The Archangel Drones (16 page)

“I’m sorry, Jacob. I had no idea the kids would be so mean to you.”

He managed a slight smile and said, “It’s okay, Mom. I kind of expected it… Manny warned me. I’ve embarrassed the guys on the team, going from hero to zero after getting in trouble with the law. A lot of my friends stood up for me at first, but now that I’m going to be on trial, everybody assumes I’m guilty. I’ll be fine.”

“But that’s not fair, Jacob. You’re innocent until proven guilty, and people should know that.”

“I always thought that, too,” he sadly lamented. “But that’s not the way the system works. Manny is taking a lot of heat over our relationship, too. Everybody is calling her ‘Jailbait’ and ‘Prison bitch.’ I’m surprised she’s stayed with me this long. There’s only so much a person can take.”

Her son’s words took Sandy aback, the depth of his understanding and analysis more advanced than his years would predict. She also found herself constantly astounded by the social complexities of high school. Things had seemed so much simpler back in her day.

Mr. Ballymore arrived just then, the hospitable man moving to shake their hands. Sandy drifted to the back of the room, keen on getting out of the way, and seeking some space to consider Jacob’s state of mind.

We’re in trouble
, she decided.
And I’m beginning to wonder if there’s a way out. Show me, Lord. I pray to you - guide us through these terrible times.

The vehicle’s left, rear taillight wasn’t working, Big Jim’s eye zeroing in on the malfunction from two cars back. No taillight and no brake light.
Oh, gawd,
he sighed.
Another asshole who won’t spend fifty bucks to maintain his vehicle. Bet the inspection sticker dates back a few years on that piece of shit.

Normally, the sergeant wouldn’t bother with such a minor infraction. But when the traffic pattern placed his squad car directly behind the offender, the driver reacted with a hasty right turn into a residential area. Too quick.

Marwick followed. The response was instinctual.

A block later, Big Jim sensed something was wrong. The driver remained four to five miles under the posted speed limit and made an exaggerated stop at the next interchange.

For a moment, he hesitated. After the incident with the basketball player, he’d received a stern warning from his supervisors, the ass chewing including phrases like, “less aggressive,” and “play by the book.”

His bosses had made it clear he was under intense scrutiny, warning of the need to dot the “I’s” and cross the “T’s,” and most importantly of all, “Keep your fucking nose out of trouble for a while.”

It was maddening for a cop like Jimmy Marwick. Sure, things occasionally crossed the line, but the collateral damage was a small price to pay for aggressive police work that produced results. Accidents happened in every occupation.

Deciding he’d already invested the time, Jim flipped on the lights, blasting the siren for one short burst. He’d give the guy a warning and let him be on his way.

It was the driver’s head that raised Jim’s suspicions to a higher level. Traveling less than 30 mph, the visible portion of the operator’s skull pivoted quickly right to left, as if he were in high volume traffic and was working the mirrors in an attempt to change lanes. The motion just didn’t fit the situation.

The man pulled over soon enough, Marwick calling in the plates as both cars rolled to a stop. The dispatcher confirmed that there were no outstanding wants or warrants.

Exiting his unit, the officer kept his eye on the driver and approached from the recommended angle.
Be polite to the citizen
, he thought.
It’s only a busted taillight. Be the nicest cop this guy has ever met.

He found a middle-aged Hispanic man fumbling with his wallet. When Big Jim tapped on the window, the fellow behind the wheel nearly jumped out of his seat.

Experience taught every cop that many people became nervous when they were pulled over, regardless of the severity of their offense. Outright fear was less common, and more often than not, a sure sign of guilt.

“License and proof of insurance please,” Jim stated with a neutral tone.

The driver provided his license quickly, having already started the process of removing it from his wallet. The insurance card took a bit longer to dig from the cluttered glove box.
He’s scared shitless
, the officer observed.
His hands are trembling like crazy
.

If the driver had been Caucasian or of African-American descent, the reaction would have pegged the cop’s internal suspicion meter. With Latinos, it was difficult to tell. Undocumented immigrants often behaved inexplicably when confronted by any official wearing a uniform, probably a reaction based on growing up in a place where the cops were corrupt… or worse.

“Do you know why I pulled you over, sir?”

“No, I don’t. I know I wasn’t speeding,” the shaky voice replied, nearly cracking.

“You have a taillight out, sir. I also noticed the brake light on that side wasn’t working.”

Jim, once he’d explained the reason for the stop, had expected the driver to settle down. Instead, the opposite occurred. The man’s eyes grew wide, small beads of perspiration burgeoning on his forehead. “You… you mean in the back… back there,” the driver stammered, motioning with his head.

“Yes, sir. It could be a loose wire. Why don’t you open the trunk, and let’s take a look,” Marwick stated, watching the driver’s reaction closely.

It became instantly obvious there was something in the trunk the man didn’t want the police sergeant to see. He motioned with his hands three times before speaking, and then his words didn’t make any sense. “My cousin… looks at it. He’s… he’s a fixer… a mechanic.”

Officer Marwick knew 99% of motorists in a similar position would jump at the chance to check for a loose wire as opposed to receiving a citation. “Please step out of the car, sir.”

“No, no. I’m fine right here.”

Louder this time, establishing command, “Please step out of the car, sir.”

The response was just a blank stare, the driver’s mind obviously in paralysis, trying to figure a way out. But Jim did not intend to allow time for that.

