Authors: Dale Brown
“In this city? I doubt it,” Wendy said dryly. Wendy McLanahan was very close to term, but she didn’t show it at all—her belly pooched out only a little, which made it hard for most folks to believe she was due in less than three weeks. She wore preggie slacks and a baggy Victoria’s Secret silk blouse, but even without them she carried her baby close under well-conditioned stomach muscles and had no sign of a ponderous or waddling walk. She had let her reddish-brown hair grow long and straight; it curled seductively over her shoulder and nestled between her ample baby-ready breasts. “I do like your attitude better than your brother’s—but you have to remember, he’s been trained to drop bombs on folks for years.”
“Yes, I know—the SAC-trained baby-killer,” Paul said with a smile. “What was it you always said SAC stood for? Your target list, right?—’schools and children.’ Hey, Cargo.” Paul grabbed a passing uniformed cop. “Cargo, meet my brother, Patrick, and his wife, Wendy. Patrick, Wendy, this is Craig LaFortier. We call him Cargo.” Patrick could see
why—the guy was huge, at least six four and close to three hundred pounds. “Kicks butt in the Pig Bowl football game every year. He’s my FTO.”
Patrick and Wendy shook hands with LaFortier, the cop’s hand engulfing theirs. “I assume an FTO is the guy you’ll be riding with for the first few months?” Wendy asked.
“Yep,” said LaFortier in a deep, foghornlike voice. “It stands for …”
“ ‘Fucking training officer,’ ” Paul interjected.
“Field
training officer,” LaFortier corrected him, with a scowl fierce enough to darken the entire waterfront. “And that better be the last time I ever hear that crack, rook, or you’ll be
washing
patrol cars at the South Station instead of riding in ’em. Yes, Paul gets a little on-the-job training for six months. We start tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow?
You just graduated!” Patrick exclaimed. “They don’t give you an orientation or anything?”
“Normally, yes,” said LaFortier, “but my shift begins tomorrow, and I have off for Christmas, so instead of waiting two weeks, Paul gets to start right now. He’ll come in a couple of hours early and we’ll get him a locker, show him how to make coffee the way I like it, all that important stuff. But we need guys on the street.”
“So we heard,” Wendy said worriedly. “Seems like gangs and drugs are worse than ever here in Sacramento.”
“They’re bad everywhere, in every big city in America,” LaFortier responded, “but this new wave of drug activity has got us back on our heels. The hard stuff is back—LSD, heroin—but now homegrown junk like methamphetamines are exploding on the streets. And the competition between the criminal organizations is increasing too. Northern
California is the collision point—it’s a natural nexus of white, black, Latino, Asian, and even European gangs. They’ve all found a home here, and the violence is bound to escalate.”
At the sight of Patrick’s face, LaFortier added hastily, “You don’t need to worry about Paul, Mr. and Mrs. McLanahan. He can handle it. He’s the rising star, the guy everyone’s watching. And he comes from good stock—the Sarge will be watching over him, I know it. He’ll do fine.”
As he was speaking, an eerie hush enveloped the tavern, as if all the air were being sucked out into space. All four of them turned. The chief of police of the city of Sacramento, Arthur Barona, was entering the bar, together with one of the department’s captains, Thomas Chandler, the commander of the Special Investigations Division.
Patrick was fascinated. In sixteen-plus years in the U.S. Air Force, he had never seen anything quite like the open hostility that radiated from the street cops in that room. But if Barona noticed it as he made his way to the bar, he wasn’t letting on one bit.
He was a tall, powerfully built man in his early fifties, and had been the city’s chief of police for five years. He wore a dark suit instead of his chief’s uniform, a political judgment that attested to his administrative and political career background, first as a Dade County, Florida, prosecutor, then as a law-enforcement bureaucrat and consultant to a number of governors and to the U.S. Department of Justice. It was no secret to anyone that being the police chief of a major metropolitan city was not Arthur Barona’s ultimate career goal. In fact, it was just a stepping-stone, a square-filler, a device to get some practical, on-the-street experience to flesh out his résumé for higher political office.
