by David O. Sullivan
San Jose, California 1986
Rookie officer Joseph Warden made it to work early, sitting alone in the briefing room reviewing The Watch Bulletin, a daily list of wanted vehicles and persons. Other officers filtered in. A sergeant called roll at exactly 3pm and read from a binder with department information and late crime news. Supervisors stood around the room, with the officers seated in long rows of 25-feet long, Formica-covered tables.
One sergeant held his hand up and barked, "Team 54 meeting here. Officer Warden, that includes you."
The sergeant calling briefing dismissed the assembly and Joseph rushed to meet his new supervisor and team. Nine other officers sat or stood around the sergeant. Joe stood.
Sergeant Oberlin extended a hand. "I'm Ray. You'll get to know the others here as time goes on."
"Yes, Sergeant."
His brows knit. "Joe, we'll meet privately during the shift, but I expect everyone here to work hard, be safe, and go home in the same condition you got here."
Joe's teammates nodded; Joe barked back, "Yes Sergeant."
His brows knit again. "Joe, you'll take over Beat 62; it's been vacant a while so we're glad to have you on board. Your call sign is 662."
"Yes, Sergeant."
His jaw clenched. "Damn it, stop calling me that. My name's Ray!"
Joe's brain locked in confusion. The others laughed. Joe mumbled, "Yes, Ray, but my training officer, Dan Orlo said-"
Ray grinned. "That asshole. He set you up. I hate titles and he knows it."
Joe smiled at the joke Dan pulled on him, although he was a damned good training officer.
Ray slapped Joe's back and winked. "Hit the streets, boys. Do what's right; don't do what's wrong."
Joe headed for the garage to get a patrol car. He shook his head at the last of Ray's comments; the same thing Dan told him. To his dismay the 10-hour shift passed too quickly with only routine calls and a few car stops for traffic infractions. The next night Joe prayed for action, yet when the time arrived to head in to the station at 1am, only routine calls filled his memory. The third night of the 4-day workweek had Joseph panting for action. There were few calls and he drove around his beat. At 10pm the shrill emergency alert came over the radio and pierced the quiet night.
The calm dispatcher announced, "All units, armed 211 just occurred at the convenience mart, Blossom Hill and Winfield. Suspect is a white male, 5feet10, slender, long mustache, blue jeans, and black jacket. Weapon was a knife. Suspect stabbed the clerk. Vehicle is an older full-sized American car, dark blue with a partial license plate of 834. Last seen eastbound on Blossom Hill Road. Units 661 and 663 are first in. There's an ambulance en route for the clerk."
Adrenaline coursed through Joe's arteries at the announcement of the robbery. He was at Blossom Hill at Snell, and recalled the robbery training from the academy that either the crooks hide in side streets or make a run for a freeway. If this one wanted nearby Highway 101 he'd have to pass Joe's location. He parked on Snell with his high beams on to see better inside the cars that passed on Blossom Hill Road. Moments later there it was. The driver shot a hard look at Joe. The description matched. Joe went after it, and got close enough to check the license plate. Bingo, he had it.
His heart pounded as he picked up the microphone. "Dispatch, unit 662, I'm behind the robbery car, eastbound Blossom Hill approaching Eagles Lane."
The emergency alert tone sounded again and the dispatcher commanded, "All units, 662 is behind the 211 vehicle on eastbound Blossom Hill. All nearby units respond."
Joe held his hand on the siren and lights switch knowing the importance of waiting for backup before initiating the stop. Then, the crook's car accelerated with a puff of exhaust. Joe hit the lights and siren.
"Dispatch, 662, in pursuit eastbound, speed at 60, now north on Lean Ave."
In the rain the crook fishtailed taking two turns. Joe used his academy driving tactics to avoid the same errors and closed on the car. He called in, "Now southbound on Snell, on the wrong side of the road." Other cars swerved to avoid collisions. The suspect made several turns to try to shake Joe, who stayed right on the guy's tail with fear, anxiety, and the thrill of the chase coursing through him.
"Unit 669, I'm behind 662, I'll call the chase."
Joe checked his mirror at the comforting sight of a second police unit.
The other unit broadcast the pursuit. "Westbound Calero. Now the first right, no sign on it. Whoa! He's slammed into a car at the intersection and a pole. Out on foot. 662, I'll check the other car, you get the suspect."
The crook bailed out on foot with Joe behind, propelled by adrenaline. He felt for his baton and gun, both were in place, but when he reached for his portable radio it was gone from its holder. He'd never felt so alone since the time he was ten and got lost on a camping trip.
Joe followed the suspect across the yard of a house in the residential district. Over a fence, through a yard, over a few more fences. He had no idea where he was. Joe went over another fence and came face-to-face with the crook pulling himself to his feet. He must have fallen. Joe's momentum carried him into the guy with no time to pull his gun. They fell and each jumped up with the robber pulling a knife and slashing at Joe. The blade glinted in the moonlight, and Joe felt too close for gun-play. He pulled his baton and with a two-handed swing met the next swipe of the knife. The guy yelled and dropped it. Joe then swung the baton into the man's leg and knee and jabbed him in the stomach.
