Friday was May Day. Friday was Hats and Bats: prepare for the protests, the black bloc and their backpack of tricks, a homeless group is threatening to take over a city park and turn it into a Hooverville.
It's the day of Lebowskis as they shamble in bathrobes to beer.
Vespa packs run amok blowing through red lights in a long parade.
It's warm. The sun's out. It's payday.
At roll call, we learn the department is officially pulling the plug on the precinct. We cease to be on June 8th.
It's hopping. The dispatcher needs cars before we're 10-11 and logged in.
I've a call that's held for a half and hour, but first, I need to cover my wingman on a call at the county line. A drunk man wants to die. He'll wait for us outside. In the best conditions, it's a twenty minute drive. In rush hour, on a Friday, I'll be lucky to arrive in forty-five.
He's easy. He likes the police. He's a drunk at the bottom, a veteran who wants help, but he can't wait two months for an appointment at the VA. We get his shoes in a house stained in dog shit.
The dispatcher needs one of us to break away: Car versus bike in the South Village. The next nearest car is four miles away. As soon as my wingman gives me leave, I head that way to find nothing. I circle the blocks. Fire is staging. I ask for an update. After a call back, the dispatcher states the two exchanged, bicyclist rode away. I clear cover, check the box, and take the holding call. It's moldy, an hour and half old, and the victim is still waiting. Her car was hit at noon. She reported it at four. I'm five and half hours late on a hit and run. Make it a double: Two cars hit, parked on the shoulder, an older driver brushed by swiping mirrors. The other victim drove away at three. At least, I have a plate. It's registered in the middle of East Precinct to a couple in their 70's. I make a few phone calls. Both victims don't want to press charges. They just want an exchange. I find the car, chastise the owners, and fill out a pair of exchanges. I call the victims, let them know the other half's info, then drive back to the precinct to drop their copies in the mail.
Task accomplished, I clear and point the prowler towards the Villages, starting the southward slog. As I hit the South Village Road from the Breakers, a theft comes out:
"70 year old man stole a tip jar from the sandwich shop on the highway. He was last seen walking east."
The area check is UTL. I stop at the sub-joint. It's a strong-arm robbery.
The old man took the only two bucks in the jar. When confronted, he raised his fist and threatened to 'bust up' the small female clerk. The man was last seen west, not east, heading to Breaker's Bridge. I check west with my wingman, at the park and in the transient camps. We check the fast food dives and corner gas stations. No one has seen anything.
I find Tin-man with another beer. He dumps it and I'm satisfied. It's after eight. I need to write the robbery before I bury myself in more paper. I find my favorite hidey hole and start to write.
A minute later, the dispatcher broadcasts, "Car driving at high speeds north in the southbound lanes of the divided state highway."
I'm a block away. I hit the lights and go.
A half mile down the road, Stewie has parked his prowler in the northbound fast lane. He points across the southbound lanes, over the shoulder to the brink of the bluff. The black compact has missed the edge by twenty feet.
Not wanting to risk running across the highway, I race another half mile to the cut out. Foolio passes me on the way.
When I arrive, they're fighting with a big man in the black car. He's facing the wrong way. He keeps pulling away. They can't control him. The can barely contain him.
There's not enough room for me to join the fight.
Call for more cars. I'm going to taser.
"Taser Him!"
The big guy's screaming, "Kill me! Just Kill me! Give me your worst!"
Stewie moves, exposes the man's stomach. I fire. The probes hit. The marker confetti sprays into the car. He screams, seizes for a second, and returns to the struggle.
Taser, Taser, Taser.
"Drive stun him!"
I do. I hit him in the leg, the back. It's does nothing to him. I know the taser is working. Pulses from the current are blasting into my elbow and Stewie's.
A woman keeps walking from Foolio to me, spaced out, stating, "I'm the greatest." I try to change cartridges, but she's in the way.
The man starts to break free.
I change tactics. I pull out my pepper spray.
Pepper, Pepper, Pepper.
I aim through the open sun roof. Blast a two second burst in the center of his face.
Stewie circles, helps Foolio pull the man out the driver's side. By the time I round the car, he's crouched and ready. I pull his head down, try to pin it with my knees. He goes down, hits the ground belly first. He's starting to breath hard with me on his back. Foolio and Stewie still can't control his arms. He's too strong.
I dry stun again and again. It has no effect.
I try two side strikes, try to collapse his guard. It has no effect.
We need more hands. I radio.
I reach for the arm Stewie is struggling with. Four hands on one, we bend the wrist back, reverse the arm, pinned with four hundred and fifty pounds of body weight. We get one cuff on, then the other.
The man is still screaming, but he's slowing down, short of breath.
Foolio worries he's suffering from cocaine psychosis and excited delirium. Medical units check him out. He's too high to answer any questions. He says he's used all drug and nothings
.
Foolio talks to the gal. They've been smoking "wet." We've not sure if it's a sherm or joint laced in PCP. Eitherway, he can't go to jail. He could die on the way.
I search him before we put him the gurney. I find crack cocaine, not rocks, but part of a wafer, the size of casino dice. I slip him a cite before the ambulance leaves.
Traffic comes and investigates.
When Foolio arrived, the woman was in the driver's seat, foot floored on the gas, unconscious. The man was trying to beat the woman awake.
Fullio sits the tow as Stewie and I go back to the precinct to write. I finish at two-thirty.
