The Archangel Drones (8 page)

The vending machine sandwich sat nearby, mostly uneaten. Keeping it company on the waiting room’s end table were the almost full container of juice, half-eaten bag of potato chips, and a light dusting of salted pretzel crumbs. All were residual evidence of the Chases’ lunch. Only the coffee cups, one with Sandy’s lipstick, the other unmarked, had been worthy of constant attention.

After having provided insurance information, signing a seemingly endless stack of consent for treatment forms, and being told someone would be with them shortly, they had been idling for four hours in a corner of the main waiting room.

Finally a nurse appeared, holding a clipboard and shouting out the name, “Chase?”

“Now we get to see our son,” Sandy hissed, her frustrations nearing the boiling point.

But it wasn’t to be. Instead, the couple was shown into a small cubicle where a harried-looking physician sat examining a stack of documents.

He didn’t waste any time. “Mr. and Mrs. Chase, your son has two broken ribs, a slight concussion, and numerous lacerations, three of which required staples. But what is the most troubling, is his right knee. Jacob tells me he played in the city championship basketball game just a few days ago. Was he, per chance, injured in that contest?”

“No,” they both responded instantly. “As a matter of fact, he was showing off for his girlfriend yesterday morning, dunking the ball on our home goal.”

The doctor frowned. “This is most troubling. His other injuries are non-threatening and quite common for people who fight with the police. But this knee is unusual. He has suffered what is called an ‘unhappy triad,’ which basically is simultaneous trauma to the anterior cruciate ligament and medial collateral ligament, in addition to a tear of the medial meniscus. It is extremely rare to see such damage outside of an automobile collision, or vicious football accident.”

“We left him only an hour before he was arrested,” Sandy spoke up. “He was walking fine.”

“I just saw his car,” Gabe added, “There was no damage or any other sign of an accident. A witness did tell me that the cops beat my son badly.”

The doctor nodded, looking up at the two stressed parents sitting across from him. “Eventually, the knee can be repaired so that he has full use, but I must warn you – that could take several operations, and perhaps years of recovery.”

“What? Are you sure? He just signed a scholarship to play college basketball…. What are you saying, Doctor?”

“I’m not a surgeon, nor am I a specialist in sports medicine, but I’m reasonably sure Jacob isn’t going to be playing basketball for a very, very long time. I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Chase, but that is the truth.”

Waves of despair rolled over Gabe Chase. He flushed angry, some far recess of his mind screaming for revenge while a disabling current of remorse and helplessness flowed through his mind.

The guilt was the worst.

Gabe had talked his wife into purchasing the Honda. It had been his decision to let Jacob take Manny home despite the late hour. He had extended the dinner conversation, and thus the hour, blathering on and on.

If only he’d told Jacob he needed to talk to Chip and would take Manny home. If only he hadn’t droned on and on with the coach. Things would be different. Jacob would be fine – if only....

Sandy seemed relieved that her son wasn’t in danger of losing his life, her reaction seemingly mild compared to her husband’s. “Can we see him now?” she asked softly.

The physician shook his head, “No, I’m afraid he’s not allowed visitors at this time.”

“What?” replied the confused mother. “I thought he wasn’t in any danger?”

“Oh, it’s not the hospital that is restricting his visitors; it’s the police. They have some foolish policy that forbids visitation until the suspect has been processed.”

That was it. That was the final straw for Gabriel William Chase. Rising suddenly from his chair, the irate man hissed, “Thank you, Doctor,” and then pivoted toward the door with the intent of finding the closest law enforcement officer.

Sandy rushed to follow, determined to cool her husband’s jets. She caught up with him in the hall, “Gabe… Gabe! Wait! Stop right here and talk to me.”

“I’ve had enough of this nonsense. They beat the crap out of a helpless, good kid. They have ruined the only thing important in his life, and now we can’t even visit our son because of some stupid rule? This is beyond unreasonable, Sandy, and I’m not just going to stand by and let Jacob be abused.”

“Wait,” she again commanded, “don’t go rushing in all bullheaded and out of control. I know you and that temper, Gabriel Chase, and that tactic is not going to help Jacob right this minute. Let’s get another cup of coffee and talk this through. Be smart. Be calm. Do this the right way.”

Something in his wife’s voice allowed her logic to penetrate the curtain of emotions obstructing his common sense. He pulled up short, exhaled loudly, and nodded. “You’re right. Of course, you’re right.”

After a struggle with the change machine, both had fresh cups of java and were calming down. “Tell you what,” Gabe finally spoke. “Let me work on getting a lawyer on this right away. That will keep me busy and out of trouble. We’ll let someone who knows the system deal with this. How’s that sound?”

Sandy smiled, relieved that her partner had come around to logical thinking. “Let’s get started. How can I help?”

Gabe walked to a nearby phone booth and lifted the thick yellow pages for his wife to see. “Got a pencil and paper in that suitcase you call a purse?” he teased.

“You got it. Start reading off the numbers. I want to kick some police ass.”

The first surprise for the Chases was the lack of criminal attorneys listed in the yellow pages. There were volumes of mediators, civil litigators, ambulance chasers, divorce attorneys, and other specialists, but the section for those dealing with accused lawbreakers was the least populated.

Even those firms who budgeted for the more expensive, box-shaped ads seemed to specialize in one form of crime, such as DUI or illegal narcotics. Gabe struggled to identify those legal eagles who were best able and willing to assist them. He quickly noticed that no listings advertised, “Did a cop beat the shit out of your kid? Well, then call us.”