The guy doubled over at the waist. "I give up."
Joe moved closer with caution. The guy lunged football-style. Joe dropped his baton. The man grabbed for Joe's gun and growled, "I'm going to put a bullet in you." They fell to the ground.
A backyard light came on and a man yelled, "Who the hell is back here. Get out!"
Joe panted, "I'm a San Jose police officer. Call in, tell them an officer needs help!" The man slammed the door shut. Joe rolled to his right side with his gun to the grass, trapping the criminal's hand and hoping the man would call the police for him.
Joe fisted his free hand and slammed it time and again into the man's face. Then he hit the ribs, stomach and face again. The man finally fell limp. Joe found his baton and used it to deliver more blows to the man who attempted to murder him and stabbed an innocent clerk. The sirens seemed a long way off, but soon a sea of blue uniforms surrounded him, pulling him back. His teammates cuffed the crook.
Sergeant Oberlin arrived and held Joe's arm. His eyes fell on Joe's face. "Oh, shit. You're cut." He pressed a handkerchief to Joe's cheek. "Hold it tight. Where else you hurt?"
Joe groaned. "I'm not sure. I don't even feel my face."
Ray rushed him to his sergeant's car and took off with lights and siren going.
"Ray, we don't need to go Code 3."
"I'm not taking any chances. You're my responsibility; I've never lost a rookie."
In the emergency room he got priority care. On a gurney the nurses stripped him to his briefs and checked him all over. They found contusions and another knife wound on his left wrist. They bandaged it and sutured his face.
Ray stayed with him. "Damn it, Joe, what did I tell you the other night? I said to go home in the same condition that you came to work." His smile appeased the teasing reprimand. Then he patted Joe's arm. "You did good. Don't worry about dropping the portable radio; we found it in the street. Those holders suck and others have lost them too. Good spot, good chase, and good arrest."
Joe grinned at the praise; he swelled with pride.
---oOo---
When home he called his girlfriend's apartment, expecting her to be at work as a waitress, but Debbie answered.
"Hey, I can't sleep; had a great arrest but got hurt a little."
"Oh, uh, good Joe."
"Your voice is off? Are you okay? Why are you even home? I expected to get the answering machine, since you said you had to work." His gut sank at a background noise he couldn't make out; he popped a beer open.
"Well, I'm not really working." She hesitated. "Can I call you tomorrow?"
"You're not alone." Joe clenched a fist.
"Not really."
"You have another guy there, right?"
"It's not like it seems, Joe. You and I are not really suited for each other."
"What the hell? Last month you said you loved me and wanted for us to go steady. I charged $3,000 on my credit card to help you redecorate your place and buy you new furniture."
"Things change. I don't think we should see each other any more."
"You bitch."
"I knew you'd blame me, asshole. You don't understand me."
He slammed the phone down, guzzled beer, and laughed at the irony of good news to bad news in one day. He paced and then expended the next hour by reviewing academy notes and the duty manual, all the time savoring his success of his robbery arrest and then shaking his head at losing his girlfriend and the money he'd invested in her. After a few more beers he decided to take himself out for a run.
The next workday, Joe repeatedly ran his fingers over the bandage on his face as he sat in briefing in civilian clothes. He'd work in the patrol office due to his injuries. It was Joe's sergeant's turn to call roll. He got through it, read some announcements, and then removed his reading glasses.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I wish to introduce you to my rookie sensation, Officer Joe Warden." He glanced at Joe. "Stand up, son."
He bristled at being called 'son', and stood in embarrassment.
Ray continued, "This officer not only has the honor of being assigned to my team right out of the training program, but in his first week in a solo capacity he made one hell of a robbery arrest last night, and I'm damn proud of him, but he got himself cut for it." He applauded and the room of eighty officers joined in, gushing him full of pride. Ray yelled, "Dismissed."
A hand landed on his shoulder. A voice announced, "Good work."
Joe lifted his eyes to Deputy Chief of Patrol. "Thank you, Sir."
He smiled, nodded, and left to talk to someone else before Joe could say anything else.
Joe reported to the patrol office and was shown to a desk. At first he had nothing to do since secretaries were there to answer phones, but as the daytime secretaries left, he was alone. He handled the phones, took messages, and paced around. A young, fit, uniformed lieutenant with a clean-shaved face rushed past Joe and into a side office. Hunger crept up on Joe. He knocked at the lieutenant's door.
"Sir, I'm taking off for a quick lunch." When the supervisor lifted his head, stress was plastered all over it, and Joe regretted disturbing him.
"I need you here. Soon the front desk officer will call to say I have visitors. I want you to get them and bring them to my office. Then you handle the phones and be available for me. There's some shit going down, and I'm the only damned ranking supervisor on duty for swing shift."
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