe they’d just let him go . . .
He spotted a jungle gym with a sand base just up ahead. If he lay flat enough on the sand and perfectly still, they would have trouble seeing him from a distance. They might run their flashlights right over him and not even notice. It was worth a shot.
Pat lay down on the sand on his back and tried to make his body as horizontal as possible. He nestled up to the small wooden barrier that contained the sand, jutting his body up against it. He could hear his beating heart in his ears. He closed his eyes and tried to slow down his breathing.
Relax. You got this. They won’t find you.
Pat opened his eyes again, with only a view of the sky. He couldn’t see much else and didn’t want to crane his neck over the frame of the sandbox and get caught in a beam of light. He could hear several patrol cars driving over the paved walkways. That meant they must have called it in, so now there were more of them.
Don’t they have anything better to do? What the fuck?
He could hear a car slowing near the playground. Pat froze, making himself as flat and still as possible. He listened to the car door slam and someone stepping out of it. The cop strolled in his direction. Each cautious step was slightly louder than the last.
A flashlight beam grazed the top of Pat’s face.
Fuck.
“All right. Let’s see your hands and get up slowly,” the cop announced. It was a different voice than the officer who had been harassing him on the street.
Pat threw up his hands and slowly stood up, not bothering to brush the dirt off his clothes; he didn’t want to give them any reason to get spooked. His heart was practically beating out of his chest. The cop had his gun drawn, which did little to calm Pat’s nerves.
He squinted past the light to see if it might be one of the cops he would recognize, any of the guys that Pat might see at the boxing gym or someone he’d grown up with from his neighborhood. He might still be able to talk his way out of this. But it wasn’t. It was an Asian cop, someone he hadn’t seen before.
Still, he had to try something.
“Officer, this is a big misunderstanding. I’m sorry about all of this. I’m sure we could call at least five officers that would vouch for me. Do you know Sergeant Daly, or McHugh, or Connolly?”
The Asian officer paused, then lowered and holstered his gun.
“Yes. I do know those guys,” said the officer, shining the light on Pat’s face to see if he should be someone he recognized. He studied Pat for a moment, apparently thinking.
“All right, fine,” said the officer. “If you know those guys, let me take you in, and you’ll be out in a few hours.”
Pat knew the drill. Although not ideal, going to the station for a few hours to explain himself was better than getting set up and railroaded into a charge for some bullshit reason. Pat’s instincts told him this was a good cop, someone who just wanted to do things by the book. He hoped he was right about that.
The officer cuffed Pat, and Pat complied without any struggle. A few other cruisers pulled up on the wide, paved walkways. They parked a short distance away, positioning their headlights to shine directly on him and the arresting officer. He glanced around, assessing the situation. The Asian officer was standing behind him, securing the cuffs and checking Pat’s back pockets.
The original cop who’d harassed him on Beacon Street stepped out of the closest patrol car. By the look of his assertive gait and clenched fists, Pat could tell he was pissed. That stride oozed pure aggression. Pat’s muscles tensed up, and his heart rate jumped. As the officer approached, Pat could tell he was picking up speed. From all his years of fighting, he could see the silhouette of the cop’s clenched fist winding up for a punch.
That’s a fucking haymaker, thought Pat.
Time seemed to slow down as his reflexes took over. He saw the punch coming at him but knew to wait for the right moment to dodge. He waited until the fist was a mere half inch away from his eye, then ducked out of the way with a dip of his knees.
Before he realized he’d missed Pat altogether, the Black cop’s punch followed through and connected with the Asian officer’s face, slamming him hard right in the eye.
The Asian cop, not prepared for such a violent surprise, went down, knocked out instantly. From his standing position, Pat looked him over to see how badly the officer was hurt. To his horror, Pat saw the officer’s eye was partially hanging from his socket. That could have been him!
Before he could react much to what had just happened, the two Black cops picked Pat up from his knees and dropped him to the ground. They took out their billy clubs and beat him, clubbing him on his back, head, ribs, arms. Still cuffed, Pat couldn’t do much to protect himself other than to writhe around on the ground, trying to shield his gut.
Sharp pains reverberated through his body, each blow another insult, another potential lifelong injury. If they hit his soft organs hard enough, he might be in the hospital for a month. Broken bones were one thing, but a ruptured kidney or spleen might send him into the ground for good. He tensed up, hoping his battle-hardened body would be tough enough to withstand the blows and protect his vital parts. With each assault, a torrent of grunts and shrieks erupted from his body. In his mind, it was a constant refrain of cursing threats.
Fuck you, motherfucker. Fuck you.
When the EMTs showed up to tend to the Asian officer, Pat was still getting clubbed and kicked. With new witnesses on the scene, the cops let up and hauled Pat into the back of the patrol car. He sat there, breathing hard, a cut above his eye bleeding heavily. That eye was already swelled shut. With all the adrenaline in his system, it was hard for Pat to tell how badly hurt he was. So far, he thought, he didn’t think any bones had been broken.