Barona’s energetic personality, his knowledge of the newest trends and philosophies of police-department management techniques, and his nationwide political connections made him popular with city officials and government leaders, but decidedly unpopular with his own rank and file, who generally resented having a politician running their department. The rumor was that Barona could not even qualify on the police shooting range and had had to be given special permission by the state Department of Justice to carry a firearm in California.
But Arthur Barona moved through the bar with absolute confidence that evening, smiling and greeting everyone as if he were the most-liked man in the state. If he caught an eye that didn’t seem actively hostile, he extended a hand and exchanged a pleasantry. He seemed adept at avoiding empty handshakes or unreturned greetings. The academy grads still looking for positions helped break the ice by going up and introducing themselves to Barona, handing over business cards and chatting him up, hoping to stick in the chief’s memory when it came hiring time.
“Well, I heard this was the place to find all the grads,” Barona said cheerfully as he finally approached Patrick and Wendy at the bar and put out his hand in greeting. “I’m Arthur Barona. This is Captain Tom Chandler, one of my boys. We had a late-night meeting and thought we’d swing by to congratulate the graduates.”
They all shook hands. “I’m Patrick McLanahan, and this is my wife, Wendy,” Patrick said. “Son of the former owners and honorary bartender tonight. Welcome.”
“Ah yes, another of the Sarge’s sons,” Barona said. “Your father was a legend in this town.”
“Is
a legend in this town, Chief,” Craig LaFortier interjected, not looking up from his beer.
Barona looked at LaFortier and nodded. “Hello, Craig,” he said, acknowledging LaFortier but his smile dimming a bit in irritation.
Having been away from Sacramento for so long, Patrick hadn’t known about the strained relations between the city, the chief of police, and the rank and file. When he returned earlier that year to fun the tavern, he had heard all the crass remarks against the chief, the sour jokes, the not-too-subtle digs, the derogatory and sometimes out-and-out hostile articles in the police officers association’s newsletter. But he assumed this was all standard employee-employer ribbing. The chief was accused of siding with the city against the cops in contract negotiations. That was understandable, of course-he reported to the city manager and the mayor—but to the cops on the street, the chief wasn’t “one of us.” He carried a badge under false pretenses, they thought. And, of course, every other problem associated with running a big police department was heaped on Barona’s shoulders, with budget and manpower cuts the big points of conflict.
“What’ll you have, Chief Barona?” Wendy asked. “It’s on the house. We’re toasting the new officers tonight.”
“Just an ice water, please,” the chief replied.
LaFortier snorted his displeasure. “Can’t drink a real drink with the street cops tonight, Chief?” he asked.
“I’ve still got a deskful of papers to go through, and alcohol just slows me down. It Can screw up your judgment and make you say things you wish you hadn’t said too,” Barona said. LaFortier just shook his head and took a deep pull at his beer. Barona turned to Paul, held out a hand, and said,
“So this is the new lion on the force. Congratulations on being named honor grad, Officer McLanahan. Fine job.”
“Thank you, Chief,” Paul said, shaking hands. “I’m anxious to get started.”
“We need tough, smart young troops like you out on the street, Paul,” Barona went on. “But Captain Chandler and I were remarking earlier that a man with your impressive background, with a law degree and as a member of the bar, might better serve the city in an advisory role at headquarters, or in SID. Plenty of high-profile cases coming through the system—good state and national visibility for a hard-charging guy such as yourself.”
“I appreciate the consideration, sir,” Paul responded, “but I joined the force to work the streets. My dad said that Patrol was the only place to be.”
“It’s true that Patrol is our biggest and most important division, Paul,” Barona said, his face indicating his surprise that Paul wasn’t embracing his generous offer. “But our job is to investigate crime, and that’s accomplished in many ways other than in a radio car or walking a beat. We have dwindling resources and manpower, and we can put our most talented young men and women in many different areas where their skills can be put to optimal use …”
“So what you’re saying, Chief,” LaFortier interjected, still refusing to look up from his glass of beer, “is that Patrol, which is already only seventy-five percent manned, might lose another good cop to go work for you in your office or get stuck behind a desk in SID on another ‘task force’ or ‘special project’ that some politician in the state house or in Washington cooked up. Do you really think that’s such a good plan, Chief?”
