"This is It" by Neil Desmond

This is a short story which will be serialized in the New York Parrot this week. This is the first of two segments.

“Thanks for having me over,” Ron Jakes offered as he sat down at the kitchen table. Harold Wilkins, a fellow police officer, put a bottle of beer down on the table before his guest.

“I don’t know how you do it, Ron. Being a part time reverend in addition to being a cop. You must be very busy,” the host observed.

“Well, I don’t have a wife and kids yet,” the younger and newer officer noted in response. “Where are your wife and kids, anyway? I was hoping to see those little tykes tonight.”

“She’s got them in the other room. In front of the T. V., I’m sure. You see, Rev., there’s something specific I wanted to talk to you about. Something I didn’t want the wife and kids hearing about,” Harold explained.

“Oh, I see. What is it?”

“Well, I noticed that some of the bro’s on the force look up to you, even though you’ve only been a cop for a few years. You communicate pretty well, and you have integrity.” Harold paused to take a sip of his own beer. “So I got to thinking. We’ve got a problem on this force. You know that right?”

“What kind of problem?”

“Thugs. Good ol’ boys. Racists. Power trip guys.”

“Well, that’s true, Harold. But doesn’t every big city department have those. Look at what happened in Minneapolis,” Ron observed.

“I know, Rev. Most departments have this problem. But things have changed since Minneapolis. They should have changed long before that, but they didn’t. It’s different this time, though. The good white cops are talking about it now, too. Most of them used to say nothing about bad cops. They were like two separate camps who avoided each other and stayed out of each other’s business, as much as they could, anyway. Whenever a bro would bring it up with one of the straight-laced white guys, it was always the same type of answer. It was always, ‘I don’t like that scumbag either, but cops can’t turn on cops. We have to have each other’s back out on the street.’ Well, they’re not saying that anymore.”

Both of Ron’s eyebrows raised in response, causing lines to appear on his forehead. The twenty -eight- year- old raised his bottle and took a swill. “Okay, what are they saying?”

“They’ve started to say things like, ‘something’s got to change,’ and ‘those scumbags are bringing whole departments down with them.’ Stuff like that. Nothing specific in terms of ideas, but myself and other bros have definitely noticed a change in their responses.”

“Okay, so now’s the time to make some sort of move? Is that what you’re saying? And you want me to be involved?”

“Yes, Rev. In fact, it’s not just a matter of you being involved. You’re the best man to take this to the higher ups. I’ve heard a couple of your sermons, Rev. You have the ability to move people, emotionally. This is an important moment. It’s an important time for the department, and for law enforcement in general. We need a voice like yours to be a liaison between the good cops and the higher ups. A problem like this is not going to be solved from the outside. Politicians aren’t going to fix this the right way. This has to be solved from the inside,” Harold asserted.

The young reverend sat back in his chair. He let go of his bottle and folded his arms on his chest.

“This is a tough thing, isn’t it? Getting from here to there isn’t going to be easy,” Ron deduced.

“I’m sure it won’t be, Rev. That’s why I’m asking you. You’ll have to bring your ‘A game,’ but I think you can do it.”

“Well, I’ve got one thing on my side. The Chief is a bro.”

“It’s not the Chief you need to talk to,” Harold advised, to Ron’s surprise.

“What do you mean?” Ron wondered aloud. He was beginning to realize things were not as they seemed in the department.

“The Chief may be a bro, but he’s also a politician, in a sense. You don’t get to be Chief in this city without making some deals. Sweeping some things under the rug. Owing some favors.”

The two men fell silent as Harold’s wife, Geraldine, entered the kitchen. “Sorry to interrupt. I’ve got to get some water for little Harold. He keeps saying he’s thirsty. How are you, Ron? That was a fine sermon you gave on Sunday.”

“Well, thank you. How are you and the kids?”

Geraldine was waiting for the glass to fill up with water from the kitchen sink. “I don’t even understand what they are watching in there. Something about gladiators with superpowers. I can’t even follow it. Anyway, good to see you, Ron.”

After Geraldine exited from the kitchen, Ron turned his attention back to Harold. “Well, who do I have to talk to, then?”

“I think the only guy who can really coordinate this thing is Royce.”

Ron again looked surprised. “Royce? Detective in Homicide? He’s working a high profile case right now. Besides, he’s white. Why would he stick his neck out for us?”

“They say he’s something of a maverick…” Harold began.

“Oh, that’s right,” Ron countered, somewhat skeptically. “I heard about this. He insisted on body cameras while the rank and file opposed them. It turns out he was right, so now he’s some sort of maverick. Is that it?”

“Something like that. But look, the guy’s got cred, okay? Not just on the street, but he’s got cred with the higher ups, too. The Chief has to listen to him because he can go above the Chief. He can go to the Mayor and the Mayor will listen. He’s a name, a somebody. And if a concrete plan develops here, he can get the higher ups on board.”

“Well, Harold. What’s the goal here, if we do get a concrete plan? What’s the punch line?”

Harold took another swill of his beer, without breaking eye contact with his guest.

“To axe the thugs. To get them off the force for good. That’s the goal.”

************************************

Officers Mike Dickey and Sean Harris were having a game of pool in Dickey’s “man cave” type basement. Beer and pool had occupied much of their spare time since the pandemic started. No sports to watch, no bars or movie theaters to go to. For the two officers in their late twenties, it was an unconventional time. For them, it was about pool, beer and “shop talk.”

“Well, about how old was that moolie, anyway?”

Mike was asking his fellow officer about a “takedown” type of arrest he’d executed in Precinct 19 the week before.

“I guess he was about our age,” Sean supposed. “He seemed a little confused. Confused about who was in charge…about who was calling the shots. So I schooled him on that.”

“I hate when they forget who’s who during an arrest,” Mike offered as he put chalk on the tip of his pool stick. “Those people over in Precinct 19, it’s like they think we wear these uniforms because it’s Halloween. How many times you had take a suspect down over that way, anyhow?”

“You mean how many moolies did I take down?” Sean asked, now using the chalk himself.

“Yeah, that’s what I mean,” Mike clarified.

“Who knows? You lose track after a bit. I think I took down four back in April. There was about one per week for a while there.”

**********************************

Officer Ron Jakes had met Detective Dennis Royce on a couple of occasions. He knew of some basic information about the detective. He knew that Royce’s wife had died a few years earlier, and he lived alone. Royce was in his fifties and had no children. He was an army veteran. He had solved an important, high profile murder case a few years prior. And then there was his “claim to fame” – his insistent advocacy for body cameras, which had once put him at odds with the rank and file. Further, there was one more bit of information Ron had picked up along the way: the detective liked Guinness.