Still, Sandy managed to write down a page full of options. Gabe began dialing.

Many of the listed numbers connected to answering services, promising a return call as soon as so-and-so was available. A few more were answered by receptionists, but an actual lawyer wasn’t able to take a call at that moment.

When Gabe finally reached a real attorney on the line, the man seemed disinterested. “What is he charged with, Mr. Chase?”

“We don’t know. We’re at the hospital, and they haven’t booked him yet, so there’s no way to know the charges.”

“I see. What exactly was he doing when arrested?”

“Driving his car. According to his girlfriend, he wasn’t speeding or breaking any laws. There are even witnesses that saw the police beating the hell out of Jacob.”

“Mr. Chase, I speak with parents every day who swear their child would never break a law. To be honest, I’ve never had a single case where that ended up being accurate. I’ll be happy to represent your son, as I work with the prosecutor all the time, and we can normally plead the charges down to something acceptable. I require a $5,000 retainer and a signed letter of representation before we get started. Would you like to make an appointment?”

Three hours later, after talking to a handful of lawyers, Gabe was ready to explode.

His frustrations were many, but none seemed more egregious than the fact that every, single attorney assumed Jacob was guilty and had to be proven innocent. “That’s not the way I thought it was supposed to be,” he informed Sandy. “I’ve always believed we lived under a system that presumed innocence. Clearly, that’s not the case.”

“Maybe they’re all so jaded they don’t believe that anymore,” she responded, shaking her head. “It seems like everybody but us thinks Jacob’s arrest and injuries are par for the course, run of the mill, and business as usual. What has this world come to?”

Before Gabe could respond, he noticed two police officers strolling through the reception area, one of them carrying a large metallic case. He was approaching the lawmen when he heard one of them ask the attending nurse where they could find one Jacob Chase.

“We’re here to do an off-site processing,” announced the officer. “Our understanding is that the suspect is going to be incapacitated for some time.”

Gabe didn’t know what to do and halted his approach. The nurse finally found Jacob’s location, giving the two cops directions to his room.

Turning to tell Sandy what he had just heard, Gabe again was interrupted by the ringing of his cell. He recognized Chip’s number.

“Have you found a lawyer yet?”

“No, we’ve been working for hours on just that, and let me tell you, it’s about as frustrating a thing as I’ve ever seen.”

Chip’s tone sounded like he was a man on a mission. “My brother-in-law is a civil attorney, but he knows some of the better criminal people. Here, write down this number, and give Adam Barlow a call. I signed up with him just a few minutes ago.”

“Thanks, Chip. You don’t know what this means to us.”

Then the caller’s voice became sad, almost as if he were reliving the incident. “I can’t get the visions of those cops beating the crap out of Jacob to go away. What they did just wasn’t right. I also got a replacement cell phone this afternoon. I can show you the video now.”

Gabe didn’t believe he heard the last statement correctly. “The what?”

“I took video of those guys kicking the shit out of Jacob. That’s why I was arrested. The big cop wanted my phone, and I wouldn’t give it to him until I got the video uploaded to the cloud. They crushed my phone during the struggle, but the data-backup worked. You might not want to let Sandy see it though. Amanda started crying and couldn’t watch. It’s pretty bad, Gabe.”

Surprisingly, Chip’s announcement was the only positive thing Gabe Chase had heard all day. He actually smiled. “We won’t be leaving the hospital for a while, but I can’t wait to see it. Do you think it will clear Jacob’s name?”

There was a pause before the answer came through the phone’s tiny speaker. “I don’t know about that. I didn’t record the beginning of the encounter. By the time I got outside, they already had Jacob pinned to the ground, so what happened before that isn’t on my video.”

“I see,” Gabe said, clearly disappointed.

“But I will tell you this, there’s not a reasonable person in the world who can watch what is on my film and say the cops were justified. It’s… it’s… it’s painful to watch. It’s just not right what they did.”

“Thanks, Chip. I’ll call you when we leave here. I’ll come by and see it.”

Officer Dole Kirkpatrick rested the clipboard against the steering wheel of his cruiser, re-reading his notes from last night’s takedown. While it was unlikely he’d be asked to submit a report or testify at any trial, his training and personal habits dictated a quick documentation of every call. Now, as he prepared for his shift, he regretted looking at the words.

It was good to be back in the familiar surroundings of his regular patrol car. Sergeant Marwick’s seniority and last minute scheduling change had forced Dole to surrender his newer squad car and move into one of the reserve units the previous evening. The switch had marked a harbinger of what would be the worst ten hours of his short career.

Kirkpatrick sighed, glancing at his scribbles, recalling the sensation and sound of that kid’s knee giving way in his hands. He would never forget the wail of agony escaping from the young suspect’s throat.  

Despite two years on the nation’s fourth largest police force, Dole was still trying to find a comfort zone within his chosen profession. Teased since the academy about his insistent note taking, he would never admit to anyone the real reason behind the routine. The habit wasn’t indicative of any lack of mental capacity, nor did he harbor retentive tendencies. Dole kept his record because he wasn’t sure he was really cut out for a career as a cop, and he knew that one day soon his pseudo-journal would help him make a difficult decision.

His grandfather had been a decorated New York City officer, his father still on the blue line with the Dallas Police Department. It had been assumed after graduating with a bachelor’s degree in criminal justice that the youngest male member of the Irish family would follow in the tradition.