He sat in the back, in disbelief at how fast things had gotten so bad. That punch could have fucking killed that cop. And what if I hadn’t dodged it? And what the fuck?
He could hear the EMTs talking outside on their radios.
“We have an injured officer,” one of them said. “On our way to Mass Eye and Ear. He’ll likely require surgery. Be there in less than five. Incoming from the Common.” They piled into the ambulance and took off, the siren shrieking and the emergency lights casting eerie shadows in the wooded park as it sped away.
Pat watched and listened further to see what else he could ascertain from the back seat. A group of cops had gathered, and there was a lot of talking between them. He couldn’t quite make out everything the cops were saying but noticed them turning off their radios. The cop who had assaulted him talked to the gathered group, gesturing at the area where Pat was beaten and occasionally pointing to Pat in the back seat. The assaulting cop appeared to be covering all his tracks.
At one point, the cop raised his voice. “He was resisting, and that’s final!”
If there were any protest to this declaration, Pat didn’t see or hear any from the group of officers.
Pat shook his head. For once in his life in Boston, he could not believe there hadn’t been one White officer in any of the three cruisers who had showed up on the scene. The Asian cop was solo, and the two Black cops had partnered in the cruiser. The third cruiser showed up last, and it was another Black cop and a Latino female cop.
What are the fuckin’ chances of that . . . the fuckin’ luck I have!
The officers’ discussion seemed to be concluding. The cops were slowly getting back into their cruisers, and the two Black cops who had assaulted Pat returned to the front seat of their car, right in front of Pat.
After they had shut the door, Pat bit his tongue. He still saw red, and he held back a tirade of cursing by force of sheer will. He’d not said one negative word to anyone. Not yet.
“Let’s bring him up to the BMC,” said the passenger-side officer. “Get him stitched up.”
Pat couldn’t help himself. “Yeah, that’s a fuckin’ start,” he snorted. “What the fuck were you thinkin’, man?”
The passenger-side cop turned around and glared at him.
“For what fuckin’ reason?” Pat doubled down. “Because I ran? Because I don’t want to go back to jail?”
Pat knew they’d run his information already. Most likely, the computer would have said “manslaughter, accomplice to murder” or maybe even “intent to murder.” They didn’t know the only thing close to illegal he ever did was fight.
And I didn’t even do the crime I did time for! I just kept my fuckin’ mouth shut!
The irony was that Pat had kept quiet to protect Walsh, and Walsh was now a cop. Even if he’d had an early release, Walsh never would have been eligible for the academy as an ex-con.
The cops didn’t know that. All they knew was that Pat had done time and that his parole had just ended. After all the bullshit, all the time and energy Pat had spent trying to set up a normal life, this was a web he never dreamed or imagined he would be caught in.
“You’re done, punk,” said the passenger-side cop with a snarl. “You’re an ex-con. You see what happens to you.”
“Yeah, okay,” retorted Pat. “You fucked up that dude for nothing. That Asian cop is all done. His eye was fuckin’ hanging out because of you! I may be an ex-con, but you wait and see who I know. I did nothing, absolutely nothing!”
“Shut the fuck up,” said the cop who was driving.
Pat bristled but held his tongue as the cops pulled up to Boston Medical Center.
“I NEED HIM STITCHED UP FAST, AND GET HIM BACK TO ME.”
Handcuffed to a gurney, Pat fumed as he overheard the poorly concealed whispers of the cops just outside the room. Shortly after, they both walked into his room and shut the curtain behind them. They whispered something to each other, both nodding.
When the doctor—a thirty-something serious-looking Asian man—arrived, the passenger-side cop took him aside and whispered something to him too. The Asian doctor, stone-faced, just nodded.
Glad he was at least getting some medical attention, Pat sat patiently as the doctor and nurse prepped the wound above his eye. Pat thought there was no question that he had a concussion from the multiple billy club strikes across his head and body. His whole body was starting to ache, and he had a dull throbbing pain that seemed to come from deep inside his skull.
Motherfuckers, thought Pat. He grabbed the arm of the doctor, trying to get someone on his side.
“Listen, man,” he pleaded. “You have to admit me. Please! These guys did this to me. They almost fuckin’ killed me! I have no idea what they will do to me next.”
The doctor had kind eyes, and Pat thought for an instant that he might help him.
“I’m sorry, kid,” said the doctor, apologizing. “They have already said, ‘No way. He has to get to the station ASAP.’”
“Please, man, I obviously have a concussion and whatever else—”
“I’m sorry, kid,” interrupted the doctor.
Pat sat stewing; a sick feeling of helplessness was growing in the pit of his stomach. “I can’t fuckin’ believe you,” he retorted. “You’re just as bad as them!”
Within minutes, the two cops came back through the curtain. The passenger-side cop freed the handcuffs from the gurney, then cuffed Pat’s hands behind his back. Pat winced as the officer put them on far tighter than necessary. Both cops guided him forcefully through the emergency room door and back into the cruiser.
