“I don’t know.”
“But that was over a year ago, she said.”
“Three.”
“Can they do that?
I sighed. “Rebecca, it looks to me like they can do whatever they want.”
Another silence. I closed my eyes and rubbed them.
This was a nightmare. All because the department seemed to be more concerned with public perception rather than reality.
“Connor?”
“Hmmm?”
“What are you going to do?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t know.
When we said goodnight, I almost said something else, but it stuck in my throat. Afterward, I listened to the dial tone for a long minute and mouthed the words as I watched my sideways goldfish struggle on, only to swim in circles.
In the police world, if you’re doing good, the Chief comes to see you. Either he comes to roll call or finds you in the field. If you mess up, though, you go see the Chief.
The Chief’s office was strangely plain. Instead of the usual hail-to-me wall full of certificates and plaques, only a picture of his family and his certificate from the FBI Command Academy hung behind his desk, just beneath the department crest.
I sat there as the Chief made a show of reading the file in front of him. He would’ve read it already, but this was the way the show went. The department’s legal advisor sat off to one side, boredom etched in his face. Butch sat next to me, tapping his foot as rapidly as a paint shaker.
After a few minutes of silence, the Chief looked up at me. I think he was surprised at how calm I was. I imagine most guys are as nervous as hell to be in his office, whether their job was on the line or not.
“Sergeant O’Connor,” said the Chief, “this investigation is complete. Have you had a chance to consult with your Union representative?”
I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Attorney?”
“Waived,” I answered.
The Chief’s gaze moved over to Butch, who nodded and shrugged at the same time.
“He didn’t want an attorney?” The Chief asked him.
“No, sir,” I answered for Butch. “I don’t need one.”
Irritation flared in The Chief’s eyes. “Very well. Would you like to make a statement, then?”
I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
There was a pause. The Chief motioned at me with his hand. “Go ahead, then.”
I took a breath. “Sir, I did not initiate this event. I did nothing to encourage it or cause it. When it happened, I handled it without loss of life. I acted in self-defense.”
I stopped there. The Chief sat still, watching me. His face was impassive. After about thirty seconds, he said, “Continue.”
“That’s all I have, sir.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
The Chief steepled his fingers in front of him. “Sergeant, let me get this straight. You used excessive force on this guy’s brother three years ago, and somehow we miss it. According to witnesses, at this restaurant last week, you taunt this guy to the point of attacking you. You hit him with a gun, make racial and anti-gay remarks, and threaten to kill him. Then you disobey the first officers on scene and argue with the first supervisor on scene trying to make heads or tails of the situation. And then, if that weren’t enough, you argue with and insult the IA investigator and all but take a swing at him.” He leaned forward. “After all of that, Sergeant, you have the balls to sit there and give me this song and dance about how it was all self-defense?”
I said nothing. Which was apparently the wrong thing to say.
“Answer me, Sergeant!”
“Sir, yes, sir. That is my position.”
Redness crept up from his collar. “Do you know what the papers are saying about his incident? Do you know what the Hispanic community is saying? You’ve set our relations with them back a decade with this stunt.”
“Stunt?”
“Do you know how long and hard I’ve worked to build bridges with these people?”
“Sir, this guy was not a member of any community other than the criminal community. I didn’t figure we cared much what they thought.”
The redness flooded his cheeks.
“Do you have anything else to say, Sergeant O’Sullivan?” he gritted.
I resisted the urge to tell him to shove it up his ass and shook my head instead.
“Fine,” The Chief said. “I’ll render my decision within the week.”
I rose and left without a word, not looking back.
“How’d it go?” I could hear the concern in her voice.
“Not well,” I told her.
“Did he yell? I heard from Aaron Norris’s wife that he yells in those meetings a lot.”
“That’s the last Chief. This one doesn’t yell much. Aaron Norris’s wife should get her facts straight. Besides, she’s not even his wife anymore. They’re divorced.”
Rebecca didn’t answer right away. She just waited quietly, giving me a chance to fix things.
“Sorry,” I told her, and I was.
“It’s all right,” she said.
And it was. But when we were finished talking, I still sat and listened to that goddamn dial tone and cursed myself.
In the end, I took a ten-day rip.
I thought for sure they’d fire me, giving the way the political winds were blowing. But between Gutierrez’s fingerprints on the gun and Rebecca’s testimony, I guess the waters got muddy enough that they figured I’d win on appeal if they fired me. Plus, I heard from Butch that Gutierrez didn’t do himself any favors in the interview, changing his story several times until it didn’t resemble my account or their precious witnesses.
As far as the Hispanic community goes, The Chief trotted out Gutierrez’s criminal record and the fact that it was his gun and then tossed in my ten-day suspension and they were as satisfied as any advocacy group ever is. After a few days, even the news got tired of reporting that everyone was happy with the outcome.
I took the ten-day rip without a word. Butch wanted to appeal, especially when it included a re-assignment back to patrol, but I told him not to worry about it. Instead, I called Rebecca.
“Can you get two weeks off from work?” I asked her.
“Probably. I can’t really afford it, though.”
“I’ll take care of that part,” I told her. “Can the kids miss school?”
“Miss school? Why?”
“I’m taking all of you to Disneyland.”
“What?”
“I said, I want to take you and the kids to Disneyland.”
She was quiet for a minute, then started laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.” She kept laughing.
“Rebecca?”
I heard a small snort through the telephone receiver.
“Rebecca? What’s so funny?”
“It’s just…I just imagined you on TV, like those pro athletes, you know?”
I started to smile.
“You know the ones, Connor? Where they win the Super Bowl or whatever and they get on TV and they tell the announcer guy, ‘I just won the Super Bowl and I’m going to Disneyland!’” She dissolved into laughter again.
My smiled widened. She was definitely a cop’s wife with that sense of humor.
“Connor O’Sullivan,” she said, her voice raising in pitch as she tried to control her laughter, “You just took a ten-day suspension. What are you going to do now?”
I gave it to her. She worked hard for the set-up. She deserved it. “I’m going to Disneyland. You and the kids wanna come with?”
She laughed for a while longer. I closed my eyes and saw her face. I imagined the lines near her mouth and could almost see her wiping a tear from her eye. I could smell her hair. I saw the kids laughing and screaming in the warm California sun and that fucker Mickey Mouse waving at us.
I continued to smile, and wait.
When she finished laughing at me, she said, “You know what?”
“What?”
“Save Disneyland. I’ll take the time off from work and get my Mom to watch the kids.”
I paused. “And?”
“And you can take me to Vegas. Adult Disneyland. Just you and me.”
Another pause. “That sounds…good.”