A quarter past the witching hour, I forget my crime blinders. I ignore my upcoming vacation, the plane flight at 7 AM. I creep, crawl, through the side streets, the small streets of the Breakers, looking for mopes and prowlers drifting in the dark.
I spot two in the park, two women sitting on the swings after hours.
It’s time to clear the park.
They spot me and drop half-full cans of Four Loco. The alcohol seeps into the wood chips covering the playground as I approach.
You are under arrest.
There’s no alcohol allowed in the park. You are violating park closure hours.
There’s more beer in a bag at their feet.
The gal on the right, twenty-eight, a two hundred plus pounder on a five foot four frame, asks, “Is there anything we can do not to be arrested.”
It’s possible, but I first need to see your IDs and you need to pour out the rest of the beer.
If they are cooperative, if they are clear, I’ll let them go with a warning and a possible park exclusion.
The gal on the right gives me her ID.
The gal on the left does not.
“Why do I have to show you my ID?”
Because you are under arrest.
The gal on the right, twenty-three, tall and thin, is drunk. Red eyed and reeking of beer, she slurs her speech.
There’d be no warnings.
I need to see your ID.
The gal on the right speaks, “Be a good girl and give him your ID.”
I lock eyes on the gal to the left, assessing intent.
I need to see your ID.
She complies and hands her license to me.
I keep my eyes on her and slide it into my back pocket.
I need you to pour out the beer.
“What beer?”
The beer in the bag.
“But it’s capped!”
It’s a violation of city code to have alcohol in the park, capped or uncapped.
“But it’s not opened yet.”
She’s growing angry.
You cannot have alcohol in the park, opened or unopened.
Her friend says, “Just pour the beer out. You can’t have it in the park.”
The thin gal growls, “I want my ID back. Give it to me!”
No. You are under arrest.
Time for the cuffs. Time for the custody.
Stand up.
She does.
I take her right wrist and elbow in an escort hold.
She screams, “LET GO OF ME! I’m going to KICK you in the BALLS!”
She spins, tries to break free, then turns and starts to punt.
Arm bar. I move without thought, reversing the wrist, rolling my forearm over the back of her arm, step forward, pivot, and drive her down in the bark chips. Knee in her back, I cuff her left hand. Her right hand is pinned between the ground and her chest.
Give me your hand, your right hand.
She screams, she bucks, she almost throws me off.
Give me your hand.
Her reply is all fucks you and death threats and she starts to mule kick.
I avoid the first few, block others by shoving my thigh against hers, blunting the blows.
This is stupid.
I’m not going to hit her. I’m not going to kick her. With her left side pinned down, I can’t cross draw my taser.
And then, the other gal, the stocky gal, begins to circle behind me, left to right.
She closes
A man with his dog stands next to her.
Crap. Am I going to have to fight three?
He leans forward and says, “Stop resisting. You have no right to fight the police. Let him handcuff you.”
Better odds: one ally, one enemy, one in between.
The thin gal kicks again.
Right.
Back in the fight.
Time to increase the force.
I pepper spray the right side of her face without warning with one two second blast.
It buys me a second. I grab my lapel mike.
7David4 out with two. I need a car.
All the dispatcher can hear is swearing and screams.
I’m going to pepper you again.
She responds with fury, cranks back a kick.
Fine.
I spray a two second burst onto the right side of her face.
My spidey-sense tingles.
In-coming motion.
I glance up.
The other gal, the two hundred pounder, charges, slamming into me with a pair of fists. He right hand strikes my face, scratching my chin. Her left hand hammers my right shoulder.
Her right hand cocks back.
I shove her back with a forearm shiver, deflecting the blow from my face to my shirt. She shreds it. Tearing the fabric. Leaving the badge dangling upside down.
I aim the pepper at her. Fire. Nothing happens. The can is clogged. I huck it away.
The man steps in, grabs the stocky gal, and pulls her away as I feel hot breath on left cheek.
It’s the dog, a small lab, jaws inches from my face chewing the inverted pepper can, biting down and trying to swallow, looking for attention, affection, and praise.
Good boy. Drop the can.
The dog runs off to chew it in a victory lap.
I can hear the sirens.
Cover arrives....... Sully, Edge, Ridge, and the rest of the east river gang.
The two are cuffed and put in cars.
The thin gal is still screaming to fight as I shake the dog owner’s hand, and ask him to retrieve the mobile pepper spray can.