An important part of police training addressed what is called the “OODA” loop. An acronym for “observe, orient, decide, and act,” the term was commonly used by both the military and private businesses alike. Created by Colonel John Boyd of the United States Air Force to establish a shared language and definition for fighter pilots, it described the sequence of events common in the human decision-making process.

Law enforcement training focused on instructing officers how to “get inside” of any suspect’s OODA loop. Whether the situation involved an argument, interrogation, simple questioning, or a gunfight, it was commonly accepted that the guy with the shorter, faster loop would come out on top. If the cop could disrupt the other person’s loop, the odds improved even more.

Jim leaned into the window, the appearance of the large cop’s head intruding inside the car causing the driver to recoil. Marwick sniffed once, twice, and then pulled away quickly. “I smell marijuana. Are there illegal narcotics in your car, sir?”

“What? Huh? No! What are you talking about?” the pleading, confused man responded.

“Get out of the car! Now!” Jim shouted, reaching for his pistol. “Now! Exit the vehicle! Now!”

Without waiting for any response, Jim keyed the radio microphone on his shoulder, “Edward 41, send more units. Previous traffic now possible felony.”

“Acknowledged Edward 41.”

Jim drew his weapon and pointed it at the now obviously distressed driver. “Out of the car!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.

Finally, the driver’s jittering hand reached for the handle, but then he froze. Jim decided to help him, moving a step closer, and pulling the door the rest of the way open.

“Why are you doing this?” the man questioned as Jim reached in to yank him out. But the seatbelt countered that action, keeping the suspect pinned inside.

“Get out of the car! Right now!”

Finally, the driver unhooked the strap and began exiting his vehicle. He wasn’t quite to his feet when Jim holstered his piece and grabbed the smaller citizen by the arm, spinning him around to face the automobile. When he started to frisk the suspect for a weapon, the man shoved back with all of this strength and then reached for his waistline.

It all became a blur, Jim’s OODA loop now the one being interrupted. Hesitating for a moment, trying to decide between pinning the suspect’s arm and reaching for his own weapon, the decision process nearly cost the officer his life. He finally made his decision, his pistol clearing leather just as the small revolver in the driver’s hand was whipping around.

Both men fired at the same instant, Big Jim’s round striking the suspect in the chest. Somehow, the shot fired at the cop missed.

The stricken man staggered backwards, half-falling between the wide-open driver’s door and the car’s frame. But the gun was still cradled in the suspect’s hand.

Jim fired again and again, the point-blank shots tearing flesh and crushing bone. He only stopped when the weapon that threatened his life fell to the pavement. In a flash, he scraped the pistol away with his boot, and then refocused on the suspect.

“Shots fired! Shots fired!” Jim broadcasted over the airwaves. “I need an ambulance and alternative supervisor to this location. Suspect is down. Repeat, suspect is down.”

Once he was certain the now-prone driver wasn’t a threat anymore, Jim holstered his piece.

The driver was still awake, but unmoving. There were three red spots now soaking through the guy’s shirt, a growing pool of crimson spreading across the pavement. One of the chest wounds was bubbling blood.

“Why?” Jim barked at the dying man. “Why the hell would you try to kill me over a fucking taillight?” the bewildered cop demanded, his hands trembling slightly, his heart thumping wildly against his breastbone, a slight sweat beading on his brow as his adrenaline peaked.

But there was no answer, a pair of glassy eyes just staring up at the officer, no words uttered.

Other cops began rolling up, a line of uniforms rushing onto the scene. The blue brotherhood clamored for information about Big Jim, their concerns receiving only a dismissive wave of the sergeant’s hand. “I’m good.”

Then the ambulance arrived, but it was clearly too late. One of the other officers informed the EMTs that there was no rush. The gunman had stopped breathing a few minutes before.

Cameras appeared, pictures being snapped from all angles. All the while, Jim just wandered here and there, trying to burn off the adrenaline dump still surging through his system. The sergeant shook his head to clear the mental fog, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

When the captain finally arrived, he motioned Marwick to the side and said, “Let’s have it, Jimmy. From the top. Right now, while it’s still fresh in your mind.”

Big Jim was a quarter of the way into his debrief when a thought interrupted his recounting. “Oh my God! The trunk,” he said to the bewildered captain. “We need to open his trunk.”

Without waiting for permission, Marwick hurried alongside the driver’s door and reached in for the keys. Exchanging glances with several of the idling officers surrounding the car, the big cop hustled to the back and opened the lid. Even Big Jim inhaled sharply over what they found.

Two pairs of blinking, frightened eyes stared up at the gathering ring of police officers, both children squinting from the sudden rush of light. Grey, dirty, duct tape covered their mouths and bound their hands. The first thing the cops looked for was blood, scanning the tiny, cramped bodies for any sign of injury. The older of the two kids, a girl of no more than 10 years of age, had blood and small lacerations from just below her ankle down to her toes. She had kicked out the taillight’s bulb with her foot sometime before succumbing to the effects of her growing dehydration.

“Holy shit,” somebody muttered as all of the cops seemed to be reaching at the same time to help the kids out of the trunk compartment. “It’s a hundred degrees outside. Get them out! Now!”

The two ambulance medics quickly abandoned the now dead driver turning their attention to the two children.

“I’m thirsty,” the boy wheezed, as the tape was ripped from his mouth.