“Where to now, guys?” Pat asked from the back seat as the cruiser pulled away.
“To the fuckin’ slammer, of course, punk,” the passenger-side cop sneered. “I told you: you’re done.”
“Wow. What the fuck, man,” shot back Pat. “Just let me know when I get my phone fuckin’ call.”
It was a short ride before they pulled into the Boston Municipal Court jail between Faneuil Hall and the TD Garden. Pat had already resigned himself to the fact that he’d probably be spending the night in jail, something he had vowed to himself would never happen again. He sat in booking, a bored-looking Black woman finishing up his fingerprints and all the other routine protocols before checking him in. He tried to make eye contact with her to establish some kind of human connection, but his attempts seemed to bounce off her.
“Do I get my call?” he asked directly.
She finally glanced up from her paperwork to look him straight in the eye. She sighed, then looked in the direction of the passenger-side cop, who was hovering over the desk. “In the fuckin’ morning,” he said. “If you’re lucky.”
“Oh, really?” Pat responded, his tone ripe with sarcasm. “Okay.”
This exchange seemed to set off the officer even more. He pulled Patrick up and shoved him along down the hall into the jail block area of the building, clearly bent on aggravating Pat’s already egregious injuries. When they arrived at the designated cell, the officer pushed Pat headfirst into the cell bars and cuffed him. He winced in pain but didn’t cry out. The officer opened the jail cell door and pushed him in with so much force that he had to catch himself so he wouldn’t fall.
The officer stepped into the cell and removed the cuffs. He pushed Pat against the wall and onto the bench that lined one wall. Then he stepped out of the cell and locked the door. Pat knew this drill and suspected he wasn’t going to like what was coming next.
“All right now,” the officer commanded. “Turn around.”
Pat stood up and turned around, so his back was facing the officer.
“Now. Pull your pants to the floor.”
“You fuckin’ serious?” Pat responded. “For real?”
The officer gripped his baton, still in its holster. “I know you don’t want me to come back in that cell,” he threatened. “Do it now!”
Resigned, Pat complied, removed his pants, and bent down.
“Grab your cheeks and spread ’em,” demanded the officer.
“This is fuckin’ ridiculous!” Pat shouted, loud enough that the whole station could hear. “What the fuck?” But knowing that he would eventually be forced to do what they wanted, one way or the other, Pat complied.
Seemingly satisfied, the officer walked back to the booking area. Fuming, Pat pulled his pants back up. “When do I get my call, beautiful?” he yelled toward the booking cop. She forced her attention on the papers she was working on, refusing to look in his direction. “You have no idea what happened here tonight,” Pat continued. “And I’m just planning out which cop I am calling to tell this story to.”
The cops that Patrick could see in the station all started glancing at each other discreetly. The nerves in the air were palpable. Maybe they’d begun to realize they had harassed someone who had connections.
Oh, you nervous? Good. Fuck you. Fuck all of you, Pat thought.
“How ’bout I just call for my bail, and you just turn on your radio and call my friends—Sergeant Daly, Officer Connolly, maybe even McHugh, the spokesman for the commissioner?”
More officers stopped whatever they were doing and looked at each other. Their glances became more intense, and the more Pat spoke, the more the air seemed to get sucked out of the room. An older cop walked over to Pat’s cell and leaned in with one arm resting on the bars.
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut your fuckin’ mouth now,” said the older cop. Patrick took the note as a serious one. This older guy seemed scary to him. He had a black and gray goatee and dark-tinted glasses concealing his eyes enough so Pat couldn’t get a read on his expression. Unlike the other cops in the station, he was also wearing leather gloves, which added to the whole intimidation factor.
This was the first time this cop had spoken to him. Patrick had a feeling this guy knew his partner had fucked up and gotten him in the middle of a very sticky situation. But even if this were true, Pat wasn’t confident how much that might help him out. Just like criminals, officers had a code too. You never rat out a fellow officer.
“All right,” said Pat, measuring his words carefully. “Tell me one thing. What’re the charges? Tell me.”
“Go to sleep,” said the old cop, simply. “They’re too long to read.”
Pat hung his head, still in sheer disbelief of the reversal of fortune that was unraveling his whole life in just one evening. The older cop shuffled away, leaving Pat alone. He lay down on the steel bed, his face swollen. He felt the fourteen stitches with his fingers, starting from the corner of his eye, through his eyebrow, and up his forehead. Now that he was still and lying down, he could feel the aches and pains more acutely. They would get worse as the night went on.
I should still be in the fucking hospital, Pat thought.
He tried to relax and ignore the pain. With tears in his eyes, he began to doze off. As he rested halfway between sleep and wakefulness, thoughts of injustice swirled in his mind. Life had just gotten somewhat normal. He had started to think he had a productive second chance. He wanted to make good.