Barona was not smiling now. It seemed to Patrick
that every cop in the place had moved three paces closer to listen. “Paul will still have to prove himself on the street, just like any rookie, Craig,” Barona said. “Alongside you, I’m
positive
he will be a standout. But he was recruited and chosen because of his unique background and education, and with all the necessary and vital programs mandated for us by various government agencies, we need to utilize every member of this department to their fullest extent.”
“These ‘programs,’ Chief, are sucking manpower and resources away from everyday law enforcement and investigations,” LaFortier said, finally facing Barona. “Every time a new program gets started, another officer or two is pulled out of squads and stuck behind a desk shuffling papers and punching data into a computer. Some city councilman’s car gets keyed by some vandals in broad daylight, so we have a truancy task force, with six sworn officers dragging kids out of bed to go to school. You sent four of my guys to Mexico to work in some joint DEA-ATF task force, and they come back and say they sat out on the beach for four days. This so-called ‘new and improved’ community-oriented policing program took three officers off my graveyard shift just so you can …”
Chandler tried to lower the temperature. “Craig, c’mon, ease up.”
“Craig, those task forces are necessary in modern police-force management,” Barona responded, “and they bring in plenty of state and federal grant money to the department …”
“Where
is
all this money, Chief?” LaFortier pressed on forcefully. “South Station is slated to get only seven new bodies next year, which won’t make up for the sixteen we lost this year due to layoffs and early-outs. Half our new radios are still in boxes
because we don’t have battery chargers for them. We’re still using shotguns that didn’t pass POST armorers’ inspection two years ago; and we still don’t have enough automatic rifles for all the shift sergeants, when we should have them for every officer—”
“Corporal LaFortier,” Barona interrupted, a stern edge to his voice, “now is not the time to go through the entire budget line by line with you. I’ll be happy to discuss it anytime during business hours. I came by to congratulate the new officers and wish them well.” He shook hands again with the McLanahans, studiously avoiding LaFortier and the others who had come over to lend him their unspoken support. “Whenever you get off graveyard shift again, Craig,” the chief said—meaning, Don’t ever expect to get off—“come by and well discuss your opinions. Good night, all.”
Barona continued his good-byes as he headed toward the door, leaving Captain Chandler with the others at the bar. “What was that, LaFortier?” Chandler asked when the chief was out of earshot. “You making a show for the rookies tonight, or what?”
LaFortier looked at Chandler with disgust. Like Paul McLanahan, Tom Chandler had been one of the department’s hot young rookies when he came on the force twenty-five years ago. Tall, smart, tough, in excellent physical shape, and with a two-generation cop legacy behind him, Chandler was a fast-burner from the first day. He too had been assigned to LaFortier as a rookie to hone and polish his already-formidable cop instincts. He was promoted through the ranks at breathtaking speed.
But Chandler had lots of outside interests too—namely, Las Vegas, gambling, exotic cars, and especially women. Like most high rollers, he had his
good times and bad. When he was hot, he drove to work in a Corvette and wore silk suits; when he was not, he took the bus and wore mail-order polyester.
He was now in his early fifties. Two divorces and seven years after making captain, he was struggling with a new marriage and a stalled career. As far as LaFortier could tell, Chandler’s newest tactic to try to jump-start that career and have any chance at all of making deputy chief or chief was to be the new department kiss-butt. “Since when did you become Barona’s doorman, Tom?” LaFortier retorted.
“What do you want, Cargo?” Chandler asked. “The chief plays the hand he’s dealt.”
“Bullshit, Chandler. I want what we were promised, that’s all,” LaFortier said, “and it’s his job to get it for us, not get whatever he can for himself. The President promises a hundred thousand more cops on the streets, but after four years Sacramento gets half of what we were promised because the city can’t come up with the matching funds. After the North Hollywood shootout, they promise us more automatic weapons, better armor, better communications equipment, more training. We haven’t seen shit. My guys handle twenty percent more calls per hour than they did last year, but when I go to headquarters, I see all my guys sitting at desks writing memos or making slides for some presentation the chief is going to make on yet another trip to Washington. It sucks, Tom. Patrol is taking it in the ass again, as